#every knuckles stage has a rap btw... if you even care

[microwave-core]

I wish that music players on blogs still worked. If they did, I would put this on loop.

[himbowelsh]

For the spooky prompts, can I suggest ‘I...I think I have fangs’ for webgott and/or baberoe? Love your writing btw!

spooky scary skeleprompts (ACEPTING)

He doesn’t want to answer the phone — half because it’s two in the freaking morning, and half because it’s Webster calling.

He can’t imagine any particular reason why anyone would be calling him at this hour, but knowing Webster it’s probably something ridiculous. Webster has a penchant for being dramatic, especially at times most inconvenient to everyone else. He doesn’t seem to care, but if Joe had his way, he’d grab him by those broad shoulders and shake him until he rattled back down to earth.

Calling him at two AM is crossing a new line for Webster, but it’s standard fare in terms of ridiculousness.

He answers the phone anyway, (because it could be an emergency, even if it probably isn’t) but he sure isn’t happy about it.

He doesn’t waste time with greetings. Pleasantries are for people who’ve gotten more than three hours sleep. “What the fuck do you want, Web?”

His tone might be bored-verging-on-pissed-off, but when Webster speaks, something in Joe freezes up. He can’t explain the instinctual certainty that something isn’t right. The only possible cause he could come up with is the panic saturated into every syllable out of Webster’s mouth, dripping from his mouth like a leaky faucet. Webster, who is usually cool, or at least has too much pride to show his fear, sounds downright terrified.

“Joe,” he gasps into the line. His voice is strained, like a coil drawn tight, and he’s breathing like he’s run a marathon. “Joe, I need — you gotta help me.”

As soon as Joe hears that, he knows something is very wrong.

He’s sitting up in bed before he knows it. His free hand is already fumbling for the lamp on his bedside table. He finds himself internally mapping out the location of items in his room, from the pair of jeans shucked onto the back of his desk chair to the sneakers lying on the floor. Rushing could get him out of here in two minutes, probably.

“What is it?” he demands. When a few seconds pass, he grinds his teeth. “Talk to me, Web.”

“I don’t know,” Webster says. He sounds strained, like an injured animal. It twists Joe’s stomach. “I just woke up. Something’s so — so wrong. I can’t explain it, it sounds crazy, it is —“

He’s got one leg in his jeans. “Web, shut the hell up and tell me!”

Webster falls silent just long enough to take a deep breath, which he exhales into the phone a second later. When he speaks again, he seems to have regained some semblance of control, but panic still laces his words. “I… I think I have fangs.”

Joe goes still. He blinks in bewilderment, half tucked into his jeans, wincing in the too-bright light of his room. The sensible part of his mind is screaming that this has to be a prank. Webster called him up this late just to fuck with him. That’s the only explanation, because the simple fact is humans cannot have fangs. That’s impossible. Joe has seen Webster’s (stupid, perfect) teeth enough to know that they’re normal. Since people can’t just grow fangs overnight, that makes what he’s saying impossible.

This is what logic tell him; however, he knows Webster better than that. No matter what doesn’t make sense, Webster would never prank him like this. It’s below him; and he could never get that edge of undiluted panic into his voice. He’s not that fantastic of an actor.

His mind tells him this is impossible, but Joe’s gut instinct tells him that Webster is telling the truth.

He’s still rambling, of course. He’s Webster, he doesn’t know how to stop talking. Joe just wishes he would, in order to cut off the distracted, disjointed babble on the other end of the line. “Joe, I don’t know — I don’t know. I need help, okay, I need — I need someone to come here and tell me I’m not crazy. I need someone. Can you…”

Joe cuts him off. “Yeah, sure Web,” he says, not taking the chance to hesitate. “I’m on my way.”

He slips into his sneakers and makes his way out the door, not sure who’s more insane at the moment — Web for calling, or himself for not hesitating to go to him.

By the time Joe reaches Webster’s house, it’s nearly three in the morning. There is a chill in the air, the type you only find in California in the middle of the night. It makes Joe’s flesh prickle, minute shivers coursing through him as he pulls his jacket tighter around his shoulders. His knuckles make hollow thuds against Webster’s door. He waits for a few seconds, shuffles his feet, then rings the decrepit doorbell he knows doesn’t work for good measure.

“Web,” he hisses, rapping on the door again. “It’s me, open up!”

For a second, there is nothing.

Then, the door opens to reveal Webster.

Webster, ashy pale and trembling, knuckles tight around the door frame. Webster, shrunk into himself like he’s desperately trying to hide. Webster, who looks at Joe like he’s seeing a ghost.

“You’re here,” he exhales, and his voice pitches when he murmurs, “Joe —“

“What’s happening?” Joe demands, not wasting another second. He pushes his way into Webster’s house and shuts the door behind him. Without the streetlights sun glow, they are immediately immersed in darkness. Webster shrinks back into the shadows as Joe rounds on him.

“Web,” he says, and moves forward. One hand comes to a rest on Webster’s shoulder, and Webster lets out a whimper like a wounded animal. Joe’s alarm spikes. He tries cupping Webster’s face, concerned he might have a fever, but Webster twists out of his grasp before he gets the chance to feel much. All Joe concludes about Webster’s bare skin is that he’s not burning up; rather, he feels cold, and clammy.

Webster twists out of his grasp and stands before him. Silhouetted against the window, Joe can see how his chest heaves. His shoulders are tense, arms motionless. Joe can’t see his face in the dim light, but he swears he can spot his eyes gleaming.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” is the first thing Webster says. Joe’s heart sinks.

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” he rasps. A whimper follows his words, and his shoulders tremble with a great heaving breath. He takes a step closer. “Please… please, I’m just so hungry…”

“We’ll make you something to eat,” Joe suggests, swallowing past the lump of panic forming in his throat. (Panic? It’s Webster. He knows Webster. Why does he feel afraid?) “Then we can sit down and figure out what the hell’s going on here, and we can make it better. We’re gonna make it better, Web.”

He takes a step backwards as Webster keeps advancing. His thighs hit the back of the couch. He can’t retreat any further.

Webster shakes his head, slow and deliberate. “I can’t,” he murmurs. Then, voice breaking, he gasps out, “I want you to make it better!”

Webster is right on top of him now, and Joe’s heart is racing. He feels like the little boy who used to hide under his covers because he feared monsters in his closet. Once again, he is the child rushing past the dark corner of his basement out of fear of what dwelled in the shadows. Only now he stands in the darkness, and the monster is right in front of him.

He can see Webster’s face, now that they’re only inches apart. He looks frightened, agonized, ready to cry — but there is a glimmer of feral desperation in his eyes, and that terrifies Joe more than anything else.

He places a hand on Webster’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Web. We’re going to figure this out. Just —“

“Please help me,” Webster says, and leans in.

At first, Joe doesn’t realize what’s happening. He feels Webster’s mouth on his throat, and his first thought is a kiss. His body tenses up without him meaning to; he leans in to allow Webster better access, eyes fluttering of their own accord. And then -- then he feels it.

There is a startling flash of pain, and the sensation of fire coursing through his veins all at once. For a few seconds, Joe can feel nothing but agony. He gasps and struggles; but Webster’s grip has suddenly become a vice, locking him in place no matter how he squirms. The pain only lasts for a few seconds before everything seems to go numb. It happens all at once, like the curtain falling over a stage. His head grows cloudy, the fire in his blood turns to sand, and the will to struggle drains out of him. The suddenness of it all leaves him slumping into Webster’s embrace. The other man says nothing. He only eases Joe back against the couch, and continues to drink.

Just as Joe’s vision is going dark, he feels Webster break away. Blood stains his lips; it drips down the corner of his mouth in gory rivulets, streaming into the loose collar of his shirt. His wide eyes are a bright, searing crimson.

“Thanks, Joe,” he exhales. “You helped a lot.”

He leans in again. The last thing Joe feels before hazy unconsciousness claims him are Webster’s lips against his own. His kiss cradles him down into the darkness.