#yes heather has the threaded cane

[adelacreations]

Enjoy this WIP of my bloodborne fic

[ice-cream-writes-stuff]

☆There's No Place Like Home☆

《You are new to this... Neighborhood? Where the hell are you?》

Episode 2: Get To Know Know Your Neighbors

[Pilot] [1]

《Warnings: the subject matter this ARG has are potentially disturbing. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Welcome Home was created by Clown @ partycoffin 》

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Sick.

You felt sick after eating that cake. It tasted like pure sugar cane mixed with coffee creamer. The taste was sweeter than any treat you had eaten before.

Yet you don't utter a word about it to your plucky, so-called, "neighbors".

"Well, would you look at the time? It looks like it's late... Er. I think, but I gotta keep.. Unpacking? And I'm sure you all have plans of your own tomorrow."

You pick up the plates quickly, but some of the slices were barely picked at. Other plates are not even a spec of crumbs.

"Yes, of course!" Poppy said, hurriedly fluffing up her feathers in case of any stray pieces of dessert on her.

"Mhm, the post office isn't gonna' run itself." "Nor the bodega!" Howdy and Eddie laugh, Frank, chuckling off to the side.

"Yes, I gotta get some beauty sleep if I wanna dream big!" Sally agreed, pushing out her chair.

"Then I guess it's settled, we'll see you tomorrow, right neighbor?" Wally asks you. Dropping the plates in the sink, a few break on impact. Your hands try to pick up the broken pieces. But recoiled at the sight of your blood staining the fine china.

"Ye-yeah... Absolutely."

"Wonderful!" Julie cheers, coming up to your side by the sink.

"You must join me tomorrow! Your clothes are so odd! I've never seen a style quite like it. I would love it if we could dress up together!" The puppet chattered.

You nodded uncaringly, more focused on the cut on your palm.

"Groovy-..!"

A sharp gasp escapes Julie as Frank comes to her side.

"What... What is that?" Julie questioned you.

"Oh-... it's a cut. I hurt myself..."

"H-HURT! Who said hurt!?" Poppy stumbles near your side, her gaze softening as she asks if you were okay.

The other puppets now standing behind her, awkwardly trying to see your cut.

You hesitantly show the bird-puppet your palm, albeit shaken up by her. You thought she would bite your arm off with her beak.

Instead, she holds out her feathers, tenderly holding your arm.

Her expression turns into one of confusion. "That's odd..?"

"Wh-what??"

"There's only paint, I don't see any stuffing. Are you sure you are hurt?"

You, in turn, give her a puzzled look.

Had... Had these puppets never seen a human before? Much less a human being bleeding?

You take this as a good sign. Glad that these "puppets" didn't eat or have an appetite for humans or blood.

"Paint you say?" Frank bumps in, carefully analyzing your cut. He hums in thought, "Would you mind if I poked your cut?"

"No...Can I have a band-aid or something to close it up please?"

Frank nodded and backs off as Eddie hands you needle and a thread spool. "Here, found it by some of the boxes."

"Thanks..." You said, disregarding the puppets staring at you attentively as you place the items down. Saying you'll clean it up first.

You reassure them you'll be fine as you usher your "neighbors" to the door. Gladly holding the door open for them as they say their good byes and farewells.

Wally was the last one to leave, he smiles sleepily at you. You smile back at the tiniest puppet, feeling your mouth muscles twitch when keeping up the charade.

"I'll tell Home you said 'hello', good night. Neighbor."

-

[Taglist closed]

@tearjerker666 @trzppyghxuls @cookieswithay @luna-charlie @isometimeswritestuff @kazi-pop @lightspectre-universe @jjowithastar @smilingfox22-blog @jayysnotjoyful @cadaverous-coop @heather-hutchcroft @camilo-uwu @sweetheartturtle2007 @welcomehome102 @pretty-please-just-let-me-sleep @wally-darling-hyperfixation @q1bli @rainingdandelion @anima-chara @tearjerker666 @aceduchessdragoness @sleepy-planet @pauldanosbandonedirection222 @thelittlexd11 @luna-charlie

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[Dun-dun-dun!!! Sorry I took so long to update! I've been writing a lot of Welcome Home Oneshots. Comments, art, always help! Thanks for reading!]

[journalofimprobablethings]

When Martin wakes up in those slow, golden mornings at Upton House, it sometimes takes him a moment to remember where he is.

The first morning--the first real morning, not the strange, groggy awakening after their seventy-hour collapse--he thought they were back in Scotland. He thought, for a brief, heady moment, that everything that had happened since he left Jon to read that statement had been a dream--just one long, awful nightmare. That he would go downstairs to their tiny kitchen and make tea and Jon would sleepily stumble down a few minutes later and join him at the window, wrapping his arms tight around Martin's waist, and together they would watch the mist burn off over the fields of grass and heather and no horrors. That the quiet, fragile life they'd built there still existed.

It didn't last, of course. All too soon, he remembered where he was, and everything that had happened to get them there. But Martin treasures the memory of that feeling, and all the small moments of normalcy they have stolen in the last few days here. They may not be in Scotland, but they have gotten to sleep--in a bed--and he has savored every moment where he gets to wake up under soft covers, Jon's limbs sprawled across him with an abandon he only ever achieves in sleep.

This morning, when Martin wakes, Jon is on his own side of the bed for once, no arms tossed across Martin's chest or legs tangled with his--but he still holds one of Martin's hands clasped lightly on the pillows between them, fingers loosely linked. Martin lets out a deep sigh of something dangerously close to contentment, and rolls over to face Jon.

Jon's eyes are open, as always. (It had taken some getting used to, Jon sleeping with his eyes open. Martin will never tell Jon how much it unnerves him.) Now, though, Jon's eyes are alert, awake. He is looking at Martin with a sort of quiet wonder, a perfect reflection of what Martin feels whenever he rolls over and sees Jon next to him and realizes, all over again, that this is real.

"Good morning," Martin murmurs softly.

"Good morning," Jon says, and he says it like it's the most miraculous sentence in the world. In a way, with everything they’ve been through, it is.

Martin leans in to kiss Jon, soft and slow with sleep. He takes his time, because he can do that here, because just for this moment they are together and safe from monsters and they can have this.

Jon starts, just a little, when Martin's lips meet his, and when he returns Martin's kiss he is gentle and cautious, as though he is afraid he will break Martin if he moves too fast. It reminds Martin a little of how he was in those first days in Scotland, when they were both still moving so slowly, feeling out boundaries, still in awe that this was happening at all. Then he pulls away all at once, his breath slightly ragged.

"You all right?" Martin asks.

Jon nods. "Yes. I just...it's a bit..." He frowns a little, the frown he gets when he's trying to find the right way to phrase something.

Martin thinks he knows what he means. "I know, I'm still not used to it. Being in someone else's house."

Jon's frown deepens, and Martin reaches up, unthinking, to smooth his thumb over the crease between Jon's brows.

"I mean, not that I think that Annabelle or Salesa would walk in on us or anything," he says, "but--"

"Annabelle?"

Jon's voice is suddenly sharp. He leans away from Martin's hand, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at him properly.

“Annabelle Cane? She’s here?”

It's like someone has poured ice water down the back of Martin's neck.

He looks up at Jon, scrutinizing his face. His expression holds confusion and apprehension but none of the vagueness that's been creeping over him the past few days, the symptoms of being cut off from the Eye. He looks lucid, fully present.

Still, Martin has to fight to keep his voice steady as he answers.

"Ye-yeah. She let us in, remember? She's staying here, in Salesa's house. He told us about it that first day. Uninvited houseguest, and all that."

Jon shakes his head.

"Annabelle. Of course." He flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Can't get away from the Web even in my dreams. Should've known there would be something else when this wasn't a statement."

Wait.

Dreams?

A sick swoop of anxiety passes through Martin, like an electric current.

"Jon, this isn't--you know you're awake right now, right?"

Jon laughs, low and mirthless.

"No, I'm not."

You--you are, though. This is real, this isn't a dream." Martin gives a small, nervous laugh. "I--I know it feels a bit like one, after everything, but--"

"Yes, it is," Jon says, with absolute certainty. "This is a dream. It has to be."

"Why?"

Martin is so afraid of the answer, but he has to ask.

Jon looks at Martin then, with such sadness and longing in his eyes that Martin can barely stand to hold his gaze. "I wouldn't be here with you otherwise."

“What are you talking about, of course you--” Martin stops, a sudden horrible thought coming to him as he thinks again of how Jon has been the last few days, staring off into space, tailing off in the middle of sentences.

"Jon, what's the last thing you remember? Before you--before now?"

Jon's brow furrows. "I...I went to sleep in the Archives. On the cot, for once. Was too tired to avoid it any longer. I never thought--I didn't think I got to dream about good things, anymore." He looks up at Martin, that same sad and longing look. "This is a nice change."

Martin takes a deep breath, trying to tamp down the growing panic clawing at his throat.

"I miss you, Martin," Jon continues. He doesn't seem to notice Martin's quickening breath beside him. "I know you said we have to stay apart, and I trust you, I do, but--god. I miss you. There are so many things I never--things I should have realized, should have said sooner, and now..."

Jon trails off, his eyes roving Martin's face as though he's trying to memorize it. Normally, Martin would blush under that seeking gaze, soaking in Jon's keen attention. But now his mind is too busy spinning over Jon's words and their implications.

It's worse now than losing the thread of a conversation--Jon is losing time. He's forgetting. If the last thing he remembers is the Archives, is Martin falling deeper under Peter's influence, then that means--

Oh, god." Martin sits up so abruptly that his head spins. Next to him Jon's forehead creases in worry.

"Martin?"

It means Jon's forgotten the Lonely, pulling Martin out of that beach,

He's forgotten Scotland, the cottage, those three weeks of stolen peace,

He's forgotten the Change, and everything they've been through since.

"God, no. Shit."

"Martin, what's wrong?"

"We have to get you out of here."

Martin throws off the covers and makes to get out of bed, but Jon's hand shoots out and grabs his arm as he starts to get up.

“No, Martin, please. I’m sorry. If I said something wrong, I’m sorry. But please, I don’t know how long this will last. I want to stay with you. Please.”

Martin forces himself to stop, to slow, to turn and place his hand over Jon's where it's clutching at his arm.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I swear, I will never leave you. But we have to get out of this house. Now.”

“Why? Is there something here?" Jon gives a sharp, bitter laugh. “Of course. That didn’t take long. Nightmare, is it?”

"No, no, it’s not like that, but--all that stuff--with Peter, and the Archives--that was months ago.” His mouth twists. “Or, well--I’m not really sure how long ago it was; time doesn’t really work anymore, but it’s been a long time and--”

He can hear the hysteria creeping into his own voice, register rising and words beginning to trip over each other as they crowd out of his mouth too quickly. He stops, closing his eyes for just a second, wishing his heart would stop its hummingbird-fast beat in his chest.

When he opens his eyes, Jon is staring at him. His hands are fisted tight in the blankets and his eyes are so wide that Martin can see the whites all around his irises.

“Martin, what are you saying?”

I’m saying that you're not dreaming, Jon. You're awake. You've just--there's something here messing with your mind, something making you forget."

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Jon’s hands clutch the blankets tighter, and he frowns.

"You realize this is a very dream-like conversation."

Martin can’t help but smile a little at the hint of dry skepticism in Jon’s voice. He knows Jon well enough to know that that skepticism is a defense mechanism, a wall he puts up to protect himself against something that he’s not quite ready to admit he believes.

He reaches out and takes Jon’s hands in his, gently untangling his fingers from their tight grip on the quilt. Jon starts a little at the contact, but he doesn’t resist. 

"Jon, you've been dreaming nothing but statements for months. Years, now. Why would it have suddenly changed?"

That crease reappears between Jon’s brows, and he looks down at where his fingers are entwined with Martin’s, as though the tangle of their fingers is a puzzle he can solve, if he only looks at it hard enough.

"I--yes. You're right, I...So this is...Martin?"

Martin smiles when Jon’s eyes meet his and squeezes his hand reassuringly.

"Hi."

"You're really here. This is really happening."

"Yes."

"So then how--where--" Jon's eyes widen. "The Eye, I can't--Martin, where--"

"It's alright, Jon. Just breathe."

Jon's eyes are wide and his hands clutching Martin's so tight it hurts a little, but he does as Martin says and sucks several deep breaths. 

"Why can't I feel it? We didn't--did we find a way to quit? Another way?"

Martin's heart cracks open at the hope in Jon's eyes. The light at the idea that somehow, they were able to get away. What are a few memories, he can see Jon thinking, if they are free? 

He wishes so badly that he could give a better answer, that he doesn't have to extinguish that light.

"No," he says quietly. No, we didn't.”

He hates the way Jon slumps in on himself at his words, the momentary electricity that had flowed through him at the idea of escape suddenly cut off. 

"We're in a place the Eye can't reach us." he says gently. "Temporarily."

"Right. You--you mentioned Annabelle. And Mikaele Salesa? I thought he was dead."

Martin can't help a small laugh. "He faked his death. This is his house."

"Salesa's house? But why? Why are we here, why would the Eye not be able to--"

Jon stops. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly pushing down the torrent of questions, sorting through them to find the one that matters.

"What exactly have I forgotten?”