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Full Moon Fever

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Billy was dripping; dripping with sweat, dripping with rage, dripping with blood. He was trickling it all down his fingertips and the button bridge of his nose to drop in fat drips to the grass underfoot. Stumbling through the forest aimlessly, searching for nothing but a hiding spot to lick his wounds. To tuck his tail between his legs and whimper like the dog he is.

Like the dog his father makes him feel.

The full moon is out this night and it makes Billy want to howl, instead he grinds his teeth and pushes forward.

The forests of Hawkins are quiet, always so fucking quiet, so much different from the way California sang with noise all hours of the night. Clubs blasting music, people screaming outside on the sidewalk, police sirens starting up and flicking off just as fast. Billy missed the noise. The hiding place it created. Now he had only an empty forest.

Until it wasn’t empty. Billy’s head swung around with the sound of bones cracking. He knew that noise, as much as he shouldn’t admit it. But he knew it.

Like a hound to fox blood, he follows his nose to the noise. Sniffs through the rotten underbrush of fallen Indiana leaves to find it. He stumbles out into a small clearing, if he can even call it that. Just a shallow hill covered with leaves and dirt and maybe ten feet between the trees on the other side.

Right in the middle, lit with the bluish glow of the moon, and framed with the movement of a baseball bat swinging in one of his hands, Steve Harrington stands.

He spins the bat again. A strand of something comes off of it in an arch, a wave similar to blood, but dripping clear and slimy like mucus. Billy has his mouth open watching it, Steve had his mouth open as well. They both watched, they both waited.

Billy turned his lip up in a growl. “Harrington,” he rasped. Not sure what he was saying, why he was, just wanted to get his claws sharpened on bones. Someone’s bones. His father’s bones. Steve’s bones.

All year long Billy has been barking up Steve’s tree. In the school hallways, shirtless at basketball practice, in the parking lot of the Palace Arcade. Billy was there, flashing his teeth with something to prove. Steve always blew him off, shoved as if he was bored. A child pushing a toy away he had become disinterested in.

But Billy could feel. He could taste the blood in the air of the full moon. Steve wasn’t disinterested. He was ripping, and cracking, and running around the woods in the middle of the night just like Billy was.
Billy knew he was different Steve Harrington wasn’t like the others, he held a secret, and the strength to maintain that secret. He wasn’t as disinterested as he let on. Billy’s wolf bristled.

“Hargrove,” Steve said back. Swallowed around his last name. Slipping his bat to hang slightly behind his body as if to hide it.

“What are you doing out here so late, Pretty boy? Ain’t exactly a safe meadow for a Bambi like you to be prancing through-,”

“God, why can’t you ever talk normal, not like a jerk all the time?” Steve takes his bat and hauls it over his shoulder, swings it hard and mean into the tree in front of him. There’s nails sticking out of all sides. Lets the force of the hit hold onto the bark, lets it so that Steve can release the handle and the bat remains stuck there.

Billy’s watching, impressed, as more mucus drips down over the nails.

“What are you doing here, Hargrove?” Steve asks point blank. He’s got a scrape on his chin.
Billy’s got a gash on his eyebrow that’s curling blood over his cheek and down his face, dropping off his chin drip by drip. He shrugs, glances around like he can’t be bothered.

“These woods aren’t safe,” Steve says, “you shouldn’t be walking alone,” and for the first time Billy noticed how his chest is heaving with the effort. How his hands are shaky. How there’s a red blush creeping over his high cheek bones that isn’t simply from the stuffy Indiana forest.

“I was running away from home before I got so rudely interrupted,” Billy says with an air of blasé, taking a step forward into the clearing, out from the darkness of the trees, pointing towards his eyebrow.

Steve’s wide brown eyes get even wider, he takes a step forward towards Billy. Reaching up with one hand to hover over the cut.

Fingertips press softly to flayed skin, as if asking permission, as if their touch alone could heal the pain. “Holy shit,” Steve whispers. Like he’s never seen a cut before. And Billy has to struggle to keep his eyes open.

“These woods ain’t safe, huh?” Billy says as he lifts one hand and curls it over Steve’s wrist. The bones feel thin in his fat fingers. He squeezes just to feel them shift.

“Ain’t safe from what, Harrington?” He asks in a mean voice.

Steve stays quiet, so he shoves the other boy hard. Walks him with another shove and then another until Steve presses up against a tree. His body rolling against the bark, his head laying to rest against it. Tilting his chin up, making his wild hair bounce, reveling his neck naked and bare under Billy’s jaws.

Their heavy breathing is in sync. Billy’s thinking about basket ball; about the way he shoves and pushes Steve around just to touch him. About the way it’s been months of bruises caused by pulling pigtails and Steve’s never said ‘stop’. Never in so many words.

If he would only say ‘stop’, Billy would. He isn’t a monster. He’s just a wolf, a flea bitten dog, sniffing and howling and watering at the mouth for the chase. For the chase.

Steve’s breathing heavy enough to make the veins in his slender neck protrude. His Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Billy watches the motion. Licks his lips.

“Ain’t safe, from what?” He asks again.

Steve breaths out and it’s a cloud of smoke into the night. “Billy,” he answers, “you talk too much.”

The full moon crescendos in Billy’s eyes, blocking their color out to only white, as he rushes forward to bite his teeth into Steve’s exposed neck.

He doesn’t bite to break skin, just sinks his teeth enough he knows he’s painting the pale skin purple. Marking watercolors that spiral and bleed into dark rain clouds of tones. All caused by Billy, all marking Steve as his.

“Billy,” Steve whimpers out. The motion makes his neck flex in Billy’s mouth. His hands lift up to cradle against the wild curls on the back of Billy’s head. Hold there softly, gently, like they’re kissing.

“Billy,” he chants.

“Billy,” he begs.

Flesh leaves his mouth in a hard squelching pop, already turning all the colors he wished it would. Billy wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, pulls him flush to his body and nuzzles his nose into the space of his neck and shoulder. He scents him, rubbing into Steve as much as he can. The blood on his brow and face only a passing thought as he rubs across Steve’s skin. Rubs until he changes the scent to something closer to his own.

“Gonna mark this pretty skin,” Billy hears himself growling from a distance, not his own body right there. But somewhere behind his wolf. “Gonna lay claim, mine,” he laps up Steve’s neck. His collar bones. Can taste his sweat and Billy’s own blood on his pale skin. Can taste something stranger than anything he’s tasted before and he licks at that hard, gets Steve clean of it.


Gets Steve whimpering for him, weak in his knees and shivering limp against the tree. Billy’s arms the only thing holding him up.

Then they aren’t, Billy pulls Steve away from the tree just to turn him in the cage of his arms and push Steve down to kneel in the dirt. The grass leaving marks on his tight jeans. Leaves getting pushed away in a wild scramble for purchase on the filthy ground. Steve finds the base of the tree and braces against it, digging his human fingers into the roughness feverishly.

Whimpering the whole time.

“Billy,” he groans out, arching his back and letting his head drop between his shoulders.

Billy slides his fat fingers down the ladder of Steve’s ribs. Feels them protrude and flex under his shirt with every hard breath. Billy wants to let his claws rip from his skin and drag the flesh from bone, carve his name into Steve’s ribs.

He hikes up Steve’s ugly polo shirt and kisses along the bumps of his spine one by one. Messy, open, wet, all the way down to the leather of his belt.

“Wha- what, ahh, happened to your face?” Steve works the words out hard as Billy licks around the small of his back.

“Why ya wanna know?” Billy talks so his chin hits Steve’s skin.

Steve struggles to turn over his shoulder, meets Billy’s eyes. The wolf in them taking all the blue and leaving only a ghostly white. Steve’s breath hitches. He smells afraid, but he doesn’t let it show much. “Tell me,” he orders.

And he’s not the one to be making demands, bent over in front of a wolf on a full moon, his scent sticky with the honeyed sweetness of lust Billy won’t be able to get off his fur long into next month. But he does, he keeps his eyes on Billy. Inside his head, Billy’s mind screams useless words like ‘mate’ and ‘love’, he shoved them down. Growls long and low.

“My father,” Billy mutters angerly into the wet skin of Steve’s hips. Answers against his better judgement.

Steve whimpers again, breaks their eye contact to pathetically face the ground. As if he has something to be ashamed of, something to apologize for. The words ‘I’m sorry’ rumble in the night, but before he has a chance to say them Billy’s interrupting him.

“You tell me something, now,” Billy growls. Each word hard with his wolf growing stronger each second. “Tell me this is something you want, tell me you want this,” he demands.

“Billy,” Steve begs, his hips tremble. He rocks his hips, arching his back and pushing his shapely ass back into Billy’s hardening cock. Tries to show without saying, but that’s all they’ve been doing. Showing and not telling.

Billy needs to know. He needs the words.

“Tell me you want me?” Billy begs, flexing his hands into the plump flesh of Steve’s hips. Wishing he would flex his claws.

“I want you,” Steve admits in a curling groan. His voice wavering music box pretty. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Billy. I feel like I’ve gone crazy with it.” His voice sharp besides the lust apparent on it.

“Take responsibility,” Steve demands.

Inside his mind Billy lets his head tilt back and howl, his throat ripping with the sound. In the forest he buries all that into another kiss on Steve’s back. Sucking the skin into his mouth and biting down to leave a mark. Just as he promised.

Billy wraps his hands round to work on the buckle of Steve’s jeans. The metal jingles as it moves, rings out lovely alongside Steve’s moans. Running the zipper down it’s track, and pushing the denim and cotton briefs to slip down to where Steve’s knees are bent in the grass, Billy moans out himself as he finally gets his fingers on those milky thighs.

He trails his hands up, up, those long legs flushed rose blush. Feeling their hair soft under his rough hands. Billy pushes them so Steve’s thighs are together.

“Not tonight,” Billy mutters to himself as he works his cock out his own jeans, “not yet, only this for the night,” he’s warning. Spitting and licking his hand until it’s glistening then wrapping his hand around his shaft. Pumping his cock until it gets cherry red at the tip, biting his lip to keep from calling out.

Any questions swimming in those big brown eyes watching over his shoulder nervously get stopped short as Billy pushed his dripping wet cock between Steve’s thighs. Those strong fingers were back on his hips, almost ripping the skin as they shuffled about for a grasp. His fingers seem to shift and grow as they found purchase, fingernails elongating to leave half crescent moons on Steve’s skin. Leaving marks where ever his wolf could reach.

Billy started moving, letting his body roll with one long and low groan, before dipping his head forward to lean on Steve’s sweaty back.

He thrusted steady, slow, mean at first. Pulling back out so only his mushroom head was nestled between Steve’s thighs. Then pushing back in with a stab. Velvet skin rubbing raw from only spit as lube, but the friction was too good. The heat and the pressure of Steve’s thighs strong from running up and down the court. The same thighs Billy stood between while Steve was splayed out on his back, panting as heavy as he is now, and looking up at him with those doe eyes.

Innocent then, now, Steve’s catching his breath. Moaning just as feral as Billy’s own. Bracing his body as Billy’s thrusts jerk into it with a shoulder against the tree trunk. One hand a fist around his own long cock fully hard and curling over his stomach, dripping wet with pre cum. The other hand going down, down, between his legs to press his sweaty palm to his thighs. Cupping the head of Billy’s dick each time it pushed through again. Petting it. Possessing it. Making Billy preen under the attention.

“Faster,” Steve gasped out. Sounded like he surprised even himself. “Faster, Billy. Fuck me?” And his voice turned up at the end like a question, his voice getting high pitched, as he buries his head against the rough tree in desperation.

“Steve,” Billy nuzzles his nose into the back of Steve’s neck, stretched taught and begging for it. He licks across the skin as he speaks. “It’s not safe out here- ah,” he breaks off with a hard thrust. His rythum starting to go. His release getting close.

Steve’s hand is quick over his own cock. It makes him thrust, and pant, and work to fuck himself into the tightness. His other hand, the one caressing the tip of Billy’s slick dick, is starting to pool with precum. The white dripping between Steve’s fingers. Smearing across the press of his thighs and making the scene messy, so messy, it felt so good.

“Not safe for you to be alone, can’t- ah, ah,… can’t have anything happen to-,” Billy’s words broke off with another moan, own that split at the seams into a growl. He wanted to talk. To lay down orders and demands, wanted to mark Steve and claim Steve. Mate Steve.

He burrows his head into that mess of brown hair and wildly shouts. Feels himself cum a writhing mess between Steve’s thighs. Ribbons shooting out across those gentle fingers. Whimpering like an injured dog into his soft hair.

Steve preens, his back arching under the heavy weight of Billy above him. He cums into his fist, pumping every drop out. His thighs shiver with the motions, squeezeing Billy’s soft cock even tighter between them. His hand wet with Billy’s cum braces against the tree. Holding them up as they laze.

The moment ages on, the moon curving across the sky. Light trickling between branches of the trees and across Steve’s pale skin.

Billy’s breath catches as he is shaken from his musing, shaken from watching how lovely Steve’s skin looks, by the boy brushing against him. A small tap of knuckles across his cheek.

Billy looks up, his eyes foggy and half open, sees Steve looking back. They pull apart just enough for Steve to wiggle his jeans back up. Cum trapped in the tight denim, fingerprints of white staining the fabric forever. That left a special possessive feeling in Billy’s chest. Made him smile as he watches Steve collect himself.

His eyes must still be white, Billy muses, it’s the wolf in him trying to pierce through while he’s weak under the moon. He’s used to it, able to hold off the transformation for now, but the appearance must make Steve uncomfortable.

Billy groans, rocks back on his ass to get comfortable as he can on the dirt of the forest floor, and turns to Steve to explain.

But Steve is watching him wide eyed. Those huge brown eyes perfectly round and sparkling as they examine not his face or his spent cock, but the top of Billy’s head.

Billy’s hands move slowly upwards, past his unruly curls to feel. He’s got a dread in his mind at what he mind find. It’s not any less embarrassing when his fingers finally meet and curl around one of his fluffy ears.

Mid transformation, the eyes are not unnormal. The sex craze, the drool, these are not unnormal. Dishwater blond hair sprouting down his arms, over the back of his hands, and across his forehead is not unnormal. Billy winces as he remembers that his ears shifting first, is very not unnormal.
He growls low in his throat, an animalistic sound of annoyance. His teeth now pointed at the canines poke his lips.

Billy wants to turn with his tail between his legs. He blinks, afraid at what he might find, before looking back at Steve.

“Wow. Holy shit,” Steve laughs, and it comes out a little giggle.

Billy knots his thick brows together in confusion, watching dumbly as Steve’s face parts into an adorable smile. “What’s so funny, Harrington?” he mumbles around his large teeth.

“Holy shit,” Steve repeats. “You-,” he cuts himself off with another laugh. Lifting his hands as if his words won’t do him justice and he just has to touch.

Billy flinches away, unused to anyone reaching for him being a good thing. He turns his head and shoulders as if he could burst into a run. But he’s caught by Steve’s hands. Those thin, pretty, gentle fingers, tugging at the top of his ears. They pet his fur back, stroking across the backs of them and then swirling his thumb into the thick patch of hair that covers where they’ve grown from his head. The very sensitive patch of hair, Billy has to fight back a whimper.

Steve’s petting him, a smile on his face. His hand are so warm. Billy feels embarrassed, mortified, as he leans into the touch.

“You’re like the wolfman?” Steve asks, his voice low and jingling with humor.

Billy scoffs at him, “nah, I’m a werewolf!” he snaps.

“So that’s a yes, huh?” Steve flicks his eyes up and down from Billy’s ears twitching with annoyance to his face blushing cherry red.

“Fuck off, Harrington!” Billy growls, bares his teeth to shine bloodthirsty in the moonlight. “I could rip your throat out right now!”

Steve just laughs, runs his hands down through Billy’s wild curls made longer with the transformation and down to his shoulders. He braces himself as he climbs up Billy’s crossed legs. One of his knees on either side, planting his ass square on Billy’s lap.

It makes him shutter, makes him feel like running again, the feeling of Steve’s body curling up with his own. There’s a feral need in him that proves stronger. Billy braces Steve by the waist, wrapping his arms around him to steady him. To hold him close.

Steve leans down to kiss across the exposed sharpness of Billy’s teeth. All his long white fangs lined up ready to bite. Steve kisses them as if he was kissing gently into Billy’s lips.

“You don’t- you aren’t,” he stops growling, relaxing instantly. Billy sounds winded as he speaks. He feels exhausted, worn out from running. “You aren’t afraid?”

Steve brushes one finger across the fur growing on Billy’s cheeks, up around the socket of his eye and across his forehead, then sinks his fingers back into the fur of his ears. His fluffy, perky, wolf ears that just melt under the attention.

“You haven’t scared me off yet, Billy Hargrove. What makes you think you can now?”