staplesquid

You, with a slow sigh, roll over to face your nightstand. You snatch up your phone, squinting even harder at the blurry words on the far too fucking bright screen.

Mi Alm@: On campus! Don't be mad!

Followed by far too many heart emojis.

You slowly sit up, groaning as your spin cracks with every movement.

That answered that question; now you knew what to do, and so, you slid on your slippers and stood.

...

You huddle deeper into the university sweater you'd stolen from them, darting through the halls of the university. You (against the rules and almost surley illegaly) had keys to get in, copied from Sloan's own set. It was necessary, for moments like this.

Sloan was a lot of things; perceptive, dedicated, determined, confident, genuine, funny, and probably the smartest person you knew. Despite all their brawns, and you could remember the first time you saw them get into a fight (it had been when you were in college, both a little tipsy, and someone had tried pulling some shit on you -- Sloan laid them flat, and you were sober enough to grab their hand and run when you heard the police sirens), they were a scholar. Inquisitiveness and a burning desire to know everything ran through them like molten rock under the earth's crust.

After everything, Overwatch and you both determing you'd settle down in one place (thoguh you travelled for vacations), they had taken up teaching.

They loved it. Loved talking about their passions (It was how you first caved and kissed them), but it was more than that. They thrived off of the interest of their students, the questions, seeing their own inquisitiveness mirrored back at them.

Their students loved it as well, seeing a professor who wasn't as bitter as some of the others. Sloan always had energy, that hadn't aged at all, and their students fed off of it. Even the ones who were just in the class for credit came away from it with a shine for them; Dr. Cameron.

You'd seen it all first hand, having slid into class on occasion to deliver things or if students stopped by your house -- Sloan often threw parties for holidays and cookouts regularly in the summer.

Point being; they loved their work. Devastatingly so.

Unfortunately for their work, the only thing they loved more than it was you.

And you wanted your fucking lover back in bed goddamnit.

...

You curl a hand around the door to their office, raising a brow when they don't even look up.

Culrs of dark brown and gray are half-tied back, longer than when you were younger. It was still wild and fluffy, but the length changed the shape enough to emphasize how their face had morphed with age; cheeks less soft, jaw a little more pronounced. It made their face look a little longer, more elfish.

Then, of course, the laugh lines, the faint crows feet, the copious freckles and sunspots from their time under the sun. The scars as well (namely the large one that stretch up the side of their neck, their jaw, their cheek, to stop just under their eye, the flesh pearlescent) all were signs of how far you'd both come -- time.

Time alone, time together. That was how you measured a lot of your life these days, when you spent half your life by their side, a lot of that with their hand in yours, their lips on yours.

Loving someone was a wonderfully way to measure time -- it also helped your awful memory to have someone share half of every moment with you. Your memories were theirs.

You huffed, because god, it was unfair that they had this effect on you. That the sigh of them, in any way at any moment, would spiral your mind into a sort of plush softness that made every romance movie, book, and poem immeasurably weak in comparison to the buzz in your soul.

Your thumb twists your ring finger, spinning the gold band to thumb the smooth rose quartz set in it.

Slowly, you shut the door behind you quietly and move to squat in front of their desk. Your knees protest, but you still cross your arms on the edge, low, and rest your chin. You gaze up at them, their eyes peeled on the paper before them as their pink pen (they thought red was too harsh of a color for grading) traces questions and answers, moving along.

"It's 3 am," You finally say, voice soft.

No response.

"Sloan."

Nothing.

Finally, with a huff, you snatch a hand out, and take up their pink pen. Amber eyes set behind gold framed half moon glasses look up at you, wide. Brows hike up, and you feel a rush of nostalgia at the brow piercing they still have.

"Oh!" They blink, then, the realization that you being here meant that they were in some variance of trouble, "oh."

You cock a brow, slowly standing and giving a slight groan as your knees pop. "Oh is right, buster. You wanna explain why you haven't slept in..." They woke up at 6am on Sundays, today was 3am on a Monday, so -- "Almost 24 hours?"

They pout, and you give them an unimpressed look, crossing your arms as you tilt your head.

After a beat of you both staring each other down, Sloan deflates in their chair, pressing their palm into their eyes to rub. You, unprompted and acting sheerly on habit, lean over to tug their askew glasses off as they rub. You, because you are sly and determinedly an even match with Sloan for being quick as a whip, slide them up and into your hair.

"I just -- Lo siento, mi corazón. I just really wanted to get a head start on their grades! You remember how stressed we'd get as kids when our grades weren't in!?"

"Sloan," you drawl, reading the class number on the page in front of them, "That's for your Tuesday/Thursday class. And I know you already got your Monday done--" you spy them sheepishly slink into their vintage desk chair, eyes still closed as their massage gently along their nose and under their eyes, "these could have waited. You don't need to be up doing these this late -- it's bad for your health."

"I'm as healthy as -- Ay!" And you smirk as their eyes rest on you, squint to try and see you somewhat properly. But they see enough, a grin playing at their lips, "Te crees muy listo!"

You fiddle with the glasses in your hair, moving slowly around the table to be at their side, and you grin at them with all the confidence about 15 years of marriage can offer, "I don't think, I know."

Their hands drum on their desk, and you can't help the softening in your body at their own wedding ring. It was a thicker band, heavier, so they could tell if it came off during one of their fights or during a dig. You enjoyed it plenty becasue no one could ignore it or play they didn't see it -- a beautiful, expensive, meaningful ball and chain leashing Sloan to you.

In a world that would love to have them, you did. It was your crowning achievement.

They hesitate to touch you, but you can tell by how they slide their gaze up your body -- smiling at the fact you're wearing their sweater, that they want to. Their eyes flick to the papers, a slight twitch of their lips down telling of their internal conflict, "I should finish -- I mean, technically it's already lunes--"

The best way to win an argument was to stop it all together.

Your hand moves to their jaw, turning their face to look at you, just you, because you were a greedy thing. And for all their love for teaching and being the best professor they could be, an amazing one, you had one love in your life; Sloan Cameron.

They could devote their time to work, love it, breathe it, drown in it; you'd always be by them to negate it with your love for them. Drag them away from everything and back to bed -- to you.

For every person on Earth who had so much to give, who would give every part of themself away for what they loved; there was someone who would love them enough to take it all back for them. Sloan was the first, and you were the second.

"Sloan," And your voice is low, "I want you in bed, baby."

Which was, you know, maybe purposefully ambiguous.

Either way, from the swallow of their throat, the way their eyes flickered over your face with expanding pupils, you were winning.

Maybe your issue was that you were spoiled, becasue with Sloan Cameron, you always got your way.

You feel a warm hand cover the one you have on their jaw, their lips pressing hot kisses to the inside of your wrist, you see their eyes flick once to the work -- and you put the nail in the coffin, "Please, Sloan."

And like magic, their eyes snap away from their work, eyes back on you with that inquisitive interest they carry for all things -- the most for you. Your mind, your heart, your body.

"Say that again, mi corazón," Their voice is low, easy, striaghtforward.

You smile, feeling victorious and wanted and more than a little smug, "Please--"

You feel tugs on your hips, and you give a huffing laugh as you're tugged onto their lap, scrambling around to try and situate -- ultimately it ends with you sitting across them, your back supported by a strong arm around your waist. You don't complain at how the poorly padded arm of the large chair diggs into the backs of your knees, more preoccupied with their other arm thrown across your lap -- hand massaging at your soft hip.

You wind the arm close to them around their neck, idly twirling their curls, the farther coming up to rest on their heart. You press your palm to their heart, humming at the steady beat.

You smile down at them, taller in your position on their lap, "I thought you said you knew this trick."

They match your smile, leaning forward so their breath brushes your lips. You can taste the smell of black coffee on it -- another thing that never changed with them. Their eyes peer at your lips under dark lashes, "I do! And," their eyes meet yours, smile wide, bright, and chipped, "I fall for it every time!"

Lips meet yours and, you melt, sighing into their mouth. You feel their smile, and you teasingly lick their bottom lip to trip them up. And for Sloan, everything is an opportunity, they give as good as they get (better even), and they suck your bottom lip into their mouth to bite at it -- gently, teasingly enough to hardly sting.

The gasp and following whimper you give is genuine, lewd, and maybe you tug at the curl on your finger because you aren't a loser --

Well, if you were, it'd be to Sloan.

Your lip is turned loose, as they give a slow, deliberate inhale at the tug on their hair. Amber eyes, almost swallowed by the dark of their pupils, meet your eyes again.

"We probably shouldn't do this in my office--" They say slowly, voice a little hoarser than usual. It'd only got raspier with age, and you shuddered a bit at the vibrations of their chest against your side.

"Oh?" You simper, "You mean like they time we inauguriated it--"

Their cheeks turn a little red, and their smirk is guilty and smug in equal measure, "And we shouldn't have done that either."

"I dunno-- I think you kind of like doing things you shouldn't."

They breathe deeper, and you take deep satisfaction in it stuttering, their hand on your hip clenching, "Creo you like me doing things I shouldn't."

And you're shameless so it's easy to admit, "Yeah," you hum, blinking down at them with a sly smile, "I really do."

...

Notes