slade wasn't weak by any means. he had no weaknesses; he was a man of skill, of precision. he was devoted to his work as deathstroke, the line between slade and deathstroke having blurred decades ago.

but that, was a lie. slade had one weakness. it was something he used to curse in vain. something he'd run from, hide from, even. it was you.

although he was a good actor, not even the man known as the terminator could help himself for falling for your early morning charm. a mess of bed head, your eyes half-lidded and bleary and your body warm, pressed tightly up against his side.

you were beautiful, damnit.

"good morning." he rumbled from deep in his chest, his singular eyes soaking in your features; as if to memorize them. an arm was tucked snuggly around your shoulders, holding you close with a hand splayed wide against your ribs. "sleep well?"