Work Text:
It’s a mistake and they both know it.
Slade wishes feelings could be shut off with the flip of a switch. Turn off the lights, turn off the want, the trust, the warmth, the need.
With all the scars they’ve left on each other, the gaping open wounds on the surface and within their souls, he’s certain that Oliver has to feel the same.
So they’re rougher than they should be. Bruising and clawing and biting to leave ugly marks that speak of lust and hate and possession - but they’re still making this bloody mistake, aren’t they? No matter the violence and bitterness they bring into their fucking, they know why they’re here.
Why Slade’s fingers are shoved into Oliver’s mouth till he’s almost choking on them, saliva drooling down his chin.
Why Oliver’s right hand is gripping Slade’s hair so tightly it feels like he’s tugging on his scalp, and his left fingers are curled and digging into Slade’s hip to the point of bruises already forming ugly and purple even though they won’t last.
Why Slade’s cock is sliding against Oliver’s, mixing and smearing their precum.
Why Oliver’s body is so taught with restraint, eyes clenched shut and teeth clamped on those fingers trying to gag him.
It wasn’t always like this. They can’t - won’t - let it be like it was. That’s too vulnerable. There are too many wounds between them, it can never be like it was. Something desperate in the dark of isolation and survival, a strange and fumbling need for human connection to remember they weren’t wild and rabid animals just trying to live to the next day and the next.
They’re violent men though. Always have been, always will be. There’s always been violence between them, so it’s easy to bring that here - to something that maybe wasn’t ever gentle to begin with, but was always open and cripplingly earnest.
It’s a mistake. There’s always been violence between them. It doesn’t mask anything. Not a damn thing.
There’s emotion in Slade’s chest when he yanks his fingers out of Oliver’s mouth and kisses him. When he reaches down and rubs those spit-wet fingers over the kid’s cock, sac, pressing them between and inside.
There’s emotion in Oliver’s groan and the way his body clenches up in need and not rejection. When his hands loosen and one moves to wrap around them both and stroke, the other wrapping around Slade’s neck and squeezing with no real intention behind it.
There’s emotion when they writhe and tumble on the bed, pinning and grinding with wordless grunts and hungry groans. Legs wrapping around Slade. Hands gripping and pulling Oliver spread and open. There is far too much emotion when Slade’s cock is buried deep, and Oliver’s hands are both at his neck now but cupping softly, like a lover and not an enemy.
They are enemies though. No matter what happens, they are always going to be enemies. There is no kiss and make-up. Not for the wounds they’ve caused.
Oliver is familiarity, no matter how much hate and lies and backstabbing and revenge schemes form between them. Oliver will always be familiar. Something clutched in the dark like a tether to this world.
But they aren’t lovers anymore.
And this is a mistake.
(One they’ll just keep making.)