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Pathetic

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“I’m trying my best, boss! I can’t force them to like me.”

“It’s your job to force them to like you,” Slade says calmly as he paces before her, hands held behind his back. She can feel his good eye on her whenever he turns, “I thought I had made the mission clear, Ms. Markov. I suppose in the future I will need to be more thorough. Failure is not an option here. Because failure equals death, child, and if you cannot befriend the Titans then you fail.”

She can feel the blood rushing from her face and she swallows thickly. Despite that, she feels secure enough to get away with her usual poking and prodding, “It’s not my fault they’re more holier-than-thou then a fucking youth group.”

It’s the absolute wrong thing to say. In a flash his hand is around her throat and she’s being rammed against the wall, “Don’t ever talk back to me, child. Or you won’t live long enough to regret it,” he growls, dipping his head low and breathing heavily against the shell of her ear. Sometimes she thinks he’s scarier as ‘Slade Wilson, real person’ than he is as Deathstroke.

“Sorry,” she grunts, tries to squirm out of his grip, and is promptly shoved harder against the wall, “Jesus Christ, Slade, you’ve made your fucking point! Lemme go!”

He strokes her cheek and she shivers, tilts her head away from him as best she can with her other cheek pressed to the cold stone, “No, actually, I don’t think I have.”

She growls and tries to jerk away, “Let go of me, old man!” she shouts, letting out a sob when he gets a hand in her short blonde hair and yanks. Then he’s dragging her down the hallway as she thrashes and protests, even though they’re in a cave and really if she was thinking clearly she could use her powers and get away with ease. But she lets him drag her, and the tears spilling down her cheeks are real because he is not being gentle.

He gets her into the workout room and slams her against the mirrored wall, one hand on her throat and one in her hair.

“Look at yourself,” he growls, low and menacing in her ear, “Look at how much of a mess you are, and I’ve barely laid a finger on you yet. Pathetic.”

She stares at her reflection, quivering and shaking with tears and snot and makeup covering her face, but she can’t really find it in herself to feel shame. She’s sure that’s what he wants her to be feeling, but she just doesn’t see it. What teenage girl wouldn’t turn into a snivelling mess when being manhandled by a mercenary?

Slade must see the lack of shame, because he growls and gets his hand down the front of her shorts. She gasps sharply as he shoves two gloved fingers into her, the harsh bite of the leather making her shut her eyes. He squeezes her throat tighter in retaliation and she whimpers, eyes popping open again. He’s looking at her in the mirror, and when she catches his eye she forces herself not to look away.

“You like this, don’t you Tara?” he mutters into her hair, the reflection revealing the smirk that’s playing just lightly at his lips, “Look at you, so wet from barely a touch.” His fingers slow down in their thrusting then and she lets out a frustrated, wordless shout that causes him to chuckle, “Patience, child.”

“How many goddamn times have I told you not to call me that while we’re fucking?” she spits, just to be difficult, and in an instant he’s slamming her head none-too-gently against the mirror and causing new tears to spring up in her eyes.

“How many times have I told you not to talk back?” he mutters, pulling his hand out of her pants and making her clean the leather with her tongue before he’s stripping her naked.

There’s an agonisingly long moment where they just stand there, her pinned against the mirror helpless while he simply…watches. Observes. Whatever the hell he’s doing. His eye boring into her soul as she squirms there, naked and bare while he’s fully clothed.

Then in a flurry of movements he unzips his pants, produces a condom that makes her realise this wasn’t as random as he’s playing at, and shoves into her. It elicits another shout from her, and she sobs as she scrambles for something to hold onto. There’s a ballet bar that her hips are digging into where it runs across the length of the mirror, and she grips it so hard her knuckles go white.

“Fuck!” she curses, doesn’t really mind the bite to her shoulder she earns in reprimand. It’s not the first time he’s marked her and it will hardly be the last, “God, boss, fuck. Slade!”

He wraps one arm around her waist and pulls her flush against his chest so her back gets all scratched up against his armour, his other hand gripping her chin to make sure she can see her reflection, “I want you to see how pathetic you are when you’re like this,” he says as he bites at her shoulder again, careful to keep his teeth where the Titans won’t see, “Are you looking?”

“Y-yes sir,” she stammers, cheeks flushed a dark red as she stares into her own eyes. They’re wide and watery and he’s right, she looks pathetic. She still doesn’t care.

She’s not sure how long he fucks her — it could be ten minutes or ten days and she wouldn’t have a goddamn clue — but she’s cum at least twice before he gets close. The old man’s got one hell of a stamina.

He groans against her hair, letting her go and letting her fall back against the mirror with her cheek pressed to the cool glass so he can instead grab her hips and pull her back against him. He goes perfectly still for a few moments, just panting against the back of his neck, and then he shudders and snaps his hips forward as he comes into the condom.

He leans his forehead against the mirror beside her head, groaning and gripping her hips. After a moment he pulls back, throwing the condom out and walking out of the room with a grunt of “Good girl.”

Tara stays in the exercise room for a long moment, simply staring at herself in the mirror.

Pathetic.