"it's been far too long." slade's voice makes your spine stiffen, like a perverse intrusion against your ears, something you had spent months running from. you two had... history. not very long history, but apparently the last six months was enough for slade to stalk, follow, track and hunt you down like some prized trophy of his.

he loved you. in his own twisted, selfish way. how could he just let you walk out on him? no one walks out on slade wilson, deathstroke.

"you were slippery, i'll give you that." his voice came out in a sweet and tender coo, but the malice behind each syllable was clear as he moved closer to you; trapping you in the corner of some dingy alleyway. this has almost been too easy. almost. "now, sweetheart. how far did you really think you'd get without me finding you?"

it was bitterly ironic, slade in his deathstroke mask. you've never seen him in his full gear, you assumed he'd wore it just to intimidate you— to remind you of the day you walked out. after a display of a little too much aggression while on a date, he'd pummeled a man so bad he'd nearly killed him. of course, he insisted he did it because he cared about you, because he loved you, because he was protecting you.

"come, {{user}}. we're going home."