Archive of Our Own

***

The problem with training newbies is not all the hand-holding or the paperwork or the sloppy evil plots that often turn out to be less evil and more mind-numbingly unoriginal (robbing a bank? revolutionary). No, the problem is that it almost always ends in disaster.

For Ilya, that is.

Because disaster is the only way Ilya can describe being swept off his feet and into the air by his self-proclaimed nemesis, the most boring do-gooder this side of the planet, the city’s golden boy — Golden Boy. Ilya grimaces. Even the name is boring.

His body isn’t though, Ilya notes with some surprise. He’d thought padding, surely, what with the goofy suit and all. Seriously, a cape? Are they in the 50s? Only the stodgy, old dinosaur, The Admiral, wears a cape these days and he’s at least a hundred years old.

Oh, but it’s definitely muscles Ilya feels around his waist, and solid rock-hard abs pressed to his side as Golden Boy whisks him away from the burning chaos like a fairytale princess.

The newbie, Luca, or well, Explozo, as he likes to call himself (despite Ilya’s sage advice that the name was stupid and detrimental to his non-existent sex life), shoots him a puzzled look from the smoking ruins of the building that once boasted a bank, a 7-Eleven, and a Subway as Ilya is swept off in the sky.

To which, he can only shrug.

Besides, what can he do?

Reveal himself as Blaze? Golden Boy’s arch nemesis? The young, handsome, virile, fire-wielding villain prodigy? He’s dressed as a Mundane for fuck’s sake. He’s even wearing his school hoodie. The shitstorm that would follow if Golden Boy discovered his identity would be catastrophic.

As would his father’s rage.

No.

Better to play the role of damsel in distress in Golden Boy’s sick hero fantasy. It shouldn’t be hard. Ilya had minored in Drama his last semester in Russia before he moved. Also, Golden Boy is too far up his arse to notice anything off, he’s sure.

Ilya grits his teeth as Golden Boy sets him down on top of Kingsport Tower. Only the tallest skyscraper in the city, consisting of one usually broken elevator and at minimum, a million stairs. On top of that unwanted bit of cardio, it’s at least an hour via subway from where he’d parked his car.

Fucking Golden Boy.

“Oh my hero,” Ilya says softly, and remembering his drama training, feigns dizziness by swaying to the side. While he’s at it, he grabs the front of Golden Boy’s suit.

Hmm. Now that is one firm chest. Ilya gives it a surreptitious squeeze just to be sure.

Final Conclusion: Definitely not padding.

Predictably, Golden Boy catches him with an arm around the waist. Less predictable is the flush that blooms all over his freckled cheeks while his eyes, dark and beautiful despite being framed by a cheesy gold mask, are stuck on Ilya’s mouth.

Ah.

Ilya is familiar with desire, especially when it is directed at him, and this…well, this is fucking interesting.

He licks his lips, enjoying the way Golden Boy’s breath hitches. The way his arms flex and tighten around Ilya’s waist. Oh, how delicious. The Good Side’s perfect hero is unwittingly horny for the enemy. He wonders how much he can get away with. If he accidentally pressed against the golden cock, would Golden Boy implode?

“Are you alright?”

For someone who looks on the verge of jumping him, Golden Boy’s voice comes out steady and annoyingly earnest. Ilya resists the urge to roll his eyes, choosing to dazzle instead with a slow smile and a breathless, “Yes. Thanks to you.”

He feels Golden Boy shiver before he abruptly steps away, releasing Ilya and leaving him strangely cold and listless. “I, well, that’s —” Golden Boy rubs the back of his neck. His face is redder than a tomato. “—that’s, um, my job. So. Good. That’s good. Yeah.”

Ilya smirks. “Is good, yes.”

“Yes.” Golden Boy clears his throat. “Good.”

The silence that follows as they stare at each other is louder than a freight train.

Just as Ilya is considering saying something to break the stalemate and ensure they won’t be standing like idiots till nightfall, Golden Boy laughs, a sound so pure and light, goosebumps spread all over Ilya’s skin. Golden Boy runs a hand through his dark hair, making it stick out even more. God, he’s a mess.

A mess that his partially hard dick is apparently interested in.

“I’m sorry,” Golden Boy says, laughter still lingering on the curve of his rosy lips. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Oh?” Ilya lifts a brow. “What are you like? Usually?” he can’t help but ask.

Golden Boy looks surprised by the question and takes a moment to respond. Which is odd. The word boring is right there. “Well, I’m —”

The booming sound of an explosion from the direction they’d come from interrupts whatever Golden Boy had been about to say. What’s another word for boring? Ilya watches as his face shifts from sweetly blushing to serious and alert. He fights a wave of irritation. What the fuck did that idiot, Explozo, do now? He should have escaped as soon as the heroes had arrived. The back-up villain extraction team from the Centre can handle the mess, but Ilya is still Explozo’s senior. If he ends up spending his entire weekend filling out incident reports, there will be hell to pay.

“Sorry, but I have to go.” Golden Boy gives him a sheepish smile, as if leaving Ilya to go save the world is something to apologise for. Actually, maybe it is. “Are you, um, good here?”

Ilya gives Golden Boy one last once-over, his father’s voice piling on top of his thoughts one after another.

You should distract him, you useless child. Stop him from helping. Fake an injury, feign a collapse, stab him in the carotid when he’s not looking. Or go nuclear — grab him by the neck and kiss his stupid, plush lips until he’s too dizzy to think, let alone save someone.

Okay, maybe that last one his father wouldn’t say.

“Yes, I’m good,” Ilya says instead because he’s not stupid. He even returns Golden Boy’s ridiculous little wave when he leaves. However, Ilya doesn’t wait for the bright figure to disappear in the sky before he turns on his heel and starts for the stairs.

Good? Him?

Ilya smirks. Now that one’s a lie.

***

It has been two months since Ilya was last embraced by Golden Boy's firm body.

Although he supposes that’s not exactly true. They did wrestle next to the giant sinkhole Quaker had opened south of the city two weeks ago, but that had been different. The ground had been shaking, threatening collapse and certain death at any second, and Golden Boy had not been looking at Ilya with the same hot, hungry eyes trained on him now.

But Ilya is wet and wearing only his speedo so this new reaction is only to be expected.

He’d been out partying on Marlow’s yacht when the rookie, Barrett, suddenly went kraken on them (tequila and transformations don’t mix, they were to find out) and he had no chance to even grab a towel before Golden Boy had swept him away from the rapidly sinking yacht.

Now there is nothing for Ilya to do but reap the consequences of his skimpy attire.

They’re back on top of the fucking tower (Seriously, is this the only place Golden Boy knows? Is this his unofficial rescue drop-off centre?), with Golden Boy partly wet from carrying him, while Ilya remains soaked, half-naked, and shivering like a newborn foal.

“Oh god.” Golden Boy’s eyes lose their desire when he notices Ilya’s teeth chattering and grow wide with panic, his freckled cheeks scrunching in concern. “I should have dropped you off at a — a shop or something. Should I —”

“No,” Ilya cuts in more harshly than necessary. But a shop, seriously? While he’s got all his best bits out? “Drop me off at my dorm.”

“Your dorm?”

“Please,” Ilya adds as an afterthought.

Contrary to how he was raised, ‘please’ may actually be the magic word because Golden Boy rushes to comply and soon they are jetting off toward the ivy-bricked buildings of Kingsport University. There’s a few other schools in the city and surrounding areas, but he had chosen this one because of the promise of a single, spacious room just for him. He knew the dean had been hoping for him to join their hockey team, but Ilya had not been interested. Coursework, partying, and villainizing did not leave much time for other extra-curriculars, and he had lost interest in hockey by the time he’d graduated high school.

His father liked the sport too much, is the thing.

As does Golden Boy, Ilya is slowly learning.

“You’ve got a good team,” Golden Boy says as they fly through Ilya’s window. “Hockey,” he clarifies.

“Do we?”

“You don’t watch the games?” Golden Boy frowns — actually frowns like a disgruntled kitten. It’s unfairly adorable and Ilya has to shove at Golden Boy’s chest to put some distance between them before he does something stupid like lick his freckles or suck his cock.

Golden Boy takes the hint and sets him down on the carpet. His eyes are immediately everywhere at the same time, as if it’s his first time inside a college dorm. Ilya fights a bout of self-consciousness. His room is smaller than his closet back in Russia, but he keeps it neat and tidy. He has a queen-sized bed covered in expensive midnight blue sheets tucked in one corner, a large bookshelf on the opposite wall, and a study by the window. All of his clothes are carefully kept in the closet, not a stray sock or shirt in sight. He also has a couple bean bag chairs for guests.

None of these things hold Golden Boy’s interest, though, except for the only poster in the room that isn’t a movie or a fancy car.

“Thought you didn’t like hockey?” Golden Boy turns away from the poster of Ilya’s hero, Aleksandr Petrov, to give him an accusatory look.

“Did not say that.” Ilya rests one hand on his hip. He’d put on a towel while Golden Boy was poking around, but he might as well be naked the way Golden Boy’s heated eyes drift down his body. “I like hockey.”

Golden Boy expels a sigh…of relief? Odd.

“Aleksandr is also —” Ilya waves a hand at the poster “—how do you say, hmm, hot as fuck.”

It takes all of Ilya’s self-control not to burst out laughing as Golden Boy exhibits every sign of a stroke. “What do you —” He breaks off, swiping a messy fringe off his forehead. “I mean, he’s a…are you —”

“Gay?” And because Ilya doesn’t want an actual medical emergency on his hands, he quickly adds, “No. Bisexual.”

For several moments, Golden Boy just opens and closes his mouth in wordless mummery. “Ah,” he says finally. “I see.”

Ilya could ask as well, but he’s pretty certain of the answer. He takes a step forward and another, eyes tracking the bob of Golden Boy’s throat. “Have problem with that?”

Golden Boy shakes his head furiously. “Of course not!”

“Good.” Ilya jabs a finger against Golden Boy’s solid chest. “Stay here.”

“What?”

“I shower and then make dinner,” Ilya says, already heading for the door. He picks up his little basket of toiletries along the way. “Tuna melt, okay?”

“Yes. I mean, why? Hey —”

“Manners, Golden Boy,” Ilya throws over his shoulder. “You save my life twice. Least I do is feed you. There’s towel in my closet to dry yourself.”

“Wait —”

“See you in thirty minutes.”

The last thing Ilya sees before he slams the door shut is Golden Boy’s bamboozled face. Odder things have happened to Ilya, sure, but none as amusing as this.

He whistles all the way to the showers.

***

Two Weeks Later

Ilya did not see Golden Boy after thirty minutes.

No, the bastard had escaped like a thief, leaving the window open, a note on the study, and Ilya holding a plate of sandwiches for two like a fucking idiot.

Ilya,

Sorry for using your name without permission. It seemed weird not to for this letter and I saw the sticker on your laptop. Unless this isn’t your laptop, then I’m sorry for using the wrong name. I’m also sorry for leaving. I got an urgent call. Some sick bastard built a laser that can shrink — anyway, not important. I mean it is, which is why I’m going. I just mean…shit, I’m sorry for leaving you without saying goodbye. I hope you’re not too mad at me. Maybe next time we can

Yours,

Golden Boy

Not too mad? Who did Golden Boy think he is anyway, leaving Ilya out to dry and wasting a perfectly good tuna melt. Wasteful jerk. It’s not like he even wanted to hang out with him. Frankly, he was only being polite which perhaps was his first mistake.

In the words of one of his instructors in the Centre, fuck polite. Polite doesn’t let you inside high-security vaults.

True to this spirit, Ilya hurls a ball of fire straight at Golden Boy’s face at their next encounter. The speedy bastard dodges, of course, and the fire lands and incinerates the tree next to the small pond where Ilya usually sits to feed the ducks. Shit. He hopes the ducks will forgive him.

The air shifts ever so lightly next to him and Ilya moves away just in time to avoid a tackle from Golden Boy who descends from the sky. They parry for a while. Golden Boy throwing spectacular punches that crack the ground and break school property while Ilya relies on his superhuman speed and immense firepower to block and evade.

All the while, Golden Boy doesn’t stop talking his ear off.

“We’re in a school!” he shouts over a wall of fire. As if Ilya isn’t aware. It’s his fucking school. But what can he do when he’s given the order to kidnap the speaker of some stupid assembly being held in one of the auditoriums. Another brilliant scientist Crowell wants to use —anyway, hopefully Marlow had gotten somewhere safe with their target. One of Golden Boy’s do-gooding friends from the Heroes League had followed him and then Ilya had been too occupied with keeping Golden Boy away to offer any help.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Ilya mutters as he throws several fiery punches at Golden Boy. “You will tell me we’re on earth next?”

Golden Boy does a showy backwards flip. “Let’s fight somewhere else. Not here.”

“No.” Ilya runs after him.

“Blaze —”

“You can always pussy out if you’re scared, Golden Boy.”

“I’m not scared of you!”

Ilya holds his arms open. “Then fight me.”

“There are students —”

“You think I care?” Ilya laughs. “I’ll burn everything down, starting with this —”

Ilya barely notices where he’s aimed his hand. It’s only when he’s knocked over with the force of a rocket made of solid titanium and blinking up at the blurry sky that he notices the familiar branches of the red oak tree outside his dorm. But then his view is quickly covered by Golden Boy — golden as fucking always and looking down at him with a furious expression.

His hand reaches for Ilya’s face, prompting a rush of icy dread as he tries and fails to move. To run. Because Golden Boy can’t know. Not like this.

“Stop,” Ilya slurs. “Please.”

At the magic word, the hand pauses mere inches from his face, a furrow deepens Golden Boy’s brow, confusion replacing anger, and —

A roar.

He closes his eyes. The Kraken just arrived.

***

Two Weeks Later

Ilya’s soul nearly leaves his body when the man in a trench coat materializes from the shadows.

Then he realizes exactly who the man is.

“Golden Boy?” Ilya presses a hand to his chest. “You nearly gave me heart attack.”

Golden Boy raises his hands in apology. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Why are you here? Why are you wearing trench coat?” He has so many questions, most of them centered around Golden Boy’s choice of attire. Is that his golden suit peeking from under the hem of his coat? And is he seriously wearing sunglasses over his mask? Christ almighty.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Golden Boy says. “And I thought I should be, you know, inconspicuous.”

Ilya frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Inconspicuous? It means like, subtle or, um, under the radar.”

He arches a brow. “A trench coat in May is not under the radars.”

“Well, a golden suit is worse.”

“Hmm.” Ilya can’t argue with that. But still. “You are wearing both.” He thought it prudent to point out.

Golden Boy exhales roughly. “Can we go somewhere private please?”

He doesn’t miss the way Golden Boy’s eyes flick up the building. Exactly where Ilya’s room should be. He folds his arms across his chest. “Why? So you can ditch me again?”

Golden Boy rears back as if he’d been shot. “I…you know I didn’t mean to…Ilya, I had to catch this villain who was —”

“I know,” Ilya interrupts impatiently. His name on Golden Boy's tongue sounds odd. Different. A little too jarring. “I read note. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Golden Boy sighs. “Look, I’m sorry.”

That’s a good start. Ilya inclines his head, indicating Golden Boy should continue his apology. Maybe on his knees if he’s truly sorry.

“I was worried.” Golden Boy’s eyes drop to the ground. His fingers fidget with the buttons of his ridiculous coat. “There was a huge mess here a while back and I apologise for that, by the way. I could have handled Blaze better.” Ilya stiffens. The memory of his fractured ribs reminds him of exactly how well Golden Boy had handled him. “Anyway, I came by to check on you and you weren’t here. You, uh, haven’t been here for weeks.”

No. Ilya had been recovering at the Centre from injuries caused by the very man in front of him.

Who’d also been stalking him apparently.

“Were you hurt?”

Ilya tries to hold on to his anger, maybe even some outrage, but it’s near impossible when Golden Boy is gazing at him with the eyes of a kicked puppy. Ilya could never be mad at a puppy, let alone a kicked one.

Fucking fuck.

“I’m fine. I wasn’t here. I was —” Getting my incompetent ass reamed at the Centre by Crowell and my father (via video call) “— visiting family.”

“Oh, good.” Golden Boy ventures a small smile. “Did you have a good time?”

Ilya nearly laughs his head off at the concept of a good time where either of the two are involved. “Is okay.”

He must not be as convincing an actor as he thinks because Golden Boy frowns. That won’t do.

“Take me to my room,” Ilya says with an imperious wave of his hand.

“Beg pardon?”

“My room, Golden Boy.” Ilya nods at the window. “You want somewhere private, yes?”

There goes that blush. “Um, yes.”

Silence.

“Any time before Christmas is good.”

That prompts a laugh and a snort, but also, finally, some action. “You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?” Golden Boy says with a wry twist to his lips as he lifts Ilya up in their usual bridal carry.

Ilya wraps his arms around Golden Boy’s neck and shoots him a wink. “Only to special boys.”

“Shut up,” Golden Boy says, though Ilya can see him turn an even deeper red. Oh, this will be good. Stupid, but good. Because Ilya has made up his mind.

Tonight, he’s going to devour Golden Boy alive.

But first, they apparently needed to talk.

“Actually, that was it,” Golden Boy says after they arrive. Ilya stares at him for a long moment. Long enough for Golden Boy to squirm and add, “I, um, I just wanted to apologise for how I left the last time and to make sure you were okay after the attack.”

“And that’s it? You’re done?” Irritation flares in Ilya’s chest. “You will leave?”

“I mean, I could stay.” Golden Boy casts him a hopeful look. “Like last time, we could, uh, hang out.”

“Hang out?” Ilya asks, injecting heavy doubt in his voice. “What? Like play games?”

“Maybe —”

“I do not have games.”

“Oh.” Golden Boy blinks. “Movies then?”

“No movies.”

“I have some in my phone if —”

Ilya snatches the phone off his hand and throws it over his shoulder. Golden Boy’s face twists in outrage, but before he can whine or cry about it, Ilya shoves him against the wall and says, “No phone.”

“What are you doing?” Golden Boy’s voice is shaky and breathless as Ilya leans close, lips brushing his jaw, gliding up the delicate curve until he reaches the soft shell of Golden Boy’s ear.

“Can you think of something else we can do?”

He feels Golden Boy tense. Feels his breaths speed up. “I don’t…”

When he doesn’t continue, Ilya sucks the earlobe in his mouth, earning him a delicious gasp. “Don’t what? Don’t want to kiss? Don’t want to suck?” His hand steadily slides down Golden Boy’s well-defined torso until Ilya is cupping his straining erection. “Don’t want to fuck?”

“Shit.”

Golden Boy arches into his palm while Ilya leans back to enjoy the way pleasure transforms his face, turning him lust-drunk and panting. Fuck. Ilya bets Golden Boy looks even prettier without the stupid mask on.

But some remaining sense of self-preservation tells Ilya it is better not to know. Besides, he may be a villain, but he knows superheroes are bound by the same rules as he is. No revealing their identities to Mundanes without permission from the Centre. Not only do they have to hide their faces, they have also learned how to mask their voices.

Which means this isn’t the sound of Golden Boy’s real moans. Not really.

Unless Ilya manages to make him slip.

“You like that, yes?” Ilya strokes him through the stretchy material of his suit until Golden Boy is a writhing, moaning mess.

His eyes are squeezed shut, red lips open and wanting. “Yes, yes.”

Ilya releases him and takes a step back. An action far more difficult than expected. “Then take off stupid coat and suit and get on my bed. We will burn both later.”

Golden Boy’s eyes narrow.

“Please,” Ilya adds with an impatient sigh.

For a second, Ilya thinks Golden Boy will fight him, but the word ‘please’ continues to display powers beyond his understanding because Golden Boy starts stripping. He also takes an absurd amount of time making sure every piece of clothing is folded perfectly like he’s an employee at the Gap, but Ilya’s dick enjoys the show nonetheless.

In fact, Golden Boy’s fuckable ass has barely touched his mattress before he’s prowling after him, stripping and tossing his own clothes along the way.

“Wow.”

Golden Boy’s eyes are wide with awe as Ilya looms over him, naked as the day he was born. But fitter. With the muscles of a god.

It isn’t bragging if it’s true.

Wearing the same reverent expression, Golden Boy presses his palms against Ilya’s chest, above his pounding heart, where they lay for a moment before moving in exploration. Across the breadth of his shoulders, around the hard nub of his nipples, down the ridges of his abs, the vee of his hips. Ilya lets him. He’s no stranger to people worshipping his body, enjoys it in fact. Expects it. And this is foreplay, a prelude to what he really wants, which is Golden Boy’s ass.

And yet —

And yet Ilya finds himself catching Golden Boy’s hands when they start to slip down his groin. He pins them next to Golden Boy’s rosy face before leaning down to capture his lips. Ilya finds them exactly as he had imagined — soft. Soft like his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, soft like the sigh he breathes when he allows Ilya to deepen the kiss. And so fucking sweet.

Ilya cannot get enough of it.

Here is Golden Boy, laid out like a present for him to unwrap, but instead of getting to the main event and fucking his brains out, possibly ridding him from Ilya’s system for good, Ilya plunders his mouth as if he’s expecting to find salvation at the end of it. Golden Boy doesn’t help, the way he goes from clumsy and uncertain to eager and hot. Returning the kiss with equal ferocity, his desperate hands roaming all over Ilya’s hair, his face, his body.

Eventually, they are forced to come up for air, but Ilya doesn’t go far. He rests his forehead against Golden Boy and grins. Golden boy grins back and something warm unspools in Ilya’s chest. Strange. Ilya enjoys sex, but he doesn’t usually feel…bubbly.

He ignores the buzzing in his veins and directs his gaze downward. “You like, yes?” He smirks, indicating Golden Boy’s hard, leaking cock.

Instead of pointing out that Ilya’s isn’t any better, Golden Boy blushes like a maiden. Ilya’s dick — apparently into the whole demure act — jerks in response.

“Ever had your cock sucked?” he asks, and he doesn’t realize how much he wants to be the first until Golden Boy says, “Yeah, no. I mean, not by a, um, guy.”

The admission fails to dampen Ilya’s eagerness. So what? Even if he is not the first, he will still be the best.

“And you?” Golden Boy swallows, seemingly bracing himself for something monumental. “Have you ever had your dick —”

Ilya swoops down to kiss him. “Of course. You can do later,” he assures. “First, let me take care of you.”

“Oh.” Golden Boy’s eyes flutter close as Ilya’s hand travels south to wrap around his cock. “Oh.”

Ilya pumps him slow, enjoying the feel of his length in his fist — warm and smooth and hard, just like the rest of Golden Boy’s delectable body. While Ilya’s hand is busy, he puts his mouth to work. He devours Golden Boy’s lips in a hungry kiss before moving down, determined to taste and learn every inch of the mysterious man beneath him.

Golden Boy’s groans fill the room and his fingers are rough on Ilya’s hair, his shoulders, whatever he can grab on while he writhes under Ilya’s attentions.

“Shit, Ilya,” he cries out as Ilya sucks one of his dusky nipples into his mouth. His strokes on Golden Boy’s dick remain measured and firm. “God. Oh god.”

Ilya moves on to the other one (he’s a fair man), but not before he flashes a wolfish grin at Golden Boy. “Who is your god, Golden Boy?” He grazes the nipple with his teeth, earning another moan. “Me? You want to get on knees? Pay tribute?”

Golden Boy looks a wreck — sweat on his brow, eyes glassy with lust, lips swollen and red, marks of Ilya’s teeth and mouth blooming beautifully on his golden skin — and yet he manages a breathy, defiant: “Shut…up.”

Delight shoots through Ilya, like a bolt of electricity. Golden Boy is a naive goody-goody, true, but he’s got fight in him. Boring and upright as he is, he’s still one of the few superheroes able to match Ilya in battle.

He trails his lips down Golden Boy’s flat belly, presses a kiss on his neatly trimmed groin. “You want to shut me up?” He rubs his cheek against his cock.

Golden Boy rocks up, his voice a breathy sigh. “Yes.”

“How?”

Golden Boy grabs a fistful of Ilya’s curls and pulls. He arches his hips, eyes dark and hungry. “Suck my dick.”

Ilya’s grin widens. “Ah, so the golden boy has dirty mouth.”

Golden Boy blushes.

“I like it.” Ilya says. “Want to hear it when I have your cock in my mouth.”

Golden Boy does not disappoint him. He showers him with profanity when Ilya licks and bites a path down his groin to his sensitive inner thighs. A steady spill of Fuck. God. Shit. Ilya. that breaks off into a groan when Ilya sucks his balls into his mouth while pumping his cock.

Golden Boy’s grip on his hair is bordering on painful, but he is too swept up with the rush of being able to do this to Golden Boy — to be able to taste the man behind the suit, to take him apart and ruin him.

Ilya licks a stripe from Golden Boy’s taint to the tip of his shaft and Golden Boy nearly tosses him off the bed as he arches like a bow, head thrown back. His throat is bared, a graceful curve Ilya longs to mark.

“Fuck, Ilya.”

His name again, rolling sweetly off of Golden Boy’s needy mouth, sends a bolt of heat to his cock. It’s too easy to get used to this, Ilya thinks. Dangerous. “Eyes on me,” he orders, rougher than necessary. His hand stills around Golden Boy’s dick while he waits for those magnetic dark eyes to focus on him. “Good boy,” he says when their gazes hold and kisses the salty tip in reward. “Keep it on me or I stop. Understood?”

Before Golden Boy can open his mouth to argue — which Ilya can see is coming just from the depth of his furrowed brow — he lowers his mouth on Golden Boy’s dick.

The hold in his hair tightens as Golden Boy moans, a low and guttural, “God, yes.” which Ilya takes to mean as enthusiastic agreement to his question. He doesn’t know why it matters, he usually doesn’t give a fuck where his partners’eyes are so long as the important parts are where they’re supposed to be. But in this case, all he knows is that it’s fucking hot, seeing Golden Boy struggle to keep his gaze steady, while Ilya swallows his cock whole, but doing so anyway.

Because Ilya had demanded it and Golden Boy, it seems, always does as he’s told.

He decides to reward him by fucking his mouth onto Golden Boy’s dick in earnest and he’s rewarded in turn by seeing Golden Boy completely unfold beneath him. With every drag and suck of Ilya’s lips, a piece of Golden Boy’s restraint falls away until he becomes a picture of wrecked abandon — flushed face twisting in pleasure, mouth open and gasping, filth pouring out — “God, Ilya. I’m — fuck, sorry. Shit — Like that. Yes —”. His hips thrust in jerky motions, searching for release.

What Ilya doesn’t expect is that it becomes a struggle for him too, to not close his eyes and lose himself in the heat of pleasure. To disassociate and become something else. Simply a warm, wet mouth for Golden Boy to fuck and use so thoroughly, he’ll forget he’d been anything else before.

Maybe it’s because he’s possibly the most beautiful man Ilya has ever had in his bed. He has the body of a supernatural athlete with pretty freckles scattered everywhere like stars. Like fucking galaxies just begging to be licked. Or maybe it’s the barely leashed strength Ilya can sense just thrumming under the surface, contained beneath rippling muscles and warm skin, but still ever present. Golden Boy can probably crack him like an egg with his thighs, but he doesn’t. His movements might be rough, yet he’s still in control.

He hurts Ilya just enough to drive him wild.

But when his eyes, never leaving Ilya’s, nearly flutter closed and he says, flushed and desperate, “I’m…Ilya, I’m close.” — that becomes the push to finally send Ilya over the edge.

He resists Golden Boy’s urgent tugs and sucks him off with renewed vigour. With hollowed cheeks, he takes him all the way to the root and back again. His eyes never leave Golden Boy’s, not even when it blurs with tears, determined to imprint into memory the moment when Golden Boy finally comes down his throat with a shout that will definitely ensure a mix of testy words and slaps on the back from Ilya’s neighbors next door.

He pulls off Golden Boy’s dick, sparing a moment to lament the wasted come spilled on his thighs. Ah, fuck. Maybe another time he can swallow every drop and suck Golden Boy till he’s soft and whimpering, but for now Ilya’s cock is going to explode if he doesn’t touch it.

Golden Boy lays on his pillows, spent and fucked out, unmoving as Ilya crawls over him to rest his knees on either side of his chest. “What did I say?”

“Um?” Golden Boy licks his lips, hazy eyes on Ilya’s dick which he’s started pumping with his fist.

Ilya tries not to let himself get distracted by that pink tongue. “Eyes on me, Golden Boy.”

It takes a moment but eventually Golden Boy’s gaze is dragged slowly off Ilya’s steadily leaking cock to his face. That does it for Ilya. The lust swimming in Golden Boy’s deep, dark eyes, has heat pooling in his belly. His balls draw tight, the pressure inside growing immense, and Ilya pumps furiously, chasing his own release.

“Holy shit,” Golden Boy breathes, eyes flicking to Ilya’s cock as if he can’t help it, and there’s that tongue again. God.

“Open,” Ilya says harshly. The air is thick with the sounds of slapping flesh and his ragged breathing. “Wider.”

Golden Boy complies, parting his lips obediently and all the tension inside Ilya crests like a tidal wave and then breaks. Pleasure consumes him as he strokes his cock over Golden Boy’s face, spilling all over that gorgeous, lush mouth. Those freckled cheeks. The stupid, stupid golden mask.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he comes to himself and falls back on his heels, completely spent, while Golden Boy looks at him with wonder. With awe.

“Fuck, Ilya, that was…wow.”

His face is warmer than the sun, but all Ilya feels is cold. Because he’s used his name again. Like they were friends or…or lovers. And they weren’t anything like that. They can’t even be fuck buddies. He can never be Ilya to Golden Boy. Never.

He can only be Blaze.

How fast will that expression fade from Golden Boy’s face if he finds out who Ilya really is? How quickly will all that warmth turn into anger? Into disgust? Into the same distasteful way he’d looked at Ilya the last time they fought. His father had always said he was, but Ilya has never felt more like a silly fool than now. But it’s not too late. He’d had his fun. Had gotten off. He can stop playing with Golden Boy now, before he has the chance to catch on to who Ilya really is.

He lifts himself off of Golden Boy and gets out of the bed. “Is amazing, I know. You’re welcome.” He grabs a towel and throws it at Golden Boy.

He catches it absently, face filling with confusion.

“Is towel,” Ilya explains. “For face.”

“Oh.” Golden Boy flushes, an endearing contrast to the sheen of Ilya’s come on his cheeks. Ilya berates himself for thinking that and looks away. “Sorry. For the mess,” Golden Boy goes on as he scrubs his face. “If you need help washing your sheets, I can stay and —”

“No.”

Golden Boy blinks at him, as open and innocent as a baby deer in the middle of a country road.

“Is okay. I can wash.” Ilya grabs his own towel and wraps it around his waist. “I have, uh —” He gestures with his hand. Price used these words every time he was invited to go out for drinks after Villain Camp and it always seems to work in making everyone leave him alone. “— early morning.”

Ilya will have to thank Price when he sees him because Golden Boy immediately springs into action. “Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.”

“Is okay,” Ilya repeats again, not moving from his spot, a safe distance from Golden Boy. He doesn’t trust himself not to do anything hasty with Golden Boy bent over, arse to the sky while he slips inside his tight suit. Once he’s decent — well, as decent as someone with his body in a form-fitting suit can be — Golden Boy turns to him with a small smile.

“Ah, that was — that wasn’t very graceful, was it?”

No. It wasn’t. It was fucking sexy, though, watching him wiggle and bounce all over the place. But this, Ilya does not say aloud. Instead he shrugs and says, “Is okay.”

The smile dims like a faulty light. “Are you okay?”

No. “Yes. I just said.”

“Yes, but —” Golden Boy chews his lips. “You’re acting strange. Did I do something wrong?”

Ilya throws his hands up in frustration. “No! I told you is okay, I’m tired, Golden Boy. All I want is to go to bed.”

Golden Boy’s jaw hardens. “Well, sorry then for getting in the way of your bedtime, but in case you’ve forgotten, I wasn’t the one who started this.”

“No, you just finished in my mouth,” Ilya scoffs.

“Oh, fuck you.” Golden Boy flushes. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Why am I asshole?” Ilya demands. “You come to my dorm, I get you off, and then I ask very nice if I can go to bed. Is a hook-up, Golden Boy. Have you never had hook-up before?”

Impossibly, Golden Boy turns even redder. A part of Ilya is worried he may have secret fire powers and he’s one second from incinerating everything in sight, but then a bigger part of Ilya has no sense of self-preservation.

“Ah,” he smirks. “So you have not.”

Something sharp and pained flashes across Golden Boy’s face before he pivots toward the window.

“Don’t forget your trench coat,” Ilya calls out but Golden Boy is already gone.

***

Ilya wonders if Golden Boy will ever return for his trench coat. He does not strike Ilya as the type of man who is careless with his things, but here they are, three weeks since the day Ilya sucked him senseless and the coat remains in his closet, still hideous, but also abandoned.

“Are you okay, man?”

Ilya slams his laptop shut and directs a glare at Marlow who is lounging on one of his bean bags. “Why is everyone asking me that?”

“Um, because you don’t look okay?” Marlow says. “And you keep glaring at your closet. What is in there? It’s not a dead body, right? You know we have to report those to the Centre.”

“No, is not body, you fucking idiot. Why would there be dead body inside my closet? Am I beginner?”

“I don’t know! Maybe cause you’ve been a moody little shit the whole month?” Marlow stands and jabs a finger in his direction. “Alright, that’s it. You’re going out tonight.”

“Why?”

“To get fucking laid!”

Ilya scowls. He glares at Marlow and not the closet. “Fine. But it better not be shitty club.”

Marlow does not take him to a shitty club. He takes him to the Kingfisher, an exclusive underground club frequented by the young and elite of the city — celebrities, athletes, and an assortment of famous, attractive people, including but not limited to some superheroes and supervillains. Not that anyone can tell who they are. They trade their suits for designer clothes and leave all their ‘duties’ and ‘responsibilities’ behind when they cross the heavy brass doors.

Unfortunately, Ilya’s ‘bitchy mood’ as Marlow calls it does not disappear in the face of the strobe lights, the loud music, or the gorgeous bodies writhing on the dance floor. Instead, he finds peace, sulking by the bar and occasionally responding in monosyllables to the cute bartender, Kyle.

“You broke up with your boyfriend or something, handsome?”

Ilya glares at Kyle who remains unfazed, a firm reminder that he really needs to work on his glares. “No.”

Kyle cocks a brow. “Really? Weird cause you have that sullen look of misery about you.”

Ilya feels heat in his palms and counts to three. “I am Russian. That is how we look.”

“Hmm, sure. But I don’t think that’s it. Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Ilya lifts his drink to his lips. “Don’t you have job?”

Kyle glances toward the bar where sure enough, several people are signalling for his attention. “Don’t think we’re not coming back to this conversation.” He wags his finger and shoots him a wink before slipping away.

“There is no we and no conversation,” Ilya calls out, but it’s drowned under the noise. Or maybe Kyle is simply ignoring him. Hard to say.

He swivels towards the dancefloor and scans the glittering crowd. Marlow is probably somewhere in the middle of the throng, having the time of his life. Ilya should be too, but somehow he finds it hard to summon any interest.

His life used to be exciting. Hockey, villain training, pissing off superheroes, partying, driving fast cars. Now it all seems painfully dull. Boring. The Centre has told him to lie low after the whole school incident which hasn’t helped. Nothing ever feels real or serious or genuinely life-threatening anymore.

Of course the moment Ilya thinks that, something genuinely life-threatening drops on his lap.

It starts with yelling which Ilya recognises is coming from Quaker, a B-rated villain with the capacity to make the earth…well, quake. It’s loud enough to draw the attention of most everyone on the dancefloor and Ilya has a moment to hope it’s not fucking Marlow on the other end of the argument before the ground splits open.

And then the walls, and then the ceiling. Everything starts to shake and Ilya gets to his feet, ready to run like everyone else. Bodyguards and security have begun jumping into the fray, carrying their high-profile clients to safety which makes the exit nearly impassable. Ilya considers burning a hole through one of the walls so he can escape, but his eyes happen to meet Kyle’s frightened blue ones for a suspended moment and…shit — Kyle is fit, sure, but he’s a Mundane which means he’s fragile as a twig. Chances are the fancy liquor cabinets behind him are going to topple over or the ceiling is going to cave in and Kyle — friendly, nosy, annoying, cute Kyle, is going to die.

And because Ilya knows this is what’s likely going to happen, his stupid brain decides on his behalf that it’s his fucking duty to stop it.

So, no, Ilya doesn’t leave as is the smart thing to do. Instead he vaults over the bar and shoves Kyle on the floor underneath it, a mere few seconds before the ceiling collapses over their heads.

In a blink, Ilya’s entire world narrows into this small, tight, oppressive space.

It is, unfortunately, not a silent one.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god, what the —”

Ilya grits his teeth against the pain on his back. A part of the bar had broken and the full weight of it, including the debris from the ceiling, is threatening to crush him. Ilya is strong with a superhuman ability to endure pain, but in this case, he doesn’t know for how long. “Kyle,” he tries to say calmly. “You must shut the fuck up. Your panic is wasting air.”

Kyle is on his back, facing him, while Ilya is braced on his forearms. It’s too dark to see, but Ilya feels him take a shuddering breath. “Okay. Shit. Yes. Thank you for…for that. What the fuck just —”

“Kyle.”

“Right. Sorry.”

There is silence. For a blessed two minutes.

“Are you okay?”

That fucking question. “Yes.” No. Ilya is using his back to prevent the bar from squashing them alive, but other than that —

“Are we going to die?”

Jesus Christ. Ilya could have run. He could have been halfway to his bed by now. He is an idiot.

“No.”

“How are you so sure?”

Aside from him, Marlow and the man who will soon meet Ilya’s fist, Quaker, he is certain there had been other superheroes and villains in the club. If they happen to be stuck like Ilya and are unable to start rescuing people or reveal themselves, then their friends from the outside will. It’s only a matter of time.

Kyle giggles, but it comes out shaky and hysterical. “I guess we’re having that conversation after all.”

Ilya would rather be crushed to death instead. “No.”

“Not even when we’re about to die?”

“Shut up. We are not dying.”

“Did you think of your ex when the ceiling was collapsing?” Kyle goes on, ignoring Ilya’s polite request. Is it too late to say please? “I thought of Kip, you know. Fuck, he’d just left for the washroom. I hope he’s sa—”

“I will kill you myself if you will not stop.”

“Kill me?” Kyle snorts. “Please. You couldn’t hurt a fly. Look at you, you just saved me. You’re a fucking hero.”

“I am not —”

“I see you when you’re here you know. Most people that come here are dicks, but you — you’re kind.”

“Fuck you.”

Silence and then, “Hmm. Should we?”

Golden Boy’s naked body flashes in Ilya’s mind. His soft moans ring in his ears. Ilya, he’d said like he was a god. Fuck. The last thing he needs right now is his fool dick growing hard while Kyle is — too late.

Thankfully, Kyle seems to not notice. “I mean, if we’re going to die —”

“I said we will not die.”

Fingers brush his cheek. A sigh tickles his neck. “I almost believe you.”

Ilya is tempted to prove his point by revealing himself as a fire-wielding badass, but what would that do, really? He’s not certain he can control his powers enough not to catch Kyle in the crossfire.

“Do you think the superheroes will come soon?”

They better. What else are they good for?

Of course, after Ilya thinks that, he regrets it almost immediately. Because as soon as the punishing weight is lifted off his back, he’s met with the last superhero he wants to see.

“Oh my god. It’s Golden Boy,” Kyle breathes.

But Golden Boy doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all in fact, his entire focus on Ilya’s face and the fingers that had been until a few seconds ago, stroking it tenderly.

***

Ilya is discharged from the makeshift medical tent with an ice-pack and a Tylenol. A miracle, the paramedics had declared, that his back was not either A. Shattered into a million pieces or B. Twisted like a pretzel.

Kyle had given him an odd look after that, but lucky for Ilya, the medics were forcing people who didn’t need to be there out as fast as they could and Ilya didn’t have to deal with the question in Kyle’s eyes for much longer.

As Ilya scans his surroundings, however, he almost wishes Kyle had stayed around to help him get home. The club is in a remote part of the city and now all that remains of it is a decimated building, a hole in the ground, a bunch of ambulances, some news vans, at least a dozen firetrucks, and a hundred people, all too occupied to even notice Ilya. He also realizes that he has no idea where he’d parked his car. If his car is even intact. To make things worse, he’d forgotten his phone back at the dorm as well.

Ilya sighs. There’s nothing for it. He starts walking toward what he’s certain is north which should eventually take him home. He knows he can borrow a phone and call the Centre but he really doesn’t want to deal with anyone from there right now. No doubt there will be questions on top of thinly-veiled accusations.

How could you let that happen, Ilya?

You could have stopped it.

Now Quaker is in police custody. Who do we call when we need an earthquake now, you stupid boy?

But then again, Ilya could have been sleeping soundly in his dorm and Crowell or his father will still somehow find a way to blame him.

He kicks at an empty can of ginger ale on the pavement and curses at the corresponding twinge in his back. Fucking fuck. Obviously, the Tylenol isn’t doing shit and Ilya’s pretty sure the ice in the ice pack is just water now, but again, he’d rather suffer through the pain than go to the Centre for superior treatment.

“You should have let them take you to the hospital.”

Ilya jumps at the voice and curses again at the pain of sudden movement.

Golden Boy steps off from the shadows, disapproval written on every freckle. “I’ll take you.”

“Unless you are taking me home, I will not go anywhere with you.”

Golden Boy’s jaw flexes. “You need medical care.”

“I had medical care,” Ilya points out, waving the ice pack in his face. “Now what I need is twelve hours sleep. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Ilya turns around. “Goodbye.”

“I said okay, Ilya.”

“Heard you, Golden Boy.”

“It means I’ll take you,” he says and Ilya pauses mid-step. “Home. To your dorm. Wherever.”

Ilya shifts slowly, casting him a dubious look over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Because you walk like a baby bird who fell off a tree.”

“Fuck you, Golden Boy.” For a moment, Ilya weighs his options but it’s no contest really. He’s not a fucking martyr. “Okay.”

Golden Boy is stiffer than a plank of wood as Ilya wraps his arms around his neck and about as friendly. Maybe less. He settles comfortably, though, having traveled via Golden Boy a few times now, and even dozes off a little bit while they sail across the city.

He only comes to at Golden Boy’s frigid, “We’re here,” and Ilya opens his eyes at the same time he’s dumped unceremoniously on the floor.

He sways a bit but regains his footing without having to hold onto Golden Boy who probably would have shoved him on his ass anyway. Jerk.

Golden Boy turns to the window. “Well, have a good life.”

“Wait!”

Ilya doesn’t know why he said that and racks his brain for an answer to Golden Boy’s chilly questioning stare that isn’t completely moronic. He comes up with, “Don’t you want your ugly trench coat?”

Which, judging by Golden Boy’s frown, is not the right thing to say. Still, Golden Boy sighs and agrees to take the coat. He waits as close to the window as he can without tipping over which buys Ilya enough time to think of something else to keep him, though he chooses not to examine his reasons for that.

“You should take care of things,” Ilya tells him as he hands off the coat. “Don’t leave them.”

“Sorry,” Golden Boy says tersely. “I was in a bit of a hurry that time. Someone was rushing to see me go.”

“Is not true,” Ilya says without thinking. “I am…not used to this.”

Golden Boy’s face softens into confusion. “Used to what?” Then understanding. “Oh. Do you mean…” He gestures vaguely. “...with superheroes?”

“No.” Ilya shakes his head. “I guess, yes, that too. But other one also.”

“There’s another one aside from hooking up with a superhero?”

“Yes.” Ilya gives a frustrated sigh. “Hooking up and then…” This time, he does the same vague gesture Golden Boy did, though he’s not even sure what it means.

And it turns out even Golden Boy doesn’t know what it means because he cocks his head in befuddlement. “And then what?”

Ilya stops the useless gesturing and shoves his fingers in his hair. “And then being friends!” Ilya’s voice rises. “Staying over! Saving my life. Knowing things…about you. I do not do that with hook ups.”

“Oh.”

“Superhero part is not easy too,” Ilya grumbles. “I do not even know your face.”

Golden Boy sucks in a breath. “Fuck. Yeah.”His shoulders slump forward. “I can’t…You know I’m not allowed to disclose…”

Ilya tunes out the rest of Golden Boy’s explanation. He knows this, of course. Any potential partners have to be vetted by the Centre and made to sign a billion NDAs. It’s not something one does with a casual hook-up.

And if anyone finds out his hook-up is Golden Boy…

“I’m sorry.”

Ilya blinks at him.

“I didn’t think.” Golden Boy sighs. “It was a lot to ask of you and I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

Ilya shrugs, though deep down, the words are a balm to weeks of unease. “Is okay. I was asshole.”

Golden Boy’s lips curve into a small smile that slices through Ilya’s ribs straight into the soft mass inside. “No argument here.” His eyes flick to the window. “Dawn soon. I guess I’ll see you around or…or something.”

“Won’t be around,” Ilya says. “Summer. No classes.”

“Ah, right. So you’ll be…”

“In Russia.”

They stare at each other for a long while before Golden Boy says, “Well, um, have a good summer,” at the same time Ilya asks, “You have phone?”

Golden Boy’s lips part in surprise. “Um yeah.”

He holds out his hand and it takes a second but Golden Boy catches up and gives over his phone. Ilya refuses to linger on the whys, the hows, the what the fucks, as he enters and saves his number under the name, Nine. He sends a message to himself and hears it vibrate on his desk.

Golden Boy stares at the phone. “Why Nine?”

“Because inches,” Ilya directs a meaningful look south of his pants.

It takes a moment for Golden Boy to follow, but when he does, he sputters and blushes like a nun at an orgy. A sight more adorable than it should be. “And what’s my name going to be?” he asks after clearing his throat several times.

Ilya smirks. “Three.”

Golden Boy bristles. “Three what?”

“Minutes.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Golden Boy says, but there’s little heat to it, not with a grin playing on his lips.

Soft yellow light has begun to spill from the window as the sun rises above the sky, illuminating Golden Boy’s dark hair and his tanned, freckled skin. For a moment, he looks every bit his namesake — golden, perfect, and about as distant as the sun.

Ilya finds it unbearable.

Golden Boy’s phone rings just as Ilya takes a step forward.

“Ah, I have to go.” Golden Boy casts him a sheepish look.

“Is okay,” Ilya says, his hands curling into fists to stop himself from reaching out. “Go save world.”

“It’s actually my dad.”

“Much more important then.”

Golden Boy laughs. “Yeah. I guess so.” The phone rings again. “Shit. That’s my mom now. Have a good summer, Ilya.”

“Don’t forget your trench coat,” he calls out, but once again, Golden Boy is gone.

It’s okay, though. Ilya can just text him. He picks up his phone and types in the first name he can think of before hitting ‘Save contact’.

Freckles.

***

2 Months Later

Freckles: Where are you?

Nine: why?

Freckles: You can’t answer my question with a question.

Nine: says who? question police?

Freckles: Fuck you.

Nine: if you ask nicely.

Freckles: It’s your first day meeting your team, right?

Freckles: You shouldn’t be late.

Nine: yes mom

Nine: not late.

“Rozanov, you’re late.”

Ilya rolls his eyes and shuts his locker closed before turning around to face Coach Wiebe, coach of the Kingsport Lions hockey team.

“Flight was delayed.”

“I know. You said that in your text. Come on.” Coach Wiebe gestures towards the door. “The whole team’s started already. I’ll introduce you.”

Ilya is silent as Coach leads him to the rink. He takes in the shelves of trophies and awards along the hallway, photographs and portraits of the team throughout the years. The more he sees of their accomplishments, the faster his heart races with eagerness. This is a great team. A winning team, Golden Boy, who’d confessed he was a big fan of college hockey, had assured him. And if there’s anything Ilya likes more than sex and fast cars, it’s winning.

It had started out of boredom, of course, him hanging out at his old rink while he was in Russia, but he’d made the mistake of mentioning it to Golden Boy who’d then went on an enthusiastic crusade of convincing him to play again. The little creep had even searched old videos of Ilya playing when he was in the juniors and insisted he was “wasting his talent” and “lying to himself when he says he doesn’t love playing hockey”.

In Ilya’s opinion, Golden Boy simply has a raging hard-on for hockey players.

But either way, Ilya can’t ignore the ease he feels in his bones when he lands on the ice. He’d loved this sport before and maybe he’d never really stopped. Maybe he’d just forgotten and now with his father an ocean away, he’s finally free to remember. The only thing he can see that may be an issue is that he’s never not been captain of his team before.

He’d watched videos of the team, of course, and was especially focused on their captain and star center. Ilya can’t deny he was brilliant, one of the best he’d ever seen, but there’s no doubt in Ilya’s mind that he’s better. And it’ll be his goal this year to prove it.

He’s all but vibrating on his skates as the coach yells for everyone to gather round to meet him. It’s an immediate crush of new faces, bodies, pads, and helmets. Too many to keep track of, but only one lone figure steps forward to break off from the pack.

It’s hard to make out his face when he’s removing his helmet and shaking his dark, messy hair off his face, but once their eyes meet, an unexpected thrill runs down Ilya’s spine.

“Hi, I’m Shane Hollander,” Hollander says with a smile so warm and bright, Ilya has to wonder if he’d mistaken him for someone else. “Team Captain.”

Ilya shakes the hand that Hollander offers. Warm just like his face. Firm too. Strong.

“Ilya Rozanov.” Future star center who will be taking your job. “New guy.”

Somehow, Hollander’s smile brightens even more. He also has not released Ilya’s hand. In fact, his new captain even gives it a small squeeze when he says, in a voice richer than honey, “Welcome to the team…Ilya.”

***