Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

F/F, F/M, M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Lydia Martin/Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura

Characters:

Alexei Rozanov's Daughter, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Crossover, True Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Polyamorous Pack, Alternate Universe, Banshee Powers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Hate Crimes, Christmas Party, Coming Out As Poly, Not every tag is in every part, fic not as dark as the tags will imply, Queerplatonic Relationships, Queerplatonic Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova, the cottage, Serial Killers, Wendigo, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, Canon-Typical Violence, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike Friendship, Coming Out, Werewolves, Sex Party, Public Sex, Masks, BDSM, Open Relationships, Cock Warming, Exhibitionism, Cock & Ball Torture, Orgasm Control, Celebrity Crush

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-22 Completed: 2026-03-07 Words: 18,280 Chapters: 6/6

Pack Is Just Letting Other People Live Under Your Skin

Summary

Five ways the Hollander-Rozanov clan didn’t meet the McCall pack, and one way the McCall pack met them.

Notes

If you look at my other works, I have a THING about crossing over Teen Wolf. It’s my fandom bicycle, it just fits everywhere. Shower Thoughting one day, I immediately came up with about nine whisps of ideas for how to fit them into Heated Rivalry, my new utter obsession. Most fit into this fic, but there are still a few in the back of my brain I might do one day. Ilya and Shane with a stalker hiring Braeden for protection, anyone??? No, just me?

Chapter 1: the one where Rozanovs have banshee genes.

Chapter Notes

I had to age up Alexei’s child to make this concept work. Sorry if timeline fuckery pains you.

When Ekaterina is ten, she screams. Not screams like Sergei is bothering her again, pushing her into the mud or yanking her backpack or throwing burrs into her hair. Not screams like she’s just caught a glimpse of the subtitled American horror the teenage brothers next door pirate with a careful VPN and watch out of earshot of their parents. No, Ekaterina screams with no provocation, screams until her legs give out and she falls, knees to the carpet, chest heaving.

She’s still kneeling, hands over her own ears, unsure how she even made that noise, when Papa bursts in. He’s frantic at first, scanning the room for enemies. A money seeking dealer. Informants looking to free themselves. Criminals freshly out of prison. There are many men who would kill her and Mama to hurt him. But there’s nothing, just Ekaterina trembling with ringing ears and the certainty that something is wrong. When his burst of adrenaline has nowhere to go, he wallops her a few times as comeuppance, then goes.

Usually a swift punishment is all he needs to calm down, swing back to the middle part of the pendulum where he’s sorry and kissing her forehead at breakfast. This time Papa stays mad. Grandfather is dead, and Uncle Ilya, the family betrayer, the wannabe American scum, has flown in on a diamond encrusted plane to lord over the proceedings. It’s the last time Ilya does. It’s not the last time Ekaterina screams.

It happens again, and again, and again. As another client of papa’s favourite dealer has a bad trip and kills half the squatters in the house. As an informant of papa’s coworker is found with cut brakes. As Mikhail is dragged out of his apartment and pushed down the stairs because rumour has it he was caught kissing Nikolai. The first time Ekaterina appears at a crime scene, her body having walked her there without her brain’s direction, Papa is furious. What might that look like to his superiors? By the fifth time he thinks she’s a witch. He doesn’t ask about her studies or say goodnight to her anymore, just keeps her door closed whenever they’re in the apartment together. It’s important to avoid her evil eye.

When Ekaterina is sixteen, Mama sits her down in the kitchen. Poor Alexei is stressed, she explains, work harder than ever. Coworkers all idiots, bosses too demanding. It’d be best if she stays out of the apartment as much as possible, sleep over at her friends when she can. Only for the next two years, Mama says, and then tells her why. She tells her about the trust. The large sum her capitalist traitor faggot American uncle set aside for her future. The day she turns eighteen she uses it. Not for college, or for whirlwind travel, or to secure a home, but to try to ensure the most important aspect of her future; her sanity. She flies to Ottawa and finds the Irina Foundation.

The parking lot is full of sensible American made cars. There are pride flags everywhere in the lobby, from the mural painted on the main wall to poking out of a mug of pens on the receptionist’s desk. There’s signage indicating where to speak to an on-site counsellor. It’s everything Papa would say is wrong with the world. But then, hey, Ekaterina makes that list too, a demon in his once daughter’s skin, so who is she to judge?

Ilya comes out of the rink and into the lobby with a worshipful crowd following him. A handful of preschoolers, and their parents with them lugging their children’s gear. Papa burned all of the photo albums the night of Grandfather’s funeral, but Ekaterina has a good visual memory -unfortunately good, considering the number of dead bodies she’s seen- and he doesn’t look much different. A decade has aged Papa far more than him.

“Did Irina ever scream?” She interrupts everyone to ask. It’s a bad first impression, she can tell by just how many parents immediately seperate their children and begin to hustle them out, but she has to know. Ekaterina knows it was suicide, impossible not to with the Foundation interviews online, earnest Shane Hollander and glitzy Ilya Rozanov selling their partnership years before revealing their true connection, but she doesn’t know why. Maybe Irina just saw something too ugly. Ekaterina has seen some ugly, ugly things.

“What?” It’s angry, the same anger that places this man as her father’s brother, despite the near decade of estrangement, but it fades as Ilya begins to place her features. “Ekaterina?”

“I need to know, you need to tell me.” She says it in English, taught herself years ago to one day ask this very thing. It’s been almost a decade since her uncle abandoned Russia for Canada, for all she knows he speaks French more than his mother tongue. Language barrier was never going to be what prevented her from getting answers about the things she’s seen, and who she might be. “Did Grandmother ever scream, and think she was going out of her mind, and then there were dead bodies?”

It’s not Ilya who answers her, whose wide eyes betray him as already diagnosing her as delusional like her grandfather, but a parent, one of the few to not have fled upon a crazy stranger besetting a famous athlete. A short redhead made only nominally more tall by the high heels she’s wearing. Her hair and height aren’t the only qualities that make her stand out, she’s in an expensive sweater to compensate for the skirt and bare legs in a chilly rink. Her voice sounds prim, but oh so heavy when she asks, “is that happening to you?”

“Um.”

“Do you want to go get a coffee and talk about it? I can explain.” There’s something in her voice that makes Ekaterina think she’s telling the truth. That she’s not just someone that espouses being kind to the mentally ill by offering an ear to rant into. That somehow, despite her one lead, the one she’s clung to for years, failing to produce results, Ekaterina’s been thrown another lifeline.

Ekaterina looks at the woman, and the four year old she’s holding hands with, and the wife beside her. Papa would be disgusted that she’s getting advice here but what’s she supposed to do? He hated Ilya for revealing Irina’s death to be suicide, and giving such shame noterity. He never would have talked to Ekaterina about her. And if Ilya won’t either, it’s fine. It’s not fine, but it’s fine, because she’s not just doomed, because this random woman somehow knows. “Okay.”

Ilya’s eyes are still wild as he shakes his head like a sweaty horse. Ekaterina can practically see his hooves stomp as he raises his hands in a stopping gesture. “Ekaterina, you can’t just leave. You just got here.” He turns to the wise woman and starts with “Mrs Martin-“ before cutting himself off and restarting. “I don’t know what this is, but I will come.”

“You’re going to learn a lot you wish you didn’t know,” comes from the taller woman on the other side of the child. She’s got golden skin, like every moment not spent in a frozen rink is wasted under the hot sun. Her voice is as blunt as her short cut hair. The type of person who’s trustworthy because they’d never bother to lie.

Ilya shakes his head no. “If it’s for Katya, I need to know.”

Kind of big words for a man who never cared enough to come back to Moscow. But he couldn’t, she knows. She’s being unfair. Hockey player with muscles on muscles on muscles or grocery clerk with a penchant for cherry cigarillos, either skull can crack open after six flights of stairs. If Ilya had come back, she might have screamed for him.

“Let’s go, then,” she says shortly. If the Martins know why she screams, and how she can stop, there’s no time to waste.

Chapter 2: the one where there’s a Christmas party.

Chapter Notes

I might have Feelings about people accommodating restrictive eating, (my sensory Safe Foods, my girlfriend’s deadly celery allergy) and want to scream about ginger ale and Hayden and Ilya stocking it until the end of time. But you know. I can be normal about this show.

“Well, it appears you no longer rank in family controversies.”

Shane looks up from his phone to glance first at Ilya, then his mom. While she’s saying it with the least possible inflection in her voice, Ilya’s gotten more comfort than he’ll ever admit out loud from Mom and Dad liking him. Shane doesn’t want him to think for even a second that Mom thinks what they have is controversial.

“Mom.”

“What? I’m sorry, but based on this email-“

Shane, who has heard more than his share of his mom’s I’m sorry but I’m not really and I’m gonna say the scandalous thing without guilt because I’ve acknowledged that I should feel bad and that’s enough over the years uses this opportunity to interrupt her. He’s already sitting toe to toe with Ilya on the couch opposite his parents armchairs, but he pokes a toe into the arch of his boyfriend’s foot, hard. He wants to make sure he’s paying attention to him, not her. “My mom likes to gossip with our relatives. Everyone always has a story of the biggest, bravest, wildest thing happening.”

“Two time Stanley Cup winner. You win forever, no?”

Shane knows that did win some talking points. The dating Rose Landry thing did too. But Shane’s got a handful of aunties and uncles and cousins by blood and by declaration, and some live crazier than others.

“Is it Noshiko?” He tosses out. It’s an easy bet, as easy as Montreal trouncing Carolina.

“Not quite. Kira,” Mom answers.

Ilya frowns. “Who are?”

There’s tension in his voice. He’s not used to family being concealed over anything but misery. Shane has to reassure him, he just doesn’t quite know how. Nothing about Shane’s extended family can be compared to the human trash that are the people who abused and leeched off his man, but it doesn’t mean that they’re easy to explain. Especially Mom’s side.

“Look, this is going to sound batshit insane, and technically I have no proof. Noshiko would, but I doubt she’d share, even if you did meet her.”

“Is okay. I’ll listen, take on faith.”

It’s the pure devotion spread across Ilya’s face that has Shane launching into, “Noshiko is a nine hundred year old kitsune.”

“Celestial kitsune,” Mom clarifies, like Ilya needs that level of specificity right now.

“Celestial kitsune,” he adds, because yes, technically she’s correct. “There’s thirteen types. She’s been a friend of the family for a few generations. She’s been through a lot in her lifetime. Twenty years ago she had another daughter, Kira, who’s ended up being a thunder kitsune. It’s basically what it sounds like, the ability to deal with storms and control electricity. Trust me, the ‘saved a parking lot of people from standing water and a downed live wire’ story got a lot of family wide fame too.”

“Huh,” is Ilya’s astute contribution. Shane’s not sure what he was expecting. The wall of chill is the very first wall to go up in an even remotely taxing situation. Shane’s not complaining, it’s a skill he lacks and very much finds support in. It’s just not good for assessing if his outlandish yet true story is believed.

He resorts to asking. “You believe me?”

“I don’t know what a kitsune is, but Sasha once dated a werebear. Very tall man turned very big when threatened. Only gay man Russia couldn’t kill.” Gallows humour, something Ilya’s great at.

“So what did Kira do?” Shane decides to pursue over asking Ilya more questions about an ex-lover. He can trust that Ilya loves him and would never go back to his roots and still be uncomfortable with the details.

“Last we knew, she was dating Scott, right?”

“The vet student, right.” Dad confirms, as Ilya mutters bah, always a Scott. It makes Shane smirk even as he waits for whatever gossip Mom has deemed it necessary to share.

“Well apparently she’s polyamorous now, and asked for her plus one to Keiko’s Christmas Eve dinner be a plus four.”

“Four? Are you kidding me?” A trio, he could maybe understand. Shane never wants to share Ilya again, but hypothetically he can see a case of one person dating two different souls and not wanting to give up either. If Rose had been a man, things might be very different now. But five? They literally can’t all fit in the same bed.

“So unless this is some Mormon convert, sister-wives thing, and Scott just has four wives who don’t interact, I’d say Kira’s way gayer than you.”

“Okay, one, that’s a weird metric Mom. Two, did Auntie Keiko say yes?”

“Oh honey, I doubt it.”

Shane frowns. “Email back. Tell Keiko that if her home is too small for accommodate four more seats, I can host. Refund people’s flights for the inconvenience, if I have to.”

“Shane, you’d hate that,” Dad says.

Yes. There are about a billion things he’d hate about that situation. Flying to New York for Auntie Keiko’s Christmas Eve dinner has been an annual event since long before his birth, and Shane hates breaking rituals as much as any MLH player. He hates cooking, he hates serving drinks, and he hates people in his neatly organized spaces. But it seems wrong for Kira to be honest and everyone just ignore her statement. Shane doesn’t have to get it personally for it to be true for Kira.

“I don’t want to host. I just want to shame her into doing it. Email Keiko,” Shane all but orders. And he can see on Mom’s face the moment she capitulates and begins to type out her response.

“Shane used passive aggression, it was super effective,” Ilya mutters from his side of the couch, little grin on his face. Better than the devastation he was afraid to find mere minutes ago.

“What?”

“Is meme. Get it together, Hollander.”

Ilya doesn’t come with them to New York, of course. They’re not ready for that kind of public display. Besides, Ilya and Svetlana do Christmas together, two estranged Russians standing apart from North American commercial obsession, while not nostalgic enough to celebrate on January first or seventh. If Ilya can respect Rose, Shane can grant him Svetlana. The house is full enough when they arrive anyway, at least thirty or forty people, between true invites and plus ones. Or fours, as it were.

The first one Shane meets is the one the Yukimira follow up email labelled Stiles. Shane knows what Scott looks like, and Kira’s other two are women. He’s standing at the long dining room table, holly berry patterned tablecloth weighed down by a double dozen dishes both catered and home cooked by those not needing a flight to come to dinner.

“You want some of this pie, man?” Stiles asks, like it’s normal to eat a slice in his hand in bites like a pizza. “Or like, anything else, while I have the knife? It’s like the five second rule; the knife’s not dirty until I let go and place it down.”

“No.”

“That sounded like an irritated no, man. I can hand over the knife if you don’t want the slut handling your food.”

For as casually as Stiles says the words, Shane has to believe his self depreciating confrontation has his body tensing, his heart racing. It’s the only thing that explains why, without Stiles calling out a name or pulling out a phone, a woman Shane is sure is Malia comes into the room to slot in behind Stiles and hook her chin over his shoulder.

“It’s not even close to that.”

“Oh, no?”

“No. It’s not. I’ve been on a macrobiotic diet since two thousand and four, and there’s still nothing here for me.” More than a decade, and not one family member’s learned to make a dish Shane can enjoy. It’s always bothered him a little. This year, after being spoiled by the acts of service of his boyfriend, it bothers him more.

“Ooooh, yeah,” Malia nods. “That sucks. I get it, there’s no deer.”

“Uh-“

“Malia spent eight years as a coyote unable to shift back. She likes her meat just barely touched,” Stiles explains briefly. Shane is suddenly of the opinion that if Kira’s …people? -girlfriends and boyfriends is a mouthful, and lovers is just as bad for someone else as it is for him- stick around, the constantly flowing family chain email is going to be cycling faster than ever with outlandish stories.

It isn’t until later that Shane meets the others. Like fans spotting him in public, the four of them swoop in at him. Scott’s always been handsome, if not his type. Far too innocent. He’s wearing a reindeer antlers headband, for godsakes. And while somewhere in this house is Kira in a tacky sweater and probably Nightmare Before Christmas leggings, he stands out against all-in-black Stiles, and cleavagey shirted Malia and most of all Lydia, who is in a deep green dress that looks like a co-star of Rose’s spent a few grand on it.

“Kira says you’re the reason the host changed her mind, so thank you,” Scott offers. “Usually we do Christmas at my mom and Stiles’ dad’s, but they’re on a cruise.”

“Yeah, uh. No problem.” Shane is highly media trained, but there’s no script for this.

“There was a problem, until there wasn’t. So thank you,” Lydia insists.

“Me and my. Uh-” Is he doing this? Yes. Shane thinks this one fucking time, yes. “My boyfriend appreciate you falling on this grenade.”

“What? This?” Stiles crooks his head like seeing things at a different angle might make them make sense. “No offense, man, but this isn’t a grenade. This is nothing, this is just a dinner.”

Lydia rolls her eyes at him. “But everyone has a different life and just because our consistent extreme danger has catapulted us into different definitions of risk doesn’t mean things aren’t scary. Being out can be scary, Stiles.”

Stiles, apparently not one to take criticism personally, continues to speak. “Yeah, okay. I came out to my dad as bi because he’s a sheriff who caught me at a gay bar because a venom oozing murder lizard was going for his next victim, and he told me I was lying because I didn’t dress gay. And then I got a boyfriend and three girlfriends, so, like, mathematically speaking, maybe he was right.”

That… is a lot. Shane doesn’t really know where to start with that. And luckily he doesn’t have to because Kira’s people aren’t done with him. Scott, up next, is more sincere. “Look, it’s really cool you told us you have a boyfriend but you don’t need to tell anyone else. Kira’s not the first gay cousin to force you to be the next, if you’re not ready. We’re not braver than you, we’re just different.”

Malia shrugs. “We’re a little braver.”

“Malia!”

“What? He’s a hockey player. Skate skate punch punch go sit down because you punched too much. Two weeks ago we forced a kelpie onto dry land so that it stopped murdering people at your grad school.”

“Okay, yeah, maybe a little braver,” Stiles adds. Shane can see how this works, so clearly. Malia, blunt, Stiles better with words but always on her side, Kira and Scott the nice ones while Lydia sees the bigger picture. It makes sense, and fuck everyone who says it doesn’t. They don’t get to decide.

Chapter 3: the one where the cottage has neighbours

Chapter Notes

Having coming from a decade of Steve Harrington & Robin Buckley, I will be pushing the Ilya Svetlana queerplatonic friendship as hard as I can. I can’t believe it’s not already a tag. They’re SO bi friends who fuck(ed).

The second summer Ilya spends at the cottage, Svetlana gets a weekend invite. Two days and a night at heaven incarnate, at the place that’s come to symbolize everything that Ilya will fight to keep. It’s the catalyst for everything that’s about to happen, the Centaurs news slated to drop in three days. It’s the fuel that kept Ilya going in Boston, lonely and only superficially known, and it’ll keep him going during the upcoming season, when he still has to cockily oppose his camera perfect rival.

It’s a lot for a location to live up to, but as soon as Svetlana sets foot on the property, she gets it. The cottage is only as opaque as it needs to be to not blow down in a gust of wind. Beyond the beams and wood, the rest of it is nothing but glass, allowing the guest to be one with nature. As someone who grew up in a luxurious full floor condo, getting rides to school from an underground parking lot full of other six figure vehicles driven by elite Russians, all the trees are a very different kind of wealthy. But there’s no questioning it’s pretty, and she hasn’t even seen a sunrise. Though chances are she will. She’s only been in North America a few days and a few poorly timed naps have jet lag continuing to kick her ass.

Not only is it aesthetically stunning, she has to admit the vibes are good from the moment she walks in. Ilya’s spent a year complaining about Shane’s diet and how he’d rather blow up a doughnut with his mind than take a bite -as mutual Dunkin’ Donuts lovers Svetlana understands how that’s a damn shame- but she finds them eating pancakes in the kitchen, Shane in no way giving off the feeling of being nutritionally tortured. They’re happy, from the smiles on their faces, to the way Ilya’s manspreading on the stool seating has his heel perched on the bottom rung of Shane’s seat between Shane’s feet, to how they keep elbowing each other and leaning in for attention. Nor is it beyond her how they don’t spring away even when they pick up that she’s there. This is a safe place, where the spotlight and recrimination of the outside world doesn’t land.

She’s secretly delighted to witness it continuously as the hours slip away. She’s never been clueless to what Jane meant to her Ilya, from being the reason Ilya turned down what she thought was the pleasant surprise of Sasha in Sochi, to being one of the few American contacts he kept up with while in Moscow, to that whirlwind phone call the second he could get away from his rooks after Hunter’s big move. It’s so much more poignant seeing it in person. The dance as they wash dishes together. The gentle jibs as Shane texts Pike and Rose and Ilya texts Carrington. The crinkled nose kisses as she and Ilya swim and Shane basks like a lizard on a boulder. The thirty minute shower after swimming that isn’t quite quiet enough, that both blush slightly over when they come back to the media room. Sasha made Ilya feel brave, feel enough desire to say ‘fuck it, might as well’ despite all obstacles. Shane makes Ilya feel whole. He makes him feel enough to say ‘no, I’m keeping this’. It’s good to see. Everything she could have wished for, for Ilya.

It’s even better, when, around six, the Hollanders come over. Svetlana’s heard a lot about Yuna and David. Sergei and L’tetsha like Ilya, have provided him with afterschool snacks and a place to play XBox since they were both kids, but Dad’s always been a little too quick to side with Colonel Rozanov about Ilya taking the glitzy way out to play with the MLH right out of juniors, rather than pay his dues in the KHL. Sasha’s parents were Coach Rybakov and mousey little Anzhelina, always afraid to open her mouth in front of her husband, even to offer faint praise while Coach preferred a trial by fire. Yuna and David care about hockey too, David played college hockey and Yuna’s the best agent Shane could have, but they’re also the first set of parents to truly care about Ilya as a person. Sure at first it threw Yuna off that Ilya was willing to ditch Boston, but the problem solver in her has long since grown to appreciate how Ilya goes for what he wants. He wants their son, and they love him for it.

Much like how Svetlana’s spent her afternoon, both happily interacting, but also vibe checking from afar, dinner is a case of how joyously taken care of her best friend is. Mr and Mrs Hollander are nothing but doting, the way in-laws should be to a perfect boyfriend. They feed him heaping helpings of pasta without criticizing his diet, and they ask for stories of his life since they’ve last seen him. Yuna asks in methodic but unpatronizing detail about how the moving is going, like she doesn’t just automatically assume he’s going to fuck it up in some way. David asks for Ilya to check out his Amazon cart and chime in with which of his gathered puzzles he should actually purchase, like a man from a younger generation has earned the right to an opinion. And at nine, when they go home, they swoop in for hugs. God, who was the last person that hasn’t seen Ilya naked to actually hug him?

The retreat to the media room is an obvious one. It’s dating + one 101: do activities the single and the dating alike can enjoy. Shane doesn’t have a lot of physical media, but he’s got six different streaming sites connected to his tv, including Canadian exclusives Svetlana’s never even heard of. She half watches the generic thriller they decide on, but both her phone and the men beside her are far more thrilling. Svetlana’s seen Ilya in his fair share of intimate looking papped moments from the kind of vultures that hang outside of VIP sports bars. None of it’s ever come off as real as this, Shane’s head on Ilya’s collarbone, Ilya’s thick arm curled around him.

Despite her social tank being nowhere near empty -she’s an extrovert raised by extroverts and surrounded by extroverted best friends and lovers, people are the air she breathes- Svetlana takes the hint and excuses herself when Ilya starts giving her his nightclub eyes. The expression that used to mean I’ve bagged a good one, please let me go, I’ll cover your uber, text me when you get home, but bye. It says a lot that Shane is a sure thing, absolutely no thrill of the hunt left, and Ilya is still so desperate to get alone time.

She considers going downstairs, but not for long. She’s not tired, and she knows from experience that trying to make herself go to bed will only make her toss and turn, increasingly crankily. Better to stretch out in the living room and watch something dumb and American while grazing. Shane might have stocked his normally macrobiotic fringe and pantry with snacks for them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t freak out about crumbs in the bedroom carpet. When being hosted do as the host does was one of Svetlana’s first taught lessons, along with smile at every camera, and if you break anything you’ll get the ruler. It’s the least she can do to keep her snacking to a publically acceptable snacking zone.

Even though she’s got Pretty Little Liars on screen, the sex is pretty loud. You wouldn’t guess that they’re across the cottage, behind closed doors. Ilya’s never been one to muffle himself, not even when he’s had sex in semi-public places. That’s how she knows about the semi-public spaces. Especially during their teenage years, she was often near enough to hear him, and the girl or Sasha of the night. He never did it as a come on, though there were a few times it sounded fun enough to have Svetlana slipping into the room once the other party was gone. It’s just a matter of fact thing to him. People fart, they burp, they fuck. Noises are natural, nothing to ruffle feathers about. There’s not a chance Shane feels the same ultra-casual way, so it makes her wonder why he’s going along with it. Is it an exhibitionism kink, or a bad boy thing, or just the comfort of being in his own home with someone he knows won’t care overhearing? Hard to say without asking a question a man as tightly wound as him won’t want to answer unless he’s drunk, but there’s no doubt that he’s enjoying himself. Ilya’s never failed to put his all into every encounter.

It’s a good enough concert that Svetlana starts feeling a little flushed. How couldn’t she? But that’s not what she’s here for. This isn’t a set up for another threesome, this is a meet my eventual fiancé and love everything about him including how passionate we are, please. And Svetlana is happy for him, she really really is. She wants nothing but peace for Ilya. But if she doesn’t get to enjoy the lurid noises, she’s not going to torture herself with them. Taking nothing but her iPad and a bag of Hershey’s toffee chips she opens the sliding glass door and slips outside. There’s porch on three of the four sides of the cottage, and furniture to lounge on decorating all of them, but the couch at the fire pit is directionally the furthest she can comfortably get from the master bedroom. It’s not like she’s desperate enough to sprint into the woods, or perch on a lake boulder. Her range is as far as the wifi stretches.

It’s nice, outside. Humid, like the air itself is a comfortable blanket. It’s a good thing temperature isn’t a bad sensory trigger for Shane. Between summer cottage days, and the fall, winter, and spring sweat from all the padding he’d never be settled in his skin. To be fair, he probably would have built his retreat somewhere else if warm summers were an issue. But Svetlana’s glad he landed here, because it’s cozy to pull up a book and chew through her slowly melting candy with a light breeze on her shoulders and the sound of the water in the distance. It’s a good way to spend some of her last hours for a while with Ilya, gentle enough to ease the bitterness of Ilya permanently becoming the guy who spends nights with someone else. She wants this for him. Of course she does. It’s just hard, a little.

And then, there goes Ilya being Ilya, hyperfocused at all times on how cherished friends feel, whether or not he visibly demonstrates it. After a while of reading by moonlight the sliding glass door opens and he appears. He’s in only sweats, like he so often is. He’s wide awake and he strides in worn sandals to where she’s sitting like he’s never intended on being anywhere else. Good of him to fuck Shane unconscious before continuing his night with her. He’ll crash beside him too, Svetlana’s sure, spooning and morning breath a thing of their past, but she gets the hours in between, and that’s enough. The life Ilya and Shane are setting up, there will be lots of hours in between, when the men need their friends. It’s sad, but true. The world won’t allow them to be everything for each other.

Ilya sits close, their hips and elbows touching. Svetlana exits out of what she’s been reading, and tilts the screen towards him in suggestion. Ilya’s not the biggest reader, but sometimes you have a flight and have too much of a headache for a movie or too much annoyance for humanity to scroll through Twitter or Insta. Svetlana has about a dozen epubs downloaded at all times, for variety’s sake. Never know when you want a bloody horror, or a mystery thriller, or a Russian classic. Regardless of the ever changing lineup there’s always a quasi book club book, one that she and Ilya try to read at approximately the same time, so no one’s text squealing spoils the story. Maybe in a while they’ll play some sewer ball, burn off the excess energy until they’re both ready to actually crash, but for now she’s happy to be curled up with him, reading the same pages.

Except it’s not to be. Ilya pulls his phone out of his pocket, and it’s full of curated videos and memes, the cream of the crop deemed worthy of an in person reaction rather than just a share. To be fair, he’s not wrong. He knows her sense of humour nearly exactly, just differing enough to not have only collected links she’s already seen. The first song alone has her cracking up, and Ilya laughing at her mirth. It’s just not Becky Chambers and her pleasant queer coded aliens. But they’ll get back to it, she’s sure.

They’re only about five memes in when a sudden howl makes Svetlana jump out of her skin. She instinctively grabs at Ilya’s leg, manicured nails talons she’ll apologize for when her heart isn’t racing.

“Is probably bird,” Ilya dismisses. In English, which he usually only speaks to her individually if it ties so deeply to an North American experience his brain can’t untangle it.

“A bird,” she repeats incredulously.

“You would not believe the stupid birds they have in Canada. There is this one, they call it a loon? It is a wolf bird. No joke. It even has beady evil red eyes. Stupid thing.”

There has to be more to what he’s saying, his experience of this stupid bird, but Svetlana suddenly couldn’t give less of a shit. Ilya’s life is paramount to her, but they’re not alone. From out of nowhere, there are at least a dozen yellow eyed creatures running past them. Monsters, must be, because any forest animal that might have glowing eyes does not walk on two feet, six feet tall.

They’re fast, but Ilya has the reflexes of the number one hockey player in the world, who secretly grew up in an explosively abusive home. He’s picking up a near certainly handcrafted Adirondack chair instantly, and moments later it’s hurled with enough accuracy that one of them goes down. It’s an aggressive move and frankly Svetlana’s surprised that the whole group isn’t turning on them, but all the hulking yellow eyed forms keep running.

What is nearly equally concerning to a dozen monsters hurtling towards them with loyal rage is a bounding coyote coming to a halt beside the downed body. And that the creature gets up a moment later, no worse for wear. And that unlike the rest of the sprinting creatures his eyes are red. It’s truly just a cavalcade of life threatening dread.

Ilya, though, can only stand so much being threatened. More insidious threats he can take, let himself be tortured down to his very soul. But physical threats? He’d rather get his jaw broken than let fear win. He’s got the cast iron lid of the fire pit firmly gripped in one hand as he shouts, “Stupid wolf-person! Why is Canada like this, can you tell me?”

“I’m actually from California. We both are,” the creature says, gesturing to the coyote. So he talks, that’s good to know. Quite calmly, in fact, considering the aggressive crimson eyes and the fucking neck ripping claws.

“Blayt,” Ilya spits out. The Russian doesn’t do much to cover the sentiment, she thinks. Not if the man’s wince has anything to say.

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“About that,” he continues. “Out of context that probably seemed pretty scary.”

The ‘we both’ suddenly clarifies itself as the coyote turns into a very hot naked woman sprawled on all fours on the grass. She pulls herself into standing, and Svetlana can’t help but notice there’s no sign of the mixed human/animal form that the man has. Maybe it’s a gender difference for shapeshifters, like how male peacocks are more flamboyant. Svetlana’s own brand of queerness is about seventy/thirty to strong men who make her feel safe, but on looks alone she’s the kind of woman she’d go for.

As the woman places herself at the man’s side, less a wilting side piece, more a warrior arranging for the best position from which to leap, the man dares to act sheepish. It’s ridiculous, how she’s meant to believe he’s endearing, seeing as they were both howling snarling intruders on someone else’s property.

“So, uh, any lucky off chance that you already know that werewolves exist?” He asks, face switching to human as quickly as the woman’s whole body did. So they can turn it on and off. And not based on the moon either, despite the lore Svetlana knows from various American stories.

“Nope,” Ilya says, popping the P. He’s a dickhead, and Svetlana will love him until the day she dies.

“This might take a minute then. Can we go sit down,” he asks, gesturing towards the fire pit.

While Svetlana isn’t sure how close she wants to get to these people, the people who can switch to claws and fangs with a snap of a finger, she does want to know more. She’s never shied away from being a gossip whore, texts and posts flying through countries and time zones at the speed of light. It's one of the things Sasha loves the most about her. If there are whole entire other species on Earth, she wants to fucking know.

“I’m Scott McCall. This is Malia. And I promise it’s not all so freaky, with monsters in your backyard, if you just let me explain.”

Svetlana can tell it makes Ilya feel immediately more secure that Scott doesn’t know that this isn’t their house. There aren’t roving packs monsters out to get Shane Hollander in his lakeside cottage, this is somehow something else. She doubts the heavy metal lid will ever be out of reach, until they go, but Ilya does take a few steps back to sit on the outdoor couch and wordlessly gesture his permission for them to sit on the chairs not flung.

Once Scott is sitting, Malia, out of every surface she could have chosen, including choosing to continue to stand, sits on the wide wooden armrest. It’s a necessary manspread, to keep her balance, never mind that it’s a position right out of a Playboy. Ilya, with the kind of grace he always shows women -something that really shouldn’t be out of the ordinary, but Svetlana and every other hot club girl knows truly is- plucks up a throw blanket from the back of the couch and tries to pass it to her.

Her raised eyebrows are confused enough that he shakes the object like she just needs to get her motion sensor triggered before she’s committing the right action. “It’s cold?”

It’s not. It’s actually extremely nice out, as nice now as it was thirty minutes ago when the atmosphere drew her out in the first place. Still, Svetlana can appreciate the alternative to pointing out just how much she’s deviating from standard procedure when it comes to public nudity. Hockey players don’t think much of it, on the surface, but locker room nudity comes with a whole host of background protocols to make sure it stays fine. This is a woman just flashing herself from resting bitch face to tits to pussy.

Malia continues to refuse the cover up. “We’re not staying long,” she explains, like a ten minute conversation nude is something most people would be up for, because it’s only ten minutes. “Our boyfriend and girlfriends are at the cottage with Dubois’ human members.”

So werewolves are non-monogamous. Interesting. Svetlana wonders just how many people they’re each with. If it’s the entire pack with the entire pack, like a furred and fanged hippie orgy, or if there are factions, or roles, or hierarchies. It’s already as fascinating as a tv show, just this one piece of information. Truly excellent to be hearing it.

“Werewolves exist. Obviously,” Scott flashes his eyes red before putting up the brown facade. “We exist in packs, which usually aren’t all that different from a basic friend group. Except they’re a little more codependent, and there’s a clear leader.”

“So… a friend group,” Svetlana points out. Her and Ilya and Sasha and Vikk used to be inseparable and they were always following Sasha’s spirit for adventure. Codependency with Ilya and Shane and Rose might be harder, with more personality clashes, not to mention the long distance, but it’s an easy guess that Shane’ll be the leader. He’s so particular that the easiest way to make him comfortable is let him control things.

“Yeah. I guess, yeah. We can change any time, not just on the full moon, but it’s tied to risk and fear and emotion. I’m the Alpha of the McCall pack, but one of my pack is going to college here, so the Dubois Alpha and I are trying to arrange a temporary bond. He’ll need it, if he’s here for two or four more years.”

“And there is werewolf pack den close enough that this is where you night-run,” Ilya asks. Svetlana keeps her wince on the inside, as is befitting a Russian celebrity. Nosy parents in one direction, supernatural beings in another. Shane picked a hell of a place to build his private cottage.

“Yes. The Dubois. Medium sized, fifteen members with some human mates. I’ll get the Dubois to come see you tomorrow. They’re not going to do it now-“

“All these stupid rituals,” Malia groans.

“Every pack does things a little differently,” Scott diplomatically explains. “The Dubois are more formal than ours.”

“Eight thousand fucking rituals a minute. Even Stiles can’t write this shit down fast enough,” Malia grumbles.

“Liam needs support. He's got IED. Uh, intermittent explosive disorder,” Scott tries to explain further, once they clearly don’t know the acronym, except Svetlana doesn’t know what the fuck that is either, and she doubts Ilya does. “College is hard. Stressful. He's going to need a pack to stay regulated. The Dubois are kind enough, no supremacy red flags or omega problems. And they’re in the right area. For Liam, we can put up with introductory rituals.”

Phrased like this, Svetlana can imagine it’s much like team culture. Everyone plays the game. Everyone has the same base rules and population caps. But the dynamics between each team, or pack, can completely differ. Montreal’s full of jerks, Svetlana would rather blow her brains out than suggest anyone play for Toronto, Ilya’s going to desperately miss the aggressive affection of Boston, and hopefully Ottawa won’t suck too hard because it’s now his only choice. She doesn’t even know what Liam looks like, or if he’s one of the boyfriends mentioned, but she hopes his last chance pack works out for him too.

“Ugh. I wanna go home,” Malia whines.

“Soon, baby,” Scott soothes. “This time Monday we’ll be eating my mom’s leftovers.”

This time, Monday, Svetlana will be glued to Twitter, seeing the billion all-caps reactions to Rozanov going to the Centaurs. And she’s somehow sure that Scott, and Malia, and whomever else who is entangled, will be just as worried from a distance for Liam as she will be for Ilya. Fucking weird, how universal extremely differing situations can be.

Chapter 4: the one where there ARE serial killers

Chapter Notes

Hand waving criminal procedure for necessary vibes is kind of Teen Wolf’s whole thing, so this chapter is just copying canon style, lol.

Ilya is very used to fear. There are so many different flavours of it and sometimes it feels like he’s experienced them all. The adrenaline pump of fucking Sasha on the roof of the building his coach lives in, able to hear conversations on the balconies beneath them. The addictive courage of the microseconds before a check, when he knows it’s coming and all he can do is be a man about taking it and plan his retribution. The wailing abyss of finding Mama and being unable to wake her, and how it has permanently compelled him to check the breathing of any hookup he wakes up beside. The dread of losing a game and knowing what he’s about to hear from his family the moment he answers the phone. The horror of his very existence being criminalized while sharing a home with police, and fucking Hollander not thinking that there could possibly be surveillance at the goddamn Olympics.

This one is new, and newly awful. There is a man. Well, even that is unknown, but is it not the truth of the universe that nearly every fucked up thing is done by a man. There is a man, and he either loves hockey or hates it, and either one torments him enough that he’s begun to kill players. Marcus Pullton is dead. Eeli Hämäläinen is dead, three days later, across the country, proving that time and travel are no barriers. And now this agent is at his door. He’s pale, and thin enough to tuck under his arm like a sack of potatoes, but there is a hard steadfastness to his voice when he asks him to sit then explains that number 81 is the likely next target based on evidence found at the crime scene but that they will keep him safe.

Ilya’s heard a lot of rumours about Pullton and Hämäläinen, everything the news is saying and more texting through the East and West at light speed. They were sliced with razors, or trapped outside with wild mutts, or thrown in with ravenous piranhas. No one knows the details, but everyone knows something happened to leave the Wasp and the Admiral shredded and gnawed upon. It is a hell of a thing to stop with a gun, but Agent Stilinski seems confident in a way that comes off as real. Given his career, Ilya’s heard an abundance of ego stroking empty promises. Some even declared by him, it could be said, although he tries to live up to everything that he spouts off. Stilinski seems far more calmly certain.

The plan to save his life beyond all the hotel cable rerun Criminal Minds-esque testing of clues and sending things to the lab and sussing out dark personalities revolves around two people. Situated at Ilya’s fireplace is a thin but muscled Hispanic man, body not built for hockey but something lesser defined. In lockstep is an Asian woman, Japanese if Ilya had to guess. They’re both angled to see out of his patio wall of windows. What was once an atmosphere of freedom and light away from the mouldy curtains and dank despair of Moscow is now more a buffet of him under glass. Who knows where this sick fuck is, and if he’s looking at him right now. Ilya’s spent a life being watched at nearly every moment, on the ice and at the club and by Russia, but this is different.

Even as Ilya sits, overwhelmed with the idea that someone wants him currently, actively dead, rather than the still nauseating but more passive murderous intent of his home country towards people like him, he can’t help but note details. It’s what’s kept him safe and at the top of his game all his life, and he can’t just turn it off. Ilya would have guessed everything would be online these days, but alongside his laptop Stilinski has covered almost the entire twelve seat dining table with paper files and photos. He’s even set up a portable printer. Ilya’s not Hollander, he’s not going to start obsessively reading everything he can, there are some things it’s better not to know, but he’s pretty sure that’s not professional. Not a lot about this seems to be. Stilinski is at least in slacks and a button down, even if the tie is poorly tied. The man, however, is wearing a fucking tank top, something to show off the generic double armband tattoo on his bulging bicep. And the woman is emo, complete with a skirt over black and grey striped leggings and a chunky Hot Topic belt.

“They don’t look like agents,” Ilya comments to Stilinski, jutting his chin. They can hear him, they’re only on the other side of the fireplace, but he doesn’t give a shit. Provocation is an important skill set, and it helps against the selectively mute.

Before either says anything, Stilinski nods. “Between us, where my boss won’t overhear, frankly, they’re better. They’re who I’d trust my life to in an emergency.”

“Really.” The woman looks like Ilya could break her in half.

“Eleven times out of ten, yes,” Stilinski says, tone serious despite the silly confirmation. “And it has come up.”

“Trust you too, babe,” the man calls back. Ilya is a Russian hockey player, one that breaks the ribs and jaws of enemies. The man has absolutely no reason to think he isn’t a homophobic dickhead, someone who’d violently protest gay partners anywhere near his vicinity. He’s just confident enough in his brawling ability to just drop an endearment and not care who he might have to fight. It’s so fucking ballsy that it acts as proof that these guards might be skilled enough to keep him safe.

Except, really, the more Ilya thinks about it, why should they have to be here to prevent him from being the third victim? “Should I, maybe, not be here?”

Rozanovs don’t hide. Ilya has spent twenty five years learning that lesson. Rozanovs face whatever is oncoming, stoic and uncompromising. Except a man wants him dead, and he’s not suicidal. He has been, on occasion, but he is not now. Sveta’s in Boston, the Raiders are doing well, they play Montreal in three weeks, and he hasn’t had a nightmare in eleven days. Things are going too well to just let some psycho walk into his house and kill him.

“That is certainly an option,” Stilinski says. It’s a diplomatic answer. A Hollander, Captain of the Metros talking to a stupid reporter answer.

“But a bad one, apparently,” Ilya replies, cutting through the shit.

“Look. My … informant has near certain proof it’ll be you next. But she’s unorthodox and my bosses only give me a little leeway. This man is obsessed with you, and he will notice if we send you to a safehouse. He’s frenzied enough to try for another player rather than wait, and unfortunately smart enough to not spring a trap. But if he succeeds, gets away with a third victim, he’ll be coming back for you. Only by then Lydia’s goodwill will be used up, the budget for your direct supervision will be gone, and the chances of attack are much greater. If he attacks here, now, we’ll get him. Not a snowball’s chance in hell Scott and Kira won’t obliterate him.”

“So what do I do? While I am, um, worm? Bait,” he swiftly corrects. Never in his life will Ilya go fishing, but stupid Carmichael does, and does not shut up about it. Ilya knows dozens of fishing words now, despite extreme disinterest.

“Honestly? A Lord Of The Rings marathon,” the woman -Kira?- suggests. Out of everything she could have said, Ilya wasn’t expecting that. The half wall would be blocking her face even if she did turn to look at him, but he’s not sure her expression would tell him much anyway. These people aren’t boring, they’re weird. A totally different type of person.

“Why?”

“Waiting can be hard. Sometimes there’s a lot of waiting. If you can, it’s better to distract yourself with movies, the more immersive the better.”

“Who doesn’t like Helm’s Deep?” The man, Scott, adds.

“Ugh. You’ve never been more attractive than you are right now. Stupid serial killers. Ugh. Rain check?” Stilinski pouts. He’s not as cute as Hollander, though he does have a smattering of lovely birth marks. Ilya would put down a car betting that he’s the bottom.

“Look,” Stilinski redirects to Ilya once it becomes clear even Tank Top Scott isn’t unprofessional enough to book a dick date while at a potential crime scene. “They’ll be here to keep you safe. I’ll be here for a while, and I’ll let you know if I have to leave. Just take your laptop to your bedroom and watch something for a while. Probably not a game, you don’t need to be thinking about other players right now.”

When Ilya is in Boston, away from home, advice becomes a different beast. It’s suggestion, easily malleable, not commands that come with punishment should they not be achieved. He sprawls across his bed, shirt staying on like it’ll be enough to prevent him from getting mauled. There’s no need for a portable device when his seventy inch sits prominently in front of the bed, good for watching tape and porn with Sveta. Lord of The Rings has never been his genre, though he has seen them all thanks to Sasha’s crush on Aragon, one of the unsubtle clues that led them to hooking up later. Instead Ocean’s Eleven splashes across his screen, a movie full of competent men looking good and cheating the system. Ilya tries not to think about Pullton and Hämäläinen, about how freaked the rest of the Wasps and Admirals must be, about how freaked Marlow and Donny and the rest of his guys are going to be when he tells them he’s in danger. He can’t stop himself from thinking about Hollander. Montreal is playing Boston in three weeks. If he can’t bring Shane home to fuck the hell out of him for fear of risking his precious Canadian life, Ilya’s going to throw himself off a bridge. Hollander’s spent too many games ignoring his sexts for Ilya to be the one who prevents things now.

The sun is set and Saul is committing acts of biological warfare on the reviewer’s hotel room when a sudden scream shrills through the night. Ilya slaps at the remote until the tv mutes. For almost ten long seconds there’s nothing else, almost enough to lure him into a false calm. That’s when the distinct noise of glass breaking echoes throughout the otherwise silent house. Then thudding, and a snarl that has Ilya’s heart racing. This psycho really was going to sic a dog on him.

He should stay where he is. Lock the door and call the local police for backup. It’s the smartest thing to do. It’s Stilinski and Kira and Scott’s job to handle it, let them handle it. But four on one seems like better odds, and he’s halfway down the hall before he can convince himself otherwise. Rozanovs face whatever is oncoming, and he won’t let other people control his death when so much of his life has been puppeted.

By the time he gets back into the living room where they’re stationed it’s almost over. A white man with a semi-mullet is gnashing his teeth and screaming, and Ilya wants to be screaming because there’s something wrong with his mouth. He has layers and layers of teeth, teeth in the hundreds, and they’re all jagged triangles meant to ravage. His eyes are glowing silver, and they’re wide with fear because Kira is in the middle of cutting his arm off with an intricately forged sword. She has no choice but to be so drastic, because the bear trap mouthed man has claws in what looks like Scott, if you ignore the red eyes and misshapen face and fangs.

As the limb falls to the floor, claws ripping out of Scott’s torso with a disgusting noise Ilya never wants to think about again, a silvery coyote bursts through the wide open windows. Ilya wants to take a swing at it, prays that Stilinski shoots at it because he gets he can’t get involved with all that monster shit but he can take down a natural wild animal, and the last thing this insane scene needs is a wild predator roaming. Except then the beast leaps up and bites down on the razortoothed man’s throat, ripping it out with force as it falls back down to the hardwood.

Regardless of this killer monster’s abilities, most things can’t survive without a throat. The body collapses to the floor in a puddle of his own arm blood, all without Stilinski ever getting off a shot. Apparently he was right about his boyfriend and best friend’s importance. Not that the coyote can be discounted. A coyote that’s actually a woman, Ilya notes with calm as his ability to be incredulous breaks as her body transforms. She’s naked, and would be gorgeous if her mouth and chin wasn’t dripping blood.

Coyotegirl matches her partners. Ilya’s not sure where to start with Scott’s injury, the blood darkened and sticky fabric clinging to his torso, beyond probably put pressure on it, but no one seems very concerned. Not even him. He’s relaxed enough to be back in human face. And then there’s Kira, who’s wandered into the kitchen to grab a cloth to wipe the dripping blood off her sword, like that’s a normal thing to have to do. Ilya can’t help but notice the carved holes in the blade match the chunky belt no longer supporting her blood splattered skirt. He didn’t know that kind of weapon was possible, but the FBI and adjacent probably have the best tech. Even Stilinski crosses the room to have the fucking gall to check for a pulse, like that’s possible with all your arteries torn, and gets blood on his shoe soles.

“Kevin Huttchens was a Wendigo. They tend to act alone, most fail to provide for mates or offspring for long. He was alone, I can tell you that. You’re safe now.”

Stilinski only looks at Ilya for half his reassurance. The other time is spent draping his discarded suit jacket over Coyotegirl’s shoulders. It half hides her nudity from the natural hang of it, though the stripe of skin that runs down the centre of her body could be a seductive nude if it wasn’t for, again, the blood on her lips. But maybe Ilya has different sensibilities, because Stilinski doesn’t seem to give a fuck when he leans in to kiss her.

“Thanks, baby,” Stilinski praises, and whatever Ilya assumed about his sexuality is evidently not true and much more complicated in reality.

“We need to go now,” Scott informs him. Like it’s Ilya who gets to decide what’s happening. Everything this whole day has been utterly out of control.

“We only have so much leeway,” Kira adds. The FBI knowing about this but keeping them on a short leash speaks to all kinds of government conspiracies Ilya doesn’t want to think about. He already has enough to deal with with his own government, he doesn’t need to worry about shadow units.

“People will be by to deal with all this. Your part is done,” Stilinski tells him. Ilya doesn’t know if that means a mundane branch of FBI, the people who usually clean up crime scenes and cart off bodies, or if some grand wizard is about to darken his door to do some grand ritual necessary to keep this kind of creature dead. For all Ilya knows Stilinski was right to check the pulse, that he could come back if they don’t light seven purple candles and make a circle of coins. Either way, he takes the unsubtle hint of ‘go back to your room and don’t talk about this later’. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. It’s not his first deadly secret. Just another thing Marlow and Sebsy don’t need to know about.

Mild threat, mild reassurance aside, Ilya still ends up walking them to the door. Once they’re gone he’s never going to get any more explanation for this, and while that’s probably a good thing, ultimately, he can’t bring himself to miss out on a second of possibility.

He gets it and he doesn’t. Scott doesn’t formally announce that he’s a werewolf. Stilinski doesn’t offer more about why a hunger driven serial killer was after him specifically. No one lets him know just what's out there and how much of it there is. But there’s a Ford Edge in his driveway that wasn’t there before, and a redhead is holding a pair of boxers and a wet wipe out the window, like she just knew they’d be needed. Coyotegirl ignores the additional clothing and uses the wipe to smear her face mostly clean before going in for a kiss. And Scott opens the door for Kira, who magically collapses her sword before climbing in the back seat. They’re obviously all something, except maybe Stilinski.

The agent is the slowest to head towards the SUV. Not a full linger, but enough that Ilya can guess he’s not fully averse to being questioned by someone truly gung-ho. That’s not Ilya, he knows too much already, can’t imagine more details would help him sleep at night, but he would like one basic confirmation.

“Your team’s all monsters?”

“Nah. My lovers are all monsters.” It’s the last thing Stilinski says before briskly walking to the vehicle. Ilya nods to himself. He’s always liked the simplicity of the word. Lover, a person who commits the act of loving. Whatever this tangled thing is, and it must be very tangled with five or more involved, all of different species, they’re people enough to love each other. Good for them.

Chapter 5: the one where Beacon Hills had a hockey team

Chapter Notes

I know Lydia was institutionalized too, but I headcanon her as less comfortable mentioning it, and Stiles would never out a lover’s private information if they weren’t cool with it.

Never in all his years on the Metros has Hayden met a weirder rook. He’s met guys with quirks and game day rituals bordering on bizarre, guys with CTE, guys with legitimate mental illnesses. Hell, his best friend and godparent to one of his children is undiagnosed but very clearly autistic. Yet none of it holds a candle to whatever the fuck is up with Cally.

On paper it’s a good draft pick. Scott McCall, number 52, is quick on his feet, even quicker with his hands, and has the wildest pain tolerance of any goon Hayden knows. He can take any hit like it came from a toddler. He’s third line this year, but Hayden can see him playing second soon, if Coach decides to accentuate his reflexes, not his defense.

In practice, he’s weird. He reads during any workout that allows him to hold a book. It’d be half assing, multi-tasking an insult when he’s getting paid millions to focus, except he’s consistently putting up reps and weights that rival the best of them. If he was better managed he’d be doing a weekly posted book club. But he doesn’t, because apparently Cally doesn’t like to make eye contact. Not declining it with people, that’s a Shane thing and Hayden gets it and supports it, and would have Cally’s back if that’s what it was. But it’s not. It’s only with footage. Every fan photo, every presser, he’s looking away, he’s sleepily half lidded, he’s wearing sunglasses. The social media team want to kill him.

Which brings Hayden to the third thing, the major problem. McCall’s kind of a ho. Not in the locker room, surprisingly. Hayden’s heard guys talk big in there since high school stick, gross shit that makes him despair for his daughters. Not from Cally, you’d never know how much he sleeps around there. But the guy’s gotten talkings to, and lectures, and bench time, and even fines, and he just cannot stop breaking curfew. Shane as Captain and him as Shane’s emotional support human, they’ve tried to explain the situation to the rook. The days you can push it and the days you can’t, what a gossipy Tik Tok or TMZ article can do to your reputation, how persistent conflict with management can lead to trades even if the talent is there. Cally always politely agrees, says he’ll do better and apologises, and then the next away game there are voices coming out of his hotel room.

He’s not a ship in every port kind of guy either. That, Hayden’s seen around the league. That would be somewhat normal, if nothing Hayden would want a part of, or feels like he missed out on. McCall’s whole thing is genuinely more like a harem. There are three women he’s balling and at least one of them is at every game, because they’re young and have lives that allow for that. Lydia’s a short, pale ginger with an acidic tongue that doesn’t hold back how smart she is. Hayden doesn’t know how she can be writing a math thesis, how can there be new math? But it’s not like he’s gonna say she’s lying. Kira’s Japanese, and a stunt woman, her Tik Tok her resume of crazy flips and jumps and sword-work. Malia’s the closest to a traditional puck bunny. She’s hot with caramelized skin and is always in the shortest shorts known to mankind regardless of weather, but she’s weirdly funny. Social’d probably love to do a profile on any one of them, but McCall not being able to choose is a bad look. Plus it drives Jackie crazy to not know who to add to the WAG chat.

They all know about each other, is the thing. For every game that one is alone, there’s another where it’s all three. And they’re not McCall’s only frequent fliers. His best friend -and only Wisniewski can pronounce Mieczysław instead of calling him Stiles- is always there, Hayden’s not sure he’s missed one game. And there’s a quartet of two very gay guys, a blond guy, and a girl also named Hayden who attend when they’re anywhere near California. He’s never met a player with such a entourage. It’s like Cally radiates this energy that certain people are just magnetized to. If he can start doing it with the crowd, in interviews, in commercials, he’s got a long career ahead of him. As long as he can stop pissing off management.

The first game after Shane reveals his alliance with Rozanov is a cold locker room. Drapeau can’t help but point out Shane could do a mental health charity without involving that ratfuck, and it’s a sentiment more than one of the guys shares. They eke out a win, thank god, which puts some of the more easily adjustable guys in a good enough mood to invite Shane out with them, despite the weird betrayal. Shane doesn’t need Hayden to tell him he has to attend. Social deficits or not, he’s always known how to captain.

It’s a good night out. Even an emergency text to Jackie when the locker room seemed ugly couldn’t get them a babysitter for four at last second, so she’s not here to have Shane’s back, but in the end it’s unneeded. A few of the WAGs show up, and the club is lively enough that the single have something to do. Drinks flow, and moods mellow. It’s not a bad cause, after all, and what it sounds like happened to Rozanov does suck. Should Shane be tying his life to a degenerate? Probably not. But even the biggest of shocks can only cause an adrenaline pulse for so long. And McCall was never pissed, not even in the locker room, and he alone brings a whole host of positive influences. Hayden has Jackie, but he has eyes, Lydia is drop dead stunning sitting on Cally’s lap while Malia further down the table plays knuckles with Marchy.

It’s when almost all of the guys have dispersed, only Hayden and Shane and whatever Robby’s girl of the week’s name is near, that Stiles makes his pitch. He twists himself in to face Shane and asks, “have you thought about a debt forgiving service?”

“What?”

“The Irina Foundation. It’s good of you to spend rich folk money on something people don’t like to talk about. It is. And I’m not telling you what to do. You have all of the internet for that. It’s just, I assume you’re going to be funding a crisis line or something, and that’s important, of course. But I was institutionalized for a week when I was seventeen. Malia for almost a month. Mr Tate had her mother’s life insurance, but it almost bankrupted me and my dad. We almost lost the house. I know this is Canada, and the citizens don’t get fucked over in the same way, but yeah. If you’re making it international at all, you should consider a medical debt relief program. It’s hard to focus on getting better and not wanting to kill yourself if you owe some shitty smirking warden fifty grand you have no idea how you’re going to pay.”

Christ, no wonder Cally funds their nomadic lives of leisure. If Hayden had mentally ill friends with constant struggles he would too. Whatever it took to keep them calm and happy.

“Jesus. Yeah. Okay.” Shane reaches out and puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. It’s the equivalent to a bone crushing hug from a neurotypical guy.

A week later it’s the first night of a three game roadie, and Hayden’s genuinely considering breaking in to the pool. It’s a new hotel chain this season, some backroom deal cut, and The Inn sucks. Air conditioning at max and he’s still sweating through his shirt. He doesn’t sleep restfully when he’s overheated. It’s a problem, albeit one that’s nothing new in his life right now, considering Amber and Arthur.

With effort he gets to sleep. That isn’t much consolation when he wakes up an hour later with the sheets sticking to him, hair plastered to his forehead. He’s so fucking tired, and Shane is going to murder him if he lets it affect his performance tomorrow. The best thing he can do is force himself out of bed and down the hall for a bucket of ice. He’s not going to get back to sleep without it.

Shirt horribly pulled on, fabric darkening immediately, boxers tugged to an appropriate length, Hayden tip toes out as quietly as he can. Thank god for air gap doors, he thinks he accomplishes it pretty perfectly. One eye cracked against the buzzing overhead lights reveals the hall to be empty, no slimy reporters or obsessive fans stalking them, so Hayden allows himself to close his eyes again. The sooner he gets washcloth wrapped ice in his armpits the sooner he can go back to beautiful, dark, sleep.

Hayden’s stumbled about halfway down the hall for ice when he bumps into someone. He opens his eyes to blearily apologize to whomever just stepped out of their room and is confused to see nothing. Literally, no one. And yet swinging out a hand to the vague location of where he just bumped, Hayden feels a body, very distinctly. And then, like it’s Harry Potter whipping off an invisibility cloak, Liam and Corey and Mason just appear.

“What the hell? One of you work for DARPA or something?” Not that they could probably tell him if they did. But Hayden could believe it. Cally has bafflingly smart friends. Not just Lydia. It had taken remarkably little prying to learn Stiles was nearly the second educated of the entourage. Not at Santa Cruz, or Davis, or any other Californian college. No, he’d gotten into Quantico. Fuckin’ FBI man, what the hell. Only to drop out the day Cally got drafted, because, and Hayden quotes, Scotty needs stability and if he couldn’t have Beacon Hills he’d at least have his family. All of McCall’s friends are clever. He can imagine one of these three men having a device they weren’t supposed to sneak out of the lab.

“Scott. Scott, I need you,” Liam mutters, nearly a whisper. No shot Cally’s going to hear, even if they were right in front of his room. Except six doors down, the door does open.

“Hayden bumped into Corey,” Mason explains, holding his boyfriend’s hand while he looks like he’s about to pass out, as white as a sheet.

“I’m sorry,” Corey says quietly. The few times Hayden’s met him, he’s always been quiet. Maybe he’s another of McCall’s mentally wounded flock. If he wasn’t covering all his friends and family’s debts, Hayden’s sure he’d be dropping fat stacks into the Irina Foundation.

“It’s okay, I’m not mad,” Scott murmurs. And from the sheer relief in Liam and Corey’s eyes, that’s important to them. “Pikey, can you come in? I’ve got some things I need to explain.”

Hayden shakes his head. He feels bad, momentarily, about the nearly imperceptible wince on McCall’s face, but he’s not going to change his mind. He’s terrible at secrets, and if this is yet another way in which the rookie is weird, Hayden wants back up in dealing with it. “Think I have to get Cap, man.”

“Yeah. I get it, man. Don’t worry about it. We'll be here.” Corey grimaces, but all three men follow Scott back into his room. Meanwhile Hayden has to be the one to wake Shane Hollander up in the middle of the night before a game to tell him Cally’s being fuckin’ weird again.

Cally’s weird. Cally, Scott McCall, is the weirdest motherfucker on the planet, it turns out, and not even fucking human. It’s goddamn crazy, but the proof is the pudding, and by that Hayden means Liam’s claws, Scott’s sudden facial hair and red eyes, the way Corey can just turn goddamn invisible. Not to mention literally all his hookups are something other, apparently. Hayden’s not quite sure what the fuck a kitsune even is, but he’s guessing it has something to do with hefting a fucking sword like you’re getting paid for it.

“So he’s your alpha. And that’s why you all have sex with him.”

“What?” Liam shrieks. “No! Jesus!”

Mason shakes his head. “No, Corey and I are monogamous.”

“So it is just the girls?” Okay, that’s normal. Hayden can handle multiple puck bunnies far better than a supernatural imperative to fuck your leader.

“And Stiles,” Cally adds, calmly insistent on telling the whole truth despite him having an easy route for fudging the details.

Less normal, but given that Hayden was already assuming biologically enforced bisexuality, actual just plain bisexual is fine. It’s been a whole season and no one’s guessed yet, McCall clearly has it under control.

“I’m not ashamed of him,” Scott continues. “I could just literally kill any homophobe, so I decided to not say anything. Better to not put him or me in a situation where I’d need to do something.”

“I get it,” Shane says.

“Yeah?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Shane answers. And it doesn’t sound like he’s just saying he agrees with the urge to break the ribs of some ‘cocksucker’ spouting asshole.

“Shane?” Hayden has to ask. He’s already sweating his ass off, but a different kind of heat breaks out in his chest. How long has Shane known? How long has he felt like he couldn’t tell him? Shit, has he ever called a dirty player a cocksucker? It’s a problem, now, that Hayden can’t remember. He’d remember shouting a racial slur, he knows, because he never would, it’d be so ludicrously out of character, and this whole fucking time there’s been a category he hasn’t even considered.

“Later, Hayden,” Shane waves him off with a small shake of his head. Leave it to Shane Hollander to blow off interpersonal turmoil for what he brings up next; the love of the game. “Cally, is this cheating? I mean, not officially, but-“

Scott shakes his head. “I’ve been tempering my skills since sophomore year when I got bit, keeping it fair. I don’t do more than any of the best would do.”

Hayden scoffs a little at the bragging. McCall’s good, but he wouldn’t call him the best. He’s no generational talent, like Shane, or Jagr, or Orr. But then that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? If he was cheating with his powers, he would be. Third line is restraint, and respect for the game.

“And there’s more of us in the MLH than you think,” Cally adds. “I can’t out anyone without their permission, but someone on the Admirals last night was a werecoyote.”

If Scott Hunter is a werecoyote as well as the only -the first, fuck, between Cally and Shane Hayden’s going to have to recontextualise it as not just a brave outlier, but a first in a line of who knows how many others- gay man in hockey, Hayden’s going to freak out the next time he sees him. What a weird, intense, otherworldly man he’d be. Not an alpha though, not like the secret werewolf of the Metros. Hunter’s a loner, no friends or family, and Cally has more people devoted to him than fingers on his hands.

“We will negotiate privacy versus what the team needs to know about other team’s microadvantages tomorrow,” Shane replies, Captain hat firmly on. “But for now, let’s get some sleep. And make your pack go home. You need sleep too.”

“We were! You bumped into us!” Liam protests. It’s a shallow point, one that Mason barely allows him to make before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him towards the door, Corey following in his wake. Evidently some of them are better at following orders than others. Hayden wonders how Stiles and Lydia and Kira and Malia take orders. The dynamic must be mutual satisfying enough, or they wouldn’t all be friends with benefits.

“I’m not outing anyone, no matter what you say tomorrow,” Cally warns. “I don’t do that.” His tone shifts to more reassuring but still comfortingly vague as he continues, “to anyone. About anything. You’re safe with me, man.”

Shane nods once, tensely. And then they’re leaving too, and Hayden has to say something, doesn’t he? Toes padding against the plush carpet, because of course he’s barefoot, and of course Shane’s fully dressed, in slides, Hayden near quotes Cally. “I’m not saying anything to anyone. You’re safe with me too. You know that, right?”

“Can we leave it? For now? We’re already working with less than eight hours, I don’t want to stay up any longer.”

Hayden believes he’s telling the truth about that. Shane cares more about sleep hygiene than most, to the point of actually calling it sleep hygiene. But he can’t help but think about his spotty memory when it comes to chirps. And then there’s the Boston Lily of it all, and how Shane’s never been safe to tell him about him either. “For now. But I love you, like a brother, like the godfather to my kids, and I want to hear it all, as soon as you’re ready.”

He can wait, if he has to. He can show Shane they’re pack, even if most of the Metros aren’t. He just hopes he doesn’t have to wait too long.

Chapter 6: +1- the one where there’s a play party

Chapter Notes

I couldn’t not have at least a little smut. Sorry, not sorry. Also, I just love all the nuance of Shane and Ilya and their relationships, individual and together, towards fame and visibility.

For as outlandish as it would seem from the outside, not that there’s an outsider that Stiles tells, there’s a rhythm to these things. It’s not just a whirlwind of lust and bad decisions. First comes the contract; the list of rules and expectations, the NDA that every seven figure participant with everything to lose would sue a talker into oblivion for breaking. Stiles isn’t scared, he’s held far larger secrets, but it’s not like he wants to regale Dad or Liam or Derek with the details. Maybe Liam. See if he could make him scream about needing ear bleach. Next is the QR code and address. It’s always a neighbourhood that has parking for dozens, not that it matters. Most Uber in, it’s safer than leaving a custom luxury car in the drive for the license plate to be noticed and reported upon. They’re the only van nearby now, and Stiles is certain they will be for the rest of the night.

There’s a man on the porch who scans their codes, then takes their phones. A second set of men sit inside the foyer to rehash the rules they’ve already agreed to, including eyeing what’s on underneath after the coat check. No thirty dollar Levi’s and Marvel tee at the orgy, after all. That used to cross out the vast majority of Stiles’ clothing, but he’s gotten better now. Classier. Sexier. Whatever label you want to apply. Frankly Stiles has no problem pulling down Kira’s Avenger logo print leggings to eat her out any day of the week, but if strangers are going to tell him there’s a time and place for that, he’ll begrudgingly listen.

Stiles isn’t surprised that once he’s past all the security and in the mansion, over half the partygoers are in a mask. It’s not technically a theme party, though it could hit masquerade, or leather party, or rave, depending on who you examine. Nothing in the party rules says you need to wear identity obscuring gear. In fact, as far as Stiles sees it, a heavily NDAed set up like this is practically the only place you can get away with not trying to conceal yourself. But people who haven’t gambled with their lives hundreds of times have a different sense of risk, and masks are always prevalent at these things.

For as ADHD as he is, Stiles’ attention stays tight for a good ten minutes. First he needs to appreciate the micro mini denim shorts Malia’s wearing by kissing her thoroughly as he grabs her barely covered ass, and she grabs his. She could so easily leave bruises on the meat of his ass, and maybe by the end of the night she will, as long as he’s kind enough to return them, but this is just a taste.

Kira slips into his arms next. She’s stunningly hot too, wearing red fishnet pants and a long sleeved fishnet shirt with no bra and the smallest thong known to mankind. She doesn’t manhandle him the same way Malia does, never has, but there’s still plenty of passion between them.

Scott finishes the trifecta, with Stiles unable to stop himself from clutching at his thick biceps as they make out. Unlike Stiles, who is rocking only low-rise green and orange plaid boxer briefs, Scott has gone full tilt leather. Stiles’ choice of clothing is unique, and might possibly be considered too juvenile for the event, if it wasn’t for how the spandex clings so closely to the long line of his cock. Nights like these are supposed to show how technique is the most sensual thing, every exhibitionist body great at something, but realistically speaking most people think themselves size queens, regardless of if they really are. His dick was his ticket in, as much as Scott’s leather harness was his. Stiles moves his hands from his boyfriend’s arms only to clutch his bare ass. The assless shorts essentially only cover up Scott’s dick and balls, and really, good for him.

But they’re not here to make out with each other. Well, eventually, yes. But play nights are about anticipation building and outlet exploring. They all know it, Lydia most of all, which is why they all know to not touch her or ruin her dark wine lipstick while they all intermingle with the sweetest beginning of foreplay. They all have a few kinks the others aren’t fully invested in and where better to find temporary but enthusiastic consent than here? So they separate. Take time to go find something beautiful and enjoy it, hands off or hands on, before coming back together at ten. It’s earlier than Cinderella, true, but Scott and Kira need to be up by quarter to seven. Fun tonight is less fun when it directly stresses tomorrow.

On his first circuit of what is likely to be a handful before he settles -unlike his pack, he prefers playing voyeur to a dozen scenes rather than immediately negotiating one for himself- Stiles begins with just aclimizing himself to the space. He’s spent too long in strange locations waiting to die, to fight, to be rescued, to not scout entries and exits and chokepoints and places to barricade. He’s not genuinely concerned. None of the typical signs of imminent supernatural disaster are present. Even if something was borderline, the ultrapack is never really far from each other. Stiles the most due to not having heightened senses, but it never feels like he’s alone, lost from his lovers. Still, it has to be done. Blame it on Maslow.

Basic security logged, Stiles’ second pass is dedicated to a general vibe check and a more honed in notation of current scenes in progress. They had to wait until Malia was off shift, and so have arrived maybe an hour in to what promises to be a full night. A lot of rich people are doing a lot of hot things. Lucky him. Lucky them. Funny that while Deaton’s been a vet to the Yakuza, Scott’s skipped right over the dangerous clients to be making professional friendships with kinky actors. Scott knowing Ryder Turner got their foot in the door, and they did well enough at the first party that they’ve been making the invite list ever since. Stiles can’t anticipate RSVPing a no any time soon. It’s too fun, scening with all these people on the same wavelength as him sexually, if not financially.

Stiles recognises about half the celebrities in the room, masks or not. It’s hard to say if the ones he doesn’t are play partners, or just famous in an arena he doesn’t know about. If that guy in a harness is a famous rower, if that petite blonde is a million dollar plastic surgeon, Stiles would never know. Some are obvious though. Wynne Haversham from the news is riding herself insane on a sybian as her cohost grabs her tits. The real estate guy from that reality show is bent over a table getting spanked. And that’s definitely the drummer, bassist, and keyboardist from Murder
Tolerator scrambling all over each other in one of the doorless bedrooms.

Easily the most eye attracting scene is what Stiles finds in front of one of the million tvs scattered around the mansion. In the past the various tvs have always been streaming porn. High quality shit, always, with different gender groupings and kinks per screen. But the anonymous host can be emailed for specific requests at all times. It’s just the kind of service the upper echelons of society expect. Stiles only made contact once, mostly to see what would happen, and they did in fact scrounge up an armed reading pillow for him to use. At just one tv the porn’s been exchanged for a hockey game. The Dukes versus the Comets, specifically. And who’s sitting naked and drool worthily muscled on the couch watching but Ilya Rozanov, the captain of the Boston Raiders.

Parrish would shit his fuckin’ pants. It’s the first thing Stiles thinks. As long as Stiles can remember there’s been hockey playing in the station, but they were a San Fran household, by proximity and entrenched loyalty until Parrish came in with his heart on his sleeve and a signed Cliff Marlow jersey. Now it’s kind of hard to not laugh at the chirping and root for the aggressive play style. And here 81 is, golden curly hair like a fucking cherub as a man in a full leather hood sucks his cock through an unzipped mouth slot.

The longer Stiles stands watching, though, the more he realizes that’s not true. He’s not sucking Rozanov’s cock. He’s barely moving his head at all. It’s far more of a cockwarming situation. It’s hot, no question. The cock-suckler is affectionately into it, based on the hand stroking up and down Rozanov’s thigh. And Rozanov’s into it too, which is hot enough in itself considering how many people Stiles has watched Roz get into fights with. Stiles likes his loves scrappy, and his partners and crushes the same. Still, Stiles can only watch something stagnant for so long before he has to keep moving.

Against the north wall there’s a bar, because of course there is. What kind of multimillion dollar property wouldn’t have one? But sobriety is important here, or at least it’s claimed. Stiles would believe any number of attendees fooled around with some kind of intoxicant before arriving, weed or MDMA or ground up rhino horn, but it’s all off grounds. Instead the bartender is selling basic sex toys. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out it’s some kind of fetishy MLM, but it’s at least a good variety on offer.

His ultrapack doesn’t need to purchase sex toys. It’s a kink night, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if half the participants have brought their own beloved toys. The kink community and the Etsy community have a surprising amount of overlap. He doesn’t know about that woman in a classic D-ringed collar, or the Livingstone son swallowing the wickedly curved dildo of a woman in stilettos, but when he spots Kira she’s channeling her powers through a violet wand he knows for a fact is hers, and is dead. The Latina woman with red streaked hair that’s getting electrified has no clue, but what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her, and Kira’s long since built up enough control to do it without concern.

Lydia, too, Stiles passes enjoying her own equipment, though he doesn’t stay as long as he did with Kira. She’s talented with a whip, but he’s never been into sharp pain like that. At home she uses them with Scott if she scenes with them at all, because he has a high pain tolerance and a willingness to put up with it. Here, she has a man panting, and a few more watching, and he’s not going to interrupt her domspace to give her a paltry thumbs up on something she already knows she’s great at.

Heading back to the first floor, he pauses in the middle of the flight to appreciate the creative positioning of the couple fucking on the stairs. Stiles is no slouch when it comes to human level athleticism, not after a decade fighting unreasonable hunters and even more unreasonable monsters, but what’s before him takes a certain amount of core strength. And the woman must appreciate his appreciation, because her French tipped hand reaches out to cup his erection. Stiles freezes as his eyes flutter, then he falls to a single knee to try to keep his balance on the plush carpeting that runs through the upper floor but terminates at the bottom landing. She works him hard through his boxer briefs, thumb insistant, pressing like he’s a tube of toothpaste, until drops of precome are making a wet spot in the bright fabric.

He could come here. No one would care. The woman would probably be proud of her skill, the man fucking her neutral to turned on about what his partner’s doing. There’s no orgasm denial in their play party negotiation, and Stiles can actually say for certain that Malia and Scott will have found someone to come with by ten. But Stiles is into edging, for multiple reasons, and one of them is the dopamine hit of merely just waiting and being granted something novel. Sure he could get it up again once, maybe twice, but he’s only got so many in him, and there’s a lot to see.

There’s also a lot to check up on. Or, one thing, that Stiles is already trying to not allow himself to hyperfixate on. Because it’s so hot and cool to see, sexy as golden honey poured on a chest at sunset, as warmly awesome as representation always feels, and Stiles can’t tell anyone. Ilya Rozanov is kinky, and bisexual, or at least into women and non-binarys, and Parrish can never, ever know. He cannot tell him, or any of the station, no matter how fantastic as it is, and Stiles already knows just how much he’ll want to. Never mind anyone else, this is a celebrity he cares about. Celebrities, he thinks, makes the rational logic leap to. It’s Ilya Rozanov and a mixed white-Asian man -nb?- with a remarkably thick ass. The kind you earn playing hockey, for example. It’s not exactly subtle. And as Stiles’ mind keeps playing leapfrog, there’s no way this is their first time, or even their thirtieth. Obsessive compulsive, clearly on the spectrum men like Hollander don’t risk it all on one time hookups.

It’s honestly pretty romantic that Rozanov’s core kink is the domesticity of watching a game with his boyfriend while everyone can see and acknowledge their lust for each other. Stiles hasn’t been closeted a day in his life, not even as poly. He can’t imagine how hard it must be in professional sports. As far as Stiles knows there’s not a single out player. Rozanov definitely isn’t out, to anyone, the entire world would know by morning. But he’s brave enough to do this here, his freak accepted by all the other freaks doing their freakish thing. It makes Stiles long for ten pm, the beeping alarm on his Applewatch that’ll bring him and his ultrapack together. He likes this, all of this, but he loves them.

After watching what is for all intents and purposes a masterclass shibari demonstration, the technique of it as compelling as a How It’s Made YouTube spiral, for all that Stiles sometimes has bad bondage flashbacks, he stops by the bar for an orange juice. It’s individual serving, and the lid audibly cracks as he spins it. It’s not one hundred percent safe, even so, some fucker could have a microneedle. But nothing is one hundred percent safe, and Stiles knows if he gets roofied Kira will literally slice them to ribbons, if Lydia doesn’t explode their brain with her scream first.

His trip back up to the second floor finds his couple gone, not even an abandoned pair of panties left on a step to show for it. It’s fine, even though he wouldn’t have minded a first kiss, a second stroke. There are other things to enjoy up here. Except while Stiles can inwardly awww the fact that the metal band has fallen asleep together, the king bed probably providing more space and comfort than a tour bus, it’s not screaming lustful. Somnophilia has its place, just as sudden involuntary spooning does, but that’s the kind of thing that needs to be pre-negotiated.

The next room isn’t disappointing. It’s just icky, utterly skin crawling. Stiles spends exactly one second in room before bolting, because absolutely not. Someone with a sexy leather straightjacket blowing a roleplaying attendant? Absolutely goddamn not. Stiles gets Your Kink Is Not My Kink But Your Kink Is Okay. He gets that there’s edgeplay like consensual non-consent or slaveplay that can be very cathartic for some. But after his days in Eichen House, Brunski a fucking terror, nothing about asylum play could ever be fun to him. And if he lets his heartbeat rise too quickly in a bad way, Scott and Malia will come looking.

Thankfully the third of the six bedrooms on the second floor is full of distracting hot people all waiting for the same thing. Namely, their turn at the woman spread eagle on the bed. There must be almost twenty guys in the room. It’s no porn star record, but it’ll be impressive if she finishes the queue. Stiles doesn’t super want in, not when half the point is the jizz they’re leaving all over her skin, not while he’s not sure he wants to come tonight. He’s really enjoying flitting around seeing just how many hot rich deviants are in LA. But he doesn’t have to jump in, he can just watch. It’s a safe place to catch his breath, let the fear fade back into pleasure, and remind himself he’s not there anymore, because he’s very very here.

On his third return, Rozanov’s hand is pressing firmly down on the invisa-zippered back of the hood, forcing Hollander to blindly deepthroat. Stiles is hit with the claustrophobia of it, and can’t stop himself from blurting, “You have a safe gesture for the hood, right? Like, not just the sex or whatever you do with it?”

It’s invasive but he has to ask. He’s on edge now, the stupid straightjacket priming his anxiety brain for later cascading issues. Waking up post-nogitsune possession with his face smothered in bandages still features as one of the worst moments of his life, which is a high bar considering his mom died of dementia, his dad’s been shot, he’s killed a guy, and seen Scott nearly die a billion times, not to mention his other partners. He needs to know Hollander can get away. Can breathe.

“He is good. We are good,” Rozanov’s deep baritone accent rumbles at him. It’s not much of a serious confirmation, he’s never been exceptionally detailed in interviews and media scrums. But the hand on Hollander’s leather covered skull strokes down to the nape of his neck and back, reflexively, and that’s really enough to sell it for him.

Over the next hour Stiles can’t help himself from repeatedly coming back to Rozanov, and who he truly believes must be Hollander. He’s definitely hyperfixating. Scott and Malia and Kira and Lydia, the only people he’s allowed to talk to, are definitely going to be hearing all about this for weeks, until he gets his next brainworm. The way Hollander’s nonstop sucking at him, he must be in sub heaven. Stiles is the closest to purely submissive in their pack of switches and Lydia’s pure Dom, but his ADHD is frequently a barrier. Scott and Malia are more practiced at working through sensory hell, while things that didn’t bother Stiles yesterday might kill him tomorrow. Rozanov’s probably in dom heaven too, though it’s harder for Stiles to see from that perspective. But they’re both edging each other, and Stiles loves that for them. The flipside to edging allowing the time for new scenes to develop is when a lover drills down, and tries to make him focus on a sensation long enough to drive him mad. Eight times out of ten it doesn’t work, his brain just not built for it. But on occasion it becomes the thing he can hyperfixated on, or his brain is kind enough to allow him to push through. Stiles still vividly remembers the time he managed to keep his mouth on Kira for her whole video game session. It’s so fucking rewarding, to actually make it to subspace.

Once Stiles goes by and Hollander is riding Rozanov’s cock. Either one of them taps out early, or he popped Viagra before the orgy like probably half the crowd has, because the next time it’s back to him using his cock like a pacifier. From the side, this time, Hollander on his belly on the couch, probably leaking on the faux leather as much as Stiles is dribbling into his microboxers. It gives Stiles the vantage point to see the strap of studded black leather around the top of his sac, and Stiles has been up one side of this part of the Internet and down the other, enough to know just how delicious and orgasm staving ball separating will be for the hockey player. Fucking wow. Fucking guh.

As the time ticks nearer to ten pm, a couple crosses the room to him. If Stiles had to guess he’d say family influencers looking for a night on the town. She’s got that perfect soft curl hair that says autumn coffee and sepia toned furniture and a whole SUV of pumpkins so when the kids fuck up the first staged carving they can run it again and again. And his demeanour is just on the cusp of too masculine to be an affectionate father. But it’s all speculation, unless he says the very uncool words ‘where do I know you from?’, and they’re hot in silk boxers and lacy lavender lingerie, and they’re clearly attracted to him. Being an eight point five around four tens isn’t too much of a burden, especially because his ultrapack loves him. But there is something about being sought out that does wonders for the self-esteem and libedo.

It becomes quickly obvious they’re into cuck-play, something he probably should have figured out the second hets thinking themselves kinky approached. It’s not remotely Stiles’ thing. In fact it’s essentially the opposite of Stiles’ enthusiastic polyamory. But it doesn’t need to be real in a scene, and they are hot when they ask if Kristy can make out with him while Austin holds his arms behind his back. She’s a good kisser, if nowhere near what the minutes are counting down to. She’s risque enough to let her hands roam his chest, curl into the edges of his armpits and up the curve of where his arms are straining backwards. The sharp edges of her lilac manicure tell Stiles there’s absolutely no assplay in their house, but that doesn’t matter when they’ve only negotiated for kissing and bondage.

They do try to renegotiate. Austin wants to hold his wrists behind his back as he goes down on Kristy. Another day Stiles would probably say yes, he has the self control to adhere to his no orgasms rule even when his face is buried nose deep in pussy. But it’s 9:55. He wishes them the best, and they rise off the floor and leave as a couple just a little exasperated with him, but he doesn’t give a shit. Why would he? He’s following the house rules better than they are, and he has people coming to him worth more than the whole mansion of people put together.

Malia returns to him first. Her bra and scant inches of denim are gone, vanished, and while Stiles is sure an event this coordinated has a Lost and Found somewhere, he can’t bring himself to care. Not when she squats to kiss him, smelling so tantalizingly sweaty and aroused, then rises to head to the sex toy bartop. There are brutal paddle marks across her ass and thighs, fading with each step. She’s probably been getting rounds all over the mansion since they arrived, supernatural healing letting her go far past what most could handle.

Malia gets a water and chugs half of it in one long swallow. Stiles is a little surprised that she doesn’t splash the rest of it on her face and sweaty chest. It’s a very Malia thing to do, and it’s not like she’s wearing statement makeup like Kira and Lydia. But she’s kind enough to recap it and toss the bottle at him, and he inwardly claps for himself as he actually manages to catch it. He doesn’t need more than a sip, which is good because the moment she’s back she’s throwing herself down between his v’d legs. Her intense paddling might be fading by the second, but it’s still there enough to make her shudder with arousal as her ass hits the hardwood.

This is not the way a standard couple snuggles, he knows. Naked in front of a crowd of strangers, her ass rubbing against his cock as he tucks an arm into the alcove below her gorgeous breasts. Stiles wouldn’t have it any other way. Malia’s happy, and turned on, and Stiles fucking pities anyone who doesn’t understand compersion. He rests his chin on her shoulder and drops a hand to her pussy. She’s so wet as he slips a finger in. Fuck he wants the rest of his pack to be here already.

“Just to help you wait for the others,” he whispers in her ear. It’s probably a shout to her raging heightened senses. She can probably smell her own wetness sliding down her cunt to pool on the floor.

Thank the heavens above, it’s not a long wait. The Cinderella rule is a hard limit for all of them, give or take a minute to extricate oneself. Lydia might have to actually look for them, seeing as there’s no death on the horizon to cue her powers, but Kira and Scott will be able to sense them.

And Scott it is. He staggers up in the weak kneed way he has when freshly fucked or wearing a plug. Stiles might want to fish for details of whom he’s played with, except Lydia is right beside him and it doesn’t take a genius to know she’s fingering him as they walk.

“Found him, our pretty girl,” Lydia announces. It’s unnecessary as a declaration, they all have eyes, but it’s nice as a flirt. Scott’s never struggled with gender expression, confident in his masculinity, but the one time compliment in junior year really made his soul soar and they’ve all used it on occasion since.

“Got everything you wanted for your big breakfast bowl?” Stiles asks, looking up at his boyfriend moon-eyed. It’s an inside joke, from the time Mason and Liam walked in on them fucking in the Martin kitchen.

“Got the cereal. Now I want the Lucky Charms,” Scott flirts back as Kira walks into view, the red mesh of her top ripped in a way that’s going to tell a story, later.

Stiles couldn’t agree more. Cereal is a vehicle for breakfast marshmallows. Sex with others is a stepping stone to sex with his beloveds.

Scott kneels abruptly, gasping as Lydia’s fingers tug out of him. She refrains from following him down simply because she wants to give him room to place himself, not because she has any intention of not fucking him, Stiles knows. What Lydia wants, she gets. But bless her for momentarily holding back, because what Scott does with his newfound freedom on his knees is to hoist Malia into a near handstand. It’s not the first time he’s done so, and it’ll be decades before it’s the last. Stiles loves how Scott eats people out like he’s a wrestler piledriving his paramour. It’s a little rough on a human neck, but worth it for him and Lydia, and Malia and Kira can take it like it’s nothing.

They arrange themselves around the already moaning duo, then. Well, Stiles doesn’t move, not really. Malia’s head is still between his legs, but much further down now, around his knees. He could lay on the floor and fuck her face, or even just let her suck his fingers, but not moving means that Kira can dart in and sit on Malia’s mouth. She spreads wide, choosing to rest her knees on the outsides of Stiles’ legs, not the more reasonable choice of in between his legs and Malia’s head. Stiles rewards her decision with leaning in to kiss her shoulderblades. To no one’s shock, Lydia kneels behind Scott and resumes playing with his hole in the way that makes him groan into Malia’s pussy, overcome.

Stiles is unsure if he’s going to come untouched tonight. It’s very fucking possible, especially when he hears the choked noise of his best friend beginning to get fucked by the handle of Lydia’s whip. It’s equally possible Kira is going to reach behind her at some point and give him a messy handjob, or that Scott will let him go for seconds, or that Malia will want to be filled after she comes for the first time. There’s an infinite number of possibilities, and Stiles is too busy shoving his thin fingers into the rip of Kira’s sex befouled shirt -he’s really gonna need that story later- to notice that they’ve gained an audience.

“You say wow. Now is our turn to say wow.”

Rozanov’s deep voice is like a siren going off, meant to garner attention from even the most distracted. Stiles makes to look over, already verklempt from Ilya menace on the ice, menace in the sheets, man-slut Rozanov being intrigued by the bisexual configuration they’ve made, and is basically punched in the throat. Rozanov is still unselfconsciously nude, knowing every cent of what he’s worth. And Probably-Hollander is still in the reputation saving leather hood. Stiles is glad he panicked at Rozanov, because now the zipper is fully done up, and if he didn’t know Hollander was safe he might be freaking out. He’s still hard and trapped in the ball separator too. But there is a fucking silver chain running from a grommet Stiles didn’t notice before to Rozanov’s hand. He’s on a fucking leash. Rozanov was probably tugging the whole time Hollander was cockwarming him, reminding him of who he belonged to. And more than that, he’s holding the leather tag at the end of the leash with his left hand, the chain swooping wide between their bodies, because they're holding each other’s nearer hands. It’s sweet, a gesture those two definitely don’t get to do anywhere else.

“Yeah. Thanks. Sometimes you gotta love your partners the way they deserve to be loved, you know?”

“Da. Yes.” Rozanov agrees, and it truly has to be a trick of the light that his eyes look watery, because if Stiles allows himself to process that Rozanov loves his boyfriend that much he might simply perish.

“Have good night, yes?” Rozanov prompts, a kind farewell for someone he didn’t have to approach in the first place. And despite him being unable to see, have any idea whom he’s talking to besides someone his boyfriend steered him to, the hooded man gives him a head nod. Stiles recognizes the firmness of the gesture from the Captain of the Metros rallying his team, and nothing on this planet will ever be able to convince him this isn’t him.

They walk away then, because of course they do. Rozanov’s not sharing, and Stiles already very much literally has his hands full. How in the Christ Stiles is supposed to ever go back to an Insta following parasocial relationship with this hockey god who approves of his sex life, he doesn’t know. It’ll be a torment, he knows. But Stiles will get through it, with the power of endless ranting to lovers who always listen. That’s all anyone needs, really.