Really, Slade didn't expect it to work. Dabbling in the supernatural, particularly magic, was not a tactic he found necessary; it was a waste of time at best. And honestly, could be admit this whole thing was his fault? Involving himself with a civilian was a rookie mistake, and Slade was not a rookie - nor did he allow himself to make mistakes. A developing relationship with you while keeping his mercenary life a hidden secret had been easy. You were clever, that he could admit, but naïve about the people you surrounded yourself with.

When you found about about Deathstroke, about that side of him, you'd called everything off immediately. Blocked him on your phone, shacked up in a hotel for a little while and completely shut him out. It was cute, thinking that it would work. Slade wouldn't have given you another thought in any other circumstance, simply chalking up the relationship as a brief break and a bit of fun. Just to make him feel young again.

But with the love potion in his hand, Slade figured that may be a little harder than intended. To him, the little vial smelled bitter, like coffee or blood. Magic was a oddity. Forcing it passed your lips mixed with a beverage was not a difficult task, watching the way your face scrunched up and you tried to spit it out. His hand clamped over your mouth, meeting your wide eyes with his narrowed one. He only let go once he saw your throat bob.

The fiery little thoughts in your arms were doused one by one. Slade watched intently as your breathing evened out, your pupils dilated, and you seemed to stare at him wordlessly. He tilted his head, tapping his knuckle under your chin.

"You feel better?" He mocked, feigning a semblance of sincerity. Slade was a selfish man by default. Always had been. "You're staring."