Sam Wilson's pretty boy

“What elephant?” You don’t pay notice to how your two friends are side-by-side each other, focusing instead on setting down your sheets of data and plugging in the electron microscope.

“Why are you wearing Ryland Grace’s nameplate?”

Well, that definitely makes you pause. Looking up from where you are by the outlet, you stare at your friends. “What?”

Maybe you’d heard them wrong. Maybe a repeat in question with your full attention would make more sense.

“Your name plate.”

You’re dusting away whatever particles accumulated on your hands from plugging in your microscope, frowning as you glance down at your lab coat.

And, there it is, just as your friends said.

RYLAND GRACE

That definitely wasn’t your name.

You unclip the little metal from your coat, turning it over in your fingers. You must’ve done the switch when the both of you were stumbling about his dorm, struggling to get ready in time after not waking up to any of your alarms.

You don’t usually stay the night after sex. Just that, last night had been a very long night.

“Well, that’s… not right.”

Your friends exchange a look, eyebrows perked up before turning back to face you.

Knowing The Ryland Grace is one detail you’ve failed to mention. Especially after having him be subject to multiple conversations.

“He’s the guy from Molecular Biology, no? The one who made another PhD candidate cry?”

You wince at his history. You’ve never been particularly proud of his arrogance, always telling him to tone it down. But it does serve well in bed.

“He’s getting better.”

“So you do know him?”

This really is not the time to tell your friends you’ve been fucking the infamous Ryland Grace.

Having a fuck buddy isn’t something you drop in casual conversation. Not now, in your run-down laboratory with work waiting for you.

“Kind of?”

A white lie probably wouldn’t hurt right now. Maybe something about bumping into him, or knowing his brother. You don’t know which one would be more believable.

You don’t really make it to lying, though. Because someone’s jogging down the hallway and knocking on the door of the lab, and you can see Ryland’s dirty blonde tufts peeking from the window.

He quietly enters the laboratory, despite being out of breath, and he looks really cute with his fucked out hair from the wind and his half-buttoned labcoat.

“There you are.” He’s still trying to catch his breath, hands on his hips and stalling for a moment because he doesn’t think he can say much of anything after running after you.

And then, finally, after taking in enough oxygen, “I need my nameplate.”

“Ah, yeah. Of course. Hold on.” You laugh, and he’s already leaning down a fraction on instinct so you can reach the part of his labcoat you need to pin it on.

When it clicks successfully, you smoothen down the fabric of his coat before stepping back. “There.”

“Thanks.”

“Mine next.”

He smiles sheepishly (uncharacteristic to his reputation), grabbing your nameplate from the pocket of his coat. He knows it’s his fault, realizes he’d left first, so he’d taken your nameplate and forced you with his.

“In my defense, it was already seven-thirty.”

You shake your head, and he’s moving his hands to your shoulders to unwordingly tell you to stay still.

And then, he’s clipping your name plate on your coat.

“And, I wasn’t fully conscious.” You can smell him from how close he is, and your friends are definitely still staring as he leans in to whisper something in your ear in pretense of fixing something. “And we had a really long night.”

Someone coughs from behind you, and it triggers the man to straighten his posture. Almost professional, though not without a few fingers brushing lightly against your arm for a second.

“Well.” He nods, as if he hadn’t just been whispering raspily in your ears, about the night before. “Problem solved.”

“Shoo. I have work to do.”

You’re trying to wave him off, stepping forward and forward and pushing him backward and backward until he’s out of the door and back in the hallway.

“I’m leaving!” Ryland raises his arms in surrender, and he does take a few steps away, but then he pauses. And after checking if the door is closed, and that no one is listening, his lips form into a smirk.

“Same time tonight?”

Your head instantly snaps at the door, rolling your eyes when you realize you’re in the clear.

“I’m busy tonight.”

“Just an hour. Maybe two. Please?”

“I’ll think about it.”

He hums in satisfaction. Your “thinking about it” usually meant a yes, and he’ll just have to wait for your text.

You watch him disappear around the corner, and when you’re finally back inside the laboratory, your friends are instantly cornering you.

It doesn’t take much to figure out that Colt has a thing for praise. You watch him while he works and notice his smile burns brightest after a stunt if he gets a “Hell yeah, Seavers!” or “Well done!” from someone who was watching; it doesn’t matter who. That in and of itself isn’t conclusive, so you decide more research is in order. Colt is a giver by nature and it’s therefore easy to find an excuse to lay on the adoration. “Thank you, sweetheart. You’re so thoughtful,” you say when he brings you coffee one morning. You kiss his blushing cheek and find him still smiling an hour later. 

You lean into it, showering him with compliments for even the smallest deeds so you can watch how he melts and ducks his head in embarrassment. Your favorite is when he bashfully rubs the back of his neck, which affords you a spectacular view of his ridiculously defined bicep. He tries once, half-heartedly, to get you to stop. 

“You don’t have to say that,” he mumbles, glancing away as heat creeps up his face. 

“Sure, but I know you like it.” His eyes go wide. His lips part but nothing comes out. “Don’t you?” you press. 

“Uh-huh,” Colt responds, staring and sounding a little dazed. 

You grin. 

You wouldn't call K quiet; he can actually be fairly talkative when he’s in the mood to be, but he is shy about what he likes, so it takes time to find out he's fond of your voice. K is new to gentleness, to relationships that aren’t transactional, so you’re more than happy to take things slow. You walk together and explore the city, sometimes without saying a word as he glides along at your side. But the silence is comfortable, and you suspect he needs more of that in his life. Your evenings are spent in his apartment, where you cook for him in exchange for him teaching you how to dance. After, you lay on the couch with your head in his lap and he reads to you from real books he’s picked up here and there. 

It happens when you suggest you read to him for a change. K settles against you and his head rests on your thigh as you begin the next passage from the battered novel. Nothing strikes you as out of the ordinary over the next few nights; you’re too absorbed in the story to notice K’s breathing pick up or to attribute the discrete shift of his hips to anything other than him getting comfortable. 

It takes K actually sitting up to pull you out of things. “K?” you ask, then let out a surprised gasp as his lips find your neck. It’s controlled but intense, so much like the rest of him. 

“Keep going,” he urges, and you do your best. 

Sebastian… leave it to the pianist to be really into your hands. He is not subtle, though little about Sebastian could be said to be understated. When you’re together, it's a given he’s holding your hand and is probably running his thumb over it. He’s constantly bringing your fingers to his lips, to the point you’re not certain he’s aware he’s doing it. He lights up when you touch him, not in a bright burst, but a warm, steady glow that softens his features and brings a wondering smile to his face. Sebastian can be a bit of a live wire, but you never feel it when your hands are on him. 

You realize there's another layer to his fixation when he’s listening to you play a moderately challenging piece from next to you on the piano bench and his hand slides onto your thigh. You glance at him, stopping, but Sebastian isn't looking at your face. It’s only after he realizes you’re waiting for an explanation that he pulls his eyes away from your hands. He has the grace to blush. 

“Uh, I was just…” he stammers. “Watching your form.” 

You raise an eyebrow. You lift your hands off the keys and press two fingers to Sebastian’s lips; his pupils dilate fast. “Want to do more than watch?” you offer. He nods eagerly, and opens.  

Katoptronophilia. Derived from the Greek words for “mirror” and “love,” as Ryland explains it. Of course he would know the etymology of the proper term for his mirror kink. At first you think he’s just being cute, pulling you to his side when he catches sight of a mirrored surface so you can admire how fine a pair you make. “Look how beautiful you are,” he’ll murmur in your ear, or, “See why I can’t keep my hands to myself?” The behavior fits neatly within Ryland’s mile-wide romantic streak, so you never attribute it to anything more. 

Until you catch him eyeing your reflections in the portion of the bathroom mirror that’s visible from where you’re making out on the couch. It ruins the mood for you, and Ryland makes it worse by launching into a spiel that sounds distressingly rehearsed about why what he was doing isn’t that strange from a scientific standpoint. You just think he’s vain; that’s as far as the subject goes that night. The next day you apologize for reacting so badly and the two of you are able to have a clear-headed discussion about it, which concludes with Ryland picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom. You wiggle out of his arms and position your full-length standing mirror so it has a good view of the bed. 

“Care to show me what’s so interesting?” you purr, and Ryland hauls his shirt off so quickly it rips his glasses off his face. You retrieve them and set them back on his nose. “There. Now you can see me from whatever angle you want.” 

There isn't much talking after that. 

Not in ten thousand years would you have guessed that Lars has a breeding kink. You haven’t gotten to sex yet, but things are definitely heading in that direction. Making a grown man come in his pants just from humping him over his clothes is surprisingly fun, and you’re in no rush to move to deeper waters until Lars feels he’s ready. What you don’t know is that Lars is stalling; not because he’s nervous the physical sensations will be too much for him, but because he’s worried he’s going to say something completely insane like, “Gonna get you pregnant,” even if he knows it’s impossible. 

It turns out Lars’ fears are well-founded, because the first time he fingers you it comes out. 

“You feel so good, baby,” you whine, arching off the bed as Lars’ thick fingers pump inside you. “Wanna feel the rest of you.” 

“Yeah?” Lars breathes, hooking his fingers and making you gasp. “Want me to fill you up?” 

“Yes!” 

“Gonna put a baby in you, make you mine-” Lars full-body freezes, registering what he just said. Your reaction is not what he expects: a throaty moan as you grasp his wrist to try and get him to move again. 

“Yes daddy, I’ll be so good for you… Please…”

Lars is so turned on he can’t see straight, but doesn’t let that get in the way of taking care of you. After you return the favor, you brush away the hair that’s fallen on his forehead. “Was that too much?” you ask nervously. 

He raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “Was- You-” He shakes his head vigorously. “I was the one who got carried away…” 

You smile. “I liked it.” 

Lars makes a split-second decision. “Can you say it again?” he almost whispers.

You wrap your arms around his neck and put your lips against his ear. “Daddy.” 

He’s done for.

Luke getting off on submission is simultaneously unexpected and unsurprising. He’s always been a sweetheart, and the longer you’ve been together the more it shows. He’ll pick up things from the store you mentioned offhandedly that you needed, often throwing in a little something extra, like the chips you’ve been craving. When deciding what to do for the day or what to have for dinner, he’s always giving suggestions he thinks you’ll like, even if you know he’d make a different choice if it was just him. Luke loves being able to do things for you, and sometimes you’ll ask for his help even if you don’t need it because seeing the look on his face when he can be useful for you is the best part of your day. 

The strongest hint you have is his physical deference to you. He doesn’t take the lead while kissing unless you ask him to and even then he lets you move him however and wherever you want. He gravitates to you being on top of him, whether that means straddling him on the couch or laying him out on the living room floor and kissing him senseless. It’s during one of those times you realize how committed he is to his role. 

“Tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” Luke murmurs between kisses. 

You sit up on his hips, considering. “C’mon, please?” he nearly whines, and that’s when you understand it’s serious. 

“Arms over your head,” you try, and Luke obeys instantly. You feel him shudder. You take off his belt and use it to bind his wrists together. “Is that okay?” you ask. 

Luke huffs affirmatively. “If you want to put it around my neck, that’s good too.” 

Your eyes widen a little as you feel your body react to the suggestion. Very carefully, you put your palm against his throat and let your fingers rest on the sides of his neck. “How’s this?”

Luke tilts his head back; his pulse is flying under your hand. “Good, really good.” 

You give a light squeeze and he gasps. Really good, indeed.