HAI HELLO WAVES CAN I REQUEST SOMETHING WHERE THE READERS ABADDON’S IMMORTAL MOTHER FIGURE PLEZ🥹🥹🥹 IT CAN BE LITERALLY ANYTHING HEADCANOMS ONESHOT A LITTLE BLURB IT DOESNT MATTER IM DESPRATE AS SHIT🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹
𐕣 Abbadon x the vessel's mother reader 𐕣
You are a mother without her child.
This is a fact that has been drilled into you for nearly 300 years.
Three hundred years of wandering, of dying and not staying dead, of lifting frail, sick boys into your arms and holding strangers as they slipped away to a peace you do not deserve.
Three hundred years of trying to keep other people alive because you failed the one that mattered.
Three hundred years of the colonies growing into something new and observant, changing without you barely noticing until it begun to tie trouble to your identity.
So you take up the first job that doesn't ask you too many questions. A cleaner at a strange hotel with stranger rules. The pay is shit, even by your standards, but it's fine, you don't need the money anyway. You need somewhere quiet to practice hiding the fact that you do not breathe unless you remember to.
The Undervale Hotel smells like old varnish and older mold.
You do not mind this.
After three centuries, you have cleaned up far worse, blood in church basements during the war, soot in burned-out homes, children’s beds where fever clung to the air. Dust and mildew hold no power over you anymore, not when you'd realized you could simply stop breathing to avoid the smell. Your heart refused to stop beating.
You sweep along the edge of the foyer, the bristles whispering across the carpet.
It is peaceful. Quiet.
Almost enough to make you forget how the world keeps pulling forward without you, while you remain strangely, stubbornly alive.
You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear and think about the children you’d loved to death, some literally. You reminisce about how you always had to vanish before a village grew suspicious of why the strange hospice woman never changed, never sickened, never aged.
You think, as you often do, of your son.
Your little boy with soft, wheezing breaths and warm, feverish hands.
Your little boy who disappeared the same night your heart broke and refused to stop beating.
You searched for his and your husband's bodies for days, weeks, months, until you finally gave up hope of ever finding them.
You believed, because you had to, that they’d been buried, burned, or carried away by waters kinder than your god had been.
A thud breaks you out of your thoughts. A clatter followed by a hissed curse, not possible for mortal throats.
You snap your head up.
A boy stands precariously on a lobby chair, arms stretched high, as he tries to grab hold of a “STOP TOUCHING THE FIREPLACE” sign on a hook just out of his reach.
He mutters to himself about mortals with greedy little hands and taping limbs together.
Your hands go slack on the broom handle.
He turns.
And you freeze.
Because this face is your son’s, the face you wiped fevers from, the face you kissed goodnight every dusk despite the risk of catching ill yourself, but the eyes are wrong. Ancient. A predator’s hunger curled inside a child’s skull.
When he sees you, he stops moving.
He fully ceases every muscle, mid-blink, mid-breath, mid-whatever he was doing (which seems to be stealing from the front desk).
The world stops.
It really is your son’s face. Your boy’s cheeks, your boy’s nose, your boy’s hair just as unruly as when fever plastered it to his forehead. But the eyes, those eyes are older than your own.
They take you in all at once, bottom to top, like a predator assessing a new creature.
You call out, without meaning to.
The boy no, the thing inside him goes truly still.
Still like death.
Slowly, the chair creaks beneath his feet.
He climbs down, never breaking eye contact.
He approaches with a gait too controlled for a nine-year-old.
Then he stops, an arm’s length away, and looks up at you.
“Mother?”
Your knees nearly give out.
It is not your boy’s voice, it echoes, dripping with centuries. But you know the words are his.
Suddenly he is in front of you, launching? Pouncing? Flinging himself through the room without regard for gravity. His small hands clutch your clothes, nails dimpling your skin, as if testing whether you will vanish.
“You,” he rasps, furious and terrified all at once, “you are dead.”
It is a question. A plea. A wound.
Your breath stutters, a habit more than a need, and your fingers tremble as you reach out, hovering. Afraid to touch.
His face crumples at your hesitance, snot mixing with tears.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice cracking under the weight of centuries. “You should have died.”
“I did,” you whisper.
You cup his cheeks, because despite the memory of too-warm skin, he is cold, and your boy is shaking.
“I’m here,” you whisper.
Abaddon trembles. Then he snarls because how dare this vessel’s matriarch appear after 300 years (billions, if he counts the resets, but he refuses to think about that) and immediately know how to calm them. It is terrifying.
“You came back,” he says softly, the tone almost accusingly.
His breath stutters, mirroring yours. He holds you like either of you might disappear again.
You place one shaking hand on the back of his head.
He shudders at the gentleness, claws gripping your clothes.
“Do not,” he chokes, voice muffled. Sentence unfinished. You understand anyway.
“I won’t,” you promise, voice breaking. “I won’t, my darling boy.”
His grip tightens.
Whether this is a ghost, a trick, or something clawed from the deepest pit of Hell, you will not leave again, because this is yours.
Your curse.
Your grief.
Your miracle.
Your boy.
hi, can do resquest Abbadon x demon fem reader, where the reader is a demon only trapped inside a girl's body, they both knew each other in hell and Abbadon felt something for her but he didn't say it because he was in an arranged marriage and now in the hotel he wants to get closer to the reader
𐕣 Abbadon x demon reader 𐕣
👻🏨👻🏨👻🏨👻
You were never partners, but your paths did cross on occasion. He admired your wit and ruthlessness; you admired his poise and control. There was always something unspoken between you.
When you disappeared, rumors spread through Hell that you’d been destroyed during something called the Salem Witch Trials. Abaddon didn’t believe it. You were no prince of Hell, but neither were you weak. So, he decided to investigate Earth himself. What’s the worst that could happen?
You’ve spent centuries trapped in the fragile body of a long-dead girl, unable to fully manifest aging in eerie, uneven intervals. Your eyes still gleam with infernal light, and whispers of your true voice sometimes echo through the girl's throat you inhabit.
When Abaddon first sees you in the Undervale Hotel, there’s a flicker of disbelief. The vessel throws him off, but he never forgets the smell of Hell—ancient and familiar.
He’s not one for emotions, but there’s a heaviness in his tone when he finally says, “You shouldn’t have been left to rot in that form.” He’s sorry in his own curt, formal way.
He doesn’t coddle you; he hates pity as much as you do. But he subtly ensures that no other spirits or guests mess with you. If something disturbs you, he’s suddenly there, looming quietly nearby, brooding like a guard dog. It never actually works, but it makes you feel better anyway.
Both of you are trapped—he in his vessel, you in yours. It’s a grim symmetry that neither of you missed. Sometimes you sit together, two old demons learning to navigate the complexities of existence, with memories of Hell and a flickering hope for the future that lies ahead.
The Undervale Hotel was never quiet. Its curtains swayed like lungs trying to breathe, and every mirror seemed to hold a face that wasn’t supposed to be there. Abaddon had learned to live with it, or at least within it. But the night you arrived, he swore the air shifted.
You weren’t new to him. You weren't easy to forget. He still remembered the first time he’d seen you centuries ago, back when Hell still had a skyline of burning stone. You were hardly anything special and yet you’d felt secure enough to jest at him once, loud and unafraid, and he’d ripped the mortal he was holding in half trying to remain composed. Back then, he’d had obligations, the gates, the castle, the wife. Admiration had no place in that kind of eternity.
And yet there you were now, centuries later, standing at the front desk in the small, fragile body of a little human girl. Your eyes were too old for your face. Very few knew your name, and he had not spoken it in years.
“You sound like my name itself was a scar you’d pressed salt into.” He blinked, a long pause followed. Then, laughter came, unguarded. The sound hit him harder than any ghost ever could.
It wasn't peaceful, when you arrived, there was hardly a peaceful day on this infernal property, and having a second demon on the premises didn’t help calm the ghost protests going on down.
Later, when the Undervale Hotel’s hallways had gone quiet, he found you sitting cross-legged on the roof, staring at the stars. You’d always liked the mortal sky. The darkness up here felt softer than the one you came from.
The words hung there, heavier than they should have been. You smiled faintly, your eyes reflecting the moon. “I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“Never,” he said, then kicked at a loose shingle to avoid your gaze. “Though I’d hoped you’d picked a better vessel.”
You shrugged. “Didn’t exactly have a choice. Heretical trials don’t leave many options.”
He hummed, the wind tugging at his coat and carrying the faint scent of ozone, the only reminder of what he once was.
“So,” you said, “what now? Do we keep playing like the old days? Pretending we’re not disasters wearing borrowed skin?”
Abaddon hesitated. Then he said, “We live.”
“Live?” you echoed, a bit of laughter tucked into the word. “Not much choice in that part.”
He glanced at you, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Semantics.”
For a while, you both sat in silence. Two demons who had torn through empires and centuries, now reduced to borrowed bones and glass lenses, learning how to be people again.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “You ever miss it? The fire?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But not as much as I thought I would.”
You looked at him, curious. “Why not?”
He didn’t answer right away. His scar pulsed faintly through the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment, he looked ancient again, bound and burning.
Then quietly he said, “Because you’re here, and the warmth of hellfire does not compare.”
You didn’t respond, just leaned back and watched the stars, pretending not to hear the tremor in his voice. After all, you both understood that some things were better left unsaid. And so, in a haunted hotel filled with ghosts and half-dead dreams, two old demons sat under a mortal sky, neither quite human nor quite damned, learning how to share the burden between them.
You will not stay here with him forever, just as you never stayed in hell for long, but you’ll hold the memories of him in this hotel just as fondly as you did of him in hell.
Hi! Could you pleasw write a Will Turner (PotC) x (f!)reader? A fluffy one, were Will is overprotective about the reader (romantic) because he doesn't want to loose the reader.🩷
Overprotective Will Turner/Reader
🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊
The docks were unusually calm that evening, the sun lowering itself into the sea in a wash of amber and rose. Sailors hurried about their work, ropes slapped against wood, and gulls circled overhead, but Will Turner barely noticed any of it.
He was too busy watching you.
You’d only stepped a few paces away to admire the sunset from the end of the pier, but Will tracked you like he expected the ocean to reach up and steal you away the moment he blinked.
“Will,” you called over your shoulder, amused, “I’m not going to fall in.”
He frowned, tightening the grip on the cloth he’d been using to polish a blade. “The boards are damp. One wrong step and-”
“…and you’d dive in after me,” you said, smiling as you returned to him.
“That’s not the point.” He set the half polished metal aside and stepped forward, brushing off a bit of sawdust from your sleeve. “The point is that I’d rather you didn’t risk falling at all.”
You looked up at him. “You really do worry?”
His jaw tightened. “Of course I do.”
Then softer, “I always do.”
You touched his chest lightly. “Will…”
His voice was earnest, almost pleading, his brown eyes warm but filled with that familiar anxious tenderness. “I don’t ever want to see you in danger. Not even the smallest bit.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth, something that made him instantly, terribly flustered.
When you pulled back, he followed instinctively, as if afraid that an inch of distance was too much.
“Come here,” he murmured, sliding a hand around your waist. His thumb stroked your hip, gentle and calming, as though reassuring himself you were truly there. “Stay close to me.”
“You’re adorable when you’re protective, you know,” you teased.
He flushed a deep red. “I’m not I just” He exhaled. “I don’t want to lose you. Not to the sea, not to misfortune…” His fingers curled lightly against your shirt, fingers wrapped around the necklace underneath that Elizabeth Swann had given you, grounding himself. “Not to anything.”
Your heart softened. You leaned into his chest, letting his warmth wrap around you.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.
Will closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your hair, holding you like the world might try to take you if he loosened his arms even slightly.
“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ll be right here. Always.”
You squeezed him back.
And for the rest of the evening, Will kept one arm around you, guiding you, protecting you, refusing to let the wind or waves get even a moment of you without him.
Fluffy William x reader and Jackson x reader headcannons and/or fic pls? I love your writing, i feel spoiled whenever you post >^<
👉👈
William & Jackson Hillwalker x reader
Fluffy headcanons
🔪🪓🔪🪓🔪🪓🔪
The dynamic between you and the Hillwalker brothers has settled into something strange yet warm, like a crooked piece of furniture that fits perfectly in a room. You aren’t family, but you’re not just another outsider either. You occupy a space somewhere in between, and they treat you accordingly.
Jackson is the most openly attached to you. He gravitates toward whatever room you’re in, often without seeming to realize he’s doing it. If you sit in the kitchen, he eventually leans against the counter nearby. If you wander out to the barn, he drifts out there too, inventing excuses to fiddle with tools or check traps, all while actually just hovering in your orbit.
He derives a ridiculous amount of joy from your presence. Even when you’re engaged in something mundane, like sorting the pantry or sweeping. He finds it entertaining to watch you work. Occasionally, he abandons whatever chaos he's building just to sit nearby and observe, his attention fully focused on you as if you’re the most interesting thing in the world.
William shows his care in a much quieter way, but it’s just as steady. He tends to check on you throughout the day without drawing attention to it. If you’re working outside, he’ll pass by a few times under the pretense of doing chores nearby. If you disappear for a while, he eventually drifts outside too, simply ensuring you’re safe without crowding you.
Jackson has a habit of leaving little trinkets for you to discover. Nothing dangerous, just odd, harmless little things. Small curiosities meant only to make you smile. He pretends these things just ended up there, but the careful way he watches your reaction gives him away every time.
Despite his chaotic nature, Jackson becomes surprisingly careful when it comes to you. He rearranges parts of the farmhouse without mentioning it, quietly moving hazards out of your usual paths. Nails get hammered down, sharp edges are filed smooth, and traps are rerouted elsewhere. None of it is ever acknowledged aloud, but the safe routes through the house slowly become yours alone.
William ensures that you’re comfortable in practical ways. Things you need appear before you even have to ask, like a towel on the nearest stand while you're painting the walls, a bucket behind you while weeding the garden, or a blanket folded neatly nearby when the weather turns cold. He never points these things out, but he notices plenty of small details that make your day easier.
The silence between you and William is comfortable. The two of you can sit side by side for long stretches without speaking, listening to the quiet sounds of the nature around the farmhouse. For William, that kind of shared contentment is one of the strongest signs of trust he can offer someone.
Jackson’s affection is very physical and casual. He lounges nearby while you read or work, sometimes lying on the floor with his head resting against your leg or knee. The steady rhythm of another person nearby seems to calm the restless storm that constantly buzzes inside his head.
The three of you fall into an almost domestic routine. Jackson paces around the room with restless energy, dragging this and that to different nooks and crannies. William leans against a wall, cleaning a tool or sharpening a blade. and you simply exist in the middle of it all. The tension that usually hangs around the brothers softens in those moments.
Jackson becomes less erratic when either you or William is present, as if the chaos inside him settles slightly. William, too, becomes less guarded, his watchful posture easing whenever you and Jackson are nearby.
The three of you don’t always get along, but if arguments start to flare, you're pretty good at dulling the edge. Jackson loses interest in pushing things further, and William drops the matter sooner than he otherwise would.
You become one of the few people both brothers trust around their spaces. Jackson allows you into his workshop without a second thought, even when he’s working on something intricate. William doesn’t mind you wandering around while he tends to livestock or repairs equipment, just as long as he can keep an eye on you.
Both brothers see you as something rare in the world, someone who didn’t run, didn’t panic, or try to change them.
Somewhere in the midst of all that quiet loyalty and strange affection, you become a permanent part of the farmhouse, whether anyone ever officially says so or not.
i screamed when i found your blog, i am FEINING for jackson (the butchery) xreader headcanons? maybe even a oneshot…? no pressure though of course <333
i was thinking fluff really, nothing too amazing, honestly you could throw scraps at me and i’ll be barking for it like a dog. anyways, love your work, thank you 🙏
Jackson Hillwalker x Gn reader
🐖🔪🐖🔪🐖🔪🐖
Romantic head-canons and a tiny oneshot.
(TW: implied gore, religious delusion, obsession, etc.)
headcanons
You’re the only person who’s ever matched his energy without needing to fake it all the time, other than William.
There’s a chair nobody else is allowed to sit on, not even William, just for you to watch him work. He can never concentrate when you sit on it though, always loses track of what he's doing and gives up all his attention to you. Please feel free to abuse it, He wants you to.
He’s the one who designed all the machines in the farmhouse, he set up the pig rodeo, the gutting station, the jack in the boxes. He made those for himself, imagine what he’d make just for you if you asked.
You’re the only one allowed near Hilda. He gets twitchy if someone else even looks at his cleaver too long, but you? You can hold her. Clean her. Even mock her and he just laughs.
Once, he stitched your name into the inside of his flannel collar. When you noticed, he shrugged and said, “Just so nobody forgets who I belong to.” You know better, you saw him blushing.
Jackson thrives in chaos, and you better be able to play along without losing control. You’ll scream in the woods like prey just to see which survivor he kills first when they try to “save” you.
You once nicked your finger on a piece of wire. Jackson stared at the drop of blood like it personally insulted him. He dragged William away, and they disappeared for an hour and returned later to announce your own personal trap-free path through the house. “No sharp corners for you, Tiger.”
Jackson is touchy, but not smooth. He fidgets with your clothes, tugs your sleeve, leans on you like a needy dog. Sometimes, when you’re resting, he’ll lie on the floor beside you, arms crossed under his head, just listening to your breathing.
He doesn’t just like having you around. He needs it. If you disappear for even a little while, he gets sloppy. Meaner.
He doesn't get jealous easily, He knows you like him, and he likes you, and you settle for something you didn't like, but there's still moments. Jackson once killed a survivor just because they made you laugh. “That wasn’t even a funny joke,” he said, wiping blood off his jaw. “You laugh way prettier when it’s me.”
He builds you to think. All the time. A box that plays your own laugh. Rigs the lights to play your favorite song when you flick them on in your workroom. Sets up a dumbwaiter from your bedroom and the kitchen after you got sick one day.
At night, when everything is quiet and the survivors have stopped screaming, he talks more slowly. Sometimes you wake up to him brushing a thumb across your cheek, looking confused by how calm he feels.
“Didn’t think I could like anyone this much,” he’ll mumble, then pretend he didn’t say anything.
Sometimes, when the day’s done and the blood is dry, he’ll lay with his head in your lap and ramble. About anything. About his brother, about the barn, about some stupid memory from when he was a kid. He never asks you to talk. He just wants you there.
And a little oneshot because its been rotting in my docs
You didn’t expect a honeymoon. Not really. But you sure didn’t expect this either.
Jackson’s strung up lights infront of the porch. Real ones, yellow bulbs borrowed from god knows where. They're draped around meat hooks nailed into anything high enough like party decorations, swaying gently over rust and dried foliage.
He gestures with a dramatic sweep of the arm, looking far too pleased with himself. “Ta-da!”
“…It’s beautiful?” you offer, stepping over what might’ve once been a person.
Jackson beams. “Knew you’d like it! Nothin’ else I could think of that i hadnt done before.”
You watch him toss Hilda from hand to hand, his suspenders slightly askew, a faint smear of something red on his cheek. He’s sweating. Not from effort, excitement.
“Wait,” you say, sniffing. “Is that… lemon?”
He straightens proudly. “Cleaned the patio with that citrus oil you mentioned. 'Cause I’m romantic, darlin’.”
You laugh. The sound echoes. And before you can say anything else, Jackson’s crossing the space in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you from behind.
“Married now,” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “That means I get to hold you whenever I want.”
“You already did that.”
“Yeah,” he grins. “But now it’s a legal right.”
You cackle as you lean back into him, tilting your head so he can nuzzle under your ear. “You gonna be a good husband?”
“Oh, I’m gonna be the worst husband,” he breathes, voice low and dangerous and reverent. “I’m gonna cause so much trouble for you, they’ll name caution signs after us.”
You turn to face him, fingers slipping into the loops of his suspenders. “Promises, promises.”
He barely reacts to your teasinng, just admiring you.
“…You’re really mine, huh?” he whispers.
You nod. “'Til death-”
“Already done that part,” he interrupts with a grin, then kisses you like you haven't already left lipstick all over his face.
PLEASE.dropping to my KNEES to ask for a romantic fic with jackson x fem cashier/shopkeep reader,,,, typa reader who’d joke ‘oh haha this is such a suspicious selections of items are you a murderer or something lol’ to a VERY nervous n sweaty jackson. i love my smelly chopped wife n have read literally EVERY x reader fic out there for him i am begging and starving from inside chubbybaby7’s basementPlease. Please feed me
💵🔪🐖Jackson Hillwalker/Gn reader🔪🐖💵
You had been working the late shift long enough to recognize the usual suspects: the midnight snackers, the caffiene chuggers, and the “I swear this is for a science experiment” weirdos.
But nothing could have prepared you for him.
The man in the overalls appeared suspicious from the moment he set down his basket. You noticed how he hovered near the self-checkout, only to abandon it at the last second and shuffle nervously to your register instead.
“Evening,” you said, scanning the first item. “Hmm… rope, duct tape, industrial-strength bleach…” You raised an eyebrow. “Haha, what is this, the starter pack for a murder?”
You intended it as a joke, a small quip to lighten the silence.
But the man froze. His eyes widened, and sweat broke out across his forehead like someone had turned on a faucet.
“I- uh- n-no. No murder. I mean- Not at all. I would never. You think I- I look like someone who- ? Lord, no.” His words tumbled out in a rush, his voice cracking halfway through.
You blinked as the receipt printer whirred. “Sir, it’s fine. I was kidding.”
He wrung his hands, looking as though you had uncovered some unspeakable truth. He looked so nervous.
“…Unless,” you teased again, leaning on the counter with a grin, “you are a murderer, and now I know too much.”
His head snapped up so fast it was almost audible. “No! Don’t say that out loud!” He hissed, glancing around as if the security cameras were watching him like FBI drones. “You’re going to get me in trouble!”
You laughed, which only made his ears turn bright red.
“Relax sugar” you said, bagging his definitely-not-murder-supplies. “I’m not a cop. You look too much like a… like a guilty dog to be a crook.”
Jackson blinked, and your words seemed to short-circuit his panic, melting him into something softer. He shifted, unsure whether his hands should be in his pockets or holding the bag.
“You… think I’m sweet?” His voice was smaller this time, hopeful.
You smirked. “Depends. Planning to use that bleach responsibly?”
He nodded so fast it was almost comical.
“Good,” you said, sliding the bag toward him. “Then maybe come back next time for something less suspicious. Such as… I don’t know, flowers?”
Jackson nearly dropped his wallet. “…Yeah! Okay. Flowers. I can do flowers…”
And when he left, still sweaty but smiling this time, you figured you’d never see him again.
At first, you didn’t know his name. You only recognized him by his guilty posture, poor hygiene, and serial killer shopping list.
When you teased him the first night, you thought it would be a throwaway joke, a nervous laugh between cashier and customer. But the way he panicked? It felt like you had ripped open a secret, and that stuck with you.
And so did he.
The very next night, at almost the same time, Jackson shuffled in again. He clutched his basket like a lifeline, his hood pulled low. He set his items down with trembling hands.
You glanced at them: a bouquet of dandelions (clearly yanked from the side of the road), a can of tomatoes, and three crumbling slices of pie.
Your lips twitched. “Wow. Upgrading from bleach and duct tape. Is this the bait for whoever you're planning to murder?”
Jackson’s ears turned red instantly. “N-no… These are- these are normal. People buy these all the time.”
“Mm-hm.” You leaned on the register. “Lots of people bring me weeds.”
“They’re not weeds,” he muttered. “They… grow strong. Even where no one wants them. Thought you might like that.”
That caught you off guard.
For a moment, you just looked at him, the sweaty, jittery mess of a man trying desperately not to be suspicious. It was a horrible idea to enforce any of this behavior from a strange man, but the thoughtfulness was clumsy and… so sweet.
“Hillwalker,” you read what you thought was his name embroidered onto the crumpled wallet he held up as grabbed cash out of it, “are you trying to court me with roadside dandelions and canned goods?”
His head snapped up, his eyes wide, and a tiny, betrayed squeak escaped his lips.
But when you slid the bag across the counter, you tucked one of the flowers into your apron pocket. “Payment accepted.”
He blinked, confused yet hopeful. Slowly, Jackson smiled.
And damn it, you realized you were already in trouble.
Can you do threadvile headcannons for a reader that is fully human like instead of being turned into a puppet, when they went into the mirror, they just stayed human
🪡 Human in Threadville Headcanons🪡
🧍♂️ Your body makes you stand out immediately. The puppets, all made of bright and colorful felt and thread, are endlessly fascinated by the softness and warmth of human skin, the way you blink and breathe in a way they never do.
📏 You’re way taller than most puppets. Your movements are smoother too, and maybe a bit too fluid in their eyes.
👁️ The puppets are fascinated by you. You’re the only human around, and honestly, you’re a walking mystery to them. Sometimes they just stare at your skin or watch your nails while they're chatting with you, things they don’t really understand but find captivating.
🤲 Some puppets, like Charlotte occasionally find themselves reaching out to touch your hair or fingers, just to confirm that they’re not some elaborate costume.
🪶 Skin is a frequent topic of conversation. Veena once tried to gently touch your arm, then pulled back, whispering about how strange you feel. You’re a work of art made from a totally different material.
🧼 Veena asked to brush your hair once and was shocked at how strands fell out so easily. Veena also thinks bellybuttons are horrifying. Can’t stop staring at yours.
🌞 They like how warm you are. Most folks here are soft and cool to the touch felt or corduroy or cotton. But when your arm brushes his, he feels skin. He feels heat. He swears you’re like holding a pocketful of summer. And it confuses him. Because puppets don’t keep warmth. So where are you getting it from?
🎤 Your voice sounds so different Patty-Ann sometimes asks you to sing or talk, just because it’s soothing.
😂 Your laughter sounds different. Not stitched together like the others. Oliver didn’t know laughter could crack like that. He likes it. He really does. But now and then, he stares too long. Like he’s wondering if it’s real, or if you’re just really good at pretending.
🍽️ Your way of eating biting, chewing, swallowing is a constant source of bewilderment. Puppets have never really needed to chew; they “absorb” food or nibble in strange ways. Oliver especially likes to watch, fascinated by how your teeth work.
👀 Eating is a whole other level of curiosity. Since you chew and swallow, puppets like Rocky or Veena will watch you with wide eyes, fascinated by how you can eat without needing to cut up your food as much.
🦷 Veena’s a bit obsessed with you, especially your teeth. You don't know why, she’s not even sure herself. She just gets a little flustered when she sees you use your teeth for anything other than eating.
💦 You sometimes get weird looks when you snort or sweat, but the puppets don’t mean any harm, they’re just genuinely curious.
🩸 Oliver once saw you bleed. Just a scrape, barely more than a paper cut. But the moment that red welled up, thick and metallic and not cotton? Pandemonium.
🧵 Veena tried teaching you how to sew a button one afternoon, You pricked your finger on the needle and bled. A single drop bloomed scarlet on the thread. Veena stared. You offered to finish it. She said no. She doesn’t know why she felt so weird about it, but it felt like you pricked something deeper than a finger.
💔 The puppets worry about your fragility. After all, you can get bruised or sick in ways puppets never can. Patty-Ann tries to fuss over you like a mother hen, worried about you, you sleep under her roof after all.
🧬 The puppets struggle to understand how you heal, Since you don’t have a stuffer. You explain skin and blood cells, which sounds like magic to them. A visiting Doctor Dulldrum is particularly interested.
🪡 While the puppets sometimes need stitches or repairs, You can’t be “fixed” with thread and needles. This mystifies the puppets.
🧠 Rocky keeps asking how your bones don’t rip through your skin when you bend. Rocky once tried to poke a vein with a fishing hook. You had to explain what blood pressure is. He kept his distance for a bit after that.
🩻 Doctor Dulldrum doesn’t blink once while staring at you in the clinic. “So your insides move on their own? Intriguing.”
You cracked your knuckles once in front of Doctor Dulldrum once. He nearly jumped out of his chair if he didn't have better control of himself than that. “Was that your hands making that popping?” He leaned in, eyes curious and excited. “Certainly no stuffing in there,” he whispered. He spent the next few days doing nothing but thinking about you in his free time, wondering what else inside you could bend without breaking.
🌾 You once helped Oliver with some harvest you took a moment to stretch and cracked your back with an audible pop, Oliver nearly fainted. Later, he told Veena that you “took a good crack at helping him.”
“Your joints bend strangely,” he says while handing you tea. “Do they click like that often?”
🧷 The town collectively panics the first time you get a small cut.
Doctor Dulldrum was not impressed, the nurses are just happy to finally meet you.
The nurses Max and Min laugh every time you sneeze. At least one random puppet who doesn't know about you screams and runs. It never stops being funny.
📣 You often use expressions or idioms the puppets don’t get
at first, leading to funny misunderstandings. For example, “break a leg” causes genuine panic, until explained that it means “good luck.”
📚 Patty never hesitates to ask you questions once you're alone, sharing stories, memories, and customs from your life that fascinate her and broaden her understanding.
Because you’re the only human, you’re a bit of a freak-show. Puppets sometimes ask you to describe what your world looks like, and you share information about hippos, whales, old legends like things the puppets can only imagine.
Patty, after you sneezed for the first time, whispered, “What was that?” like you'd summoned a demon.
🌊 One day, you fell into the creek trying to save a bunch of fish bait that fell in, Rocky yelled so loud that puppets could hear him from the hospital. He was so scared he barely even noticed when you emerged soaked, but alive. Rocky blinked in shock, maw agape, as you climbed back up the small but rocky cliff, bait over your shoulder, once he could reach you he pulled you up so hard he nealy dislocated your shoulders.
The next time, he made sure to keep you in his sight and the line on his rod extra strong, just in case.
🛡️ Puppets like Rocky and Pierre feel a bit protective of you. They’re already aware you can’t withstand the same dangers they can shrug off, like falling down somewhere deep or getting crushed.
🌈 Being the only human in Threadville is weird, but the puppets are weird too.
They’re curious, cautious, and occasionally grossed out. But they’re learning.
And honestly? You’re starting to feel like you fit just right in.
How about some headcanons about William x reader and Jackson x reader? (romantic relationship, characters from the butchery)
P.s. that request was written by eclipse
🌕 Hillwalker brothers x Gn reader 🌑
Romantic head-canons
(TW: implied gore, religious delusion, obsession, etc.)
Used the eclipse as a theme for this reader because I've got 7 requests for the brothers and none of them specify what kind of reader they want. :p
If William is the moon, and Jackson is the sun, you're the eclipse. Jackson is vibrant, loud and always has a smile but can disappear into the dark whenever he wants to. William is quiet, but always easy to spot even in the dark of their farm because of his size and judgmental comments. You are both, switching between moods like masks, happily trading them for whatever suits the situation. Sometimes you'll pretend you're being hunted by the brothers to play with the survivors some more.
🌑William🌑
🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑
🌑
When he first noticed you, it wasn’t because of what you did, it was what you didn’t do. You didn’t flinch at Jackson. You didn’t run from him. You simply existed beside them like you belonged.
That unsettled him. Then it intrigued him. Now it consumes him.
he is not a man of many words. He watches. Evaluates. He also flirts… terribly.
🌒
He calls you “Inti” more than your actual name, Its part insult, part an endearment.
“You ever settle on which face you’re wearing today, Inti?”
You’ll grin and say, “Why settle?”
He acts annoyed, but he watches you more than he should. The way you can navigate both him and Jackson, passing through each other’s orbit… that fascinates him.
He likes that you’re unpredictable. That you’ll go from giddy and taunting to hushed and calculating, like flipping a switch. You’re the only one who can dance around both him and Jackson without getting caught, and you know it.
You are equal parts light and shadow. Not passive. Not reactive. You choose when to glow and when to fade. Survivors never know where you stand. Sometimes you guide them. Sometimes you drag them back into the dark. You like the guessing game.
You aren't loud like Jackson. You aren't imposing like William. But you are calculated, and in that way, you can be the more dangerous of the three.
🌓
you and William don’t speak much, but your communication is flawless. One look. A tilt of the head. A shared understanding of exactly how a kill should play out.
You’ll stand beside him after a slaughter, your fingers gently tracing the blood on his gloves. He won’t stop you.
You don’t flinch when he slaughters a pig, or when he drags a screaming survivor into the cellar. In fact, sometimes you lean against the wall and critique his technique, offering sarcastic commentary.
He doesn’t say it, but he likes the way that you play along. That maybe you're even worse than he is when no one’s looking.
He won’t say he loves you. But if anyone touches you? Doesn’t let them go quickly.
🌕
William didn’t fall for you all at once.
It was a creeping fascination wrapped built on confusion. One moment you were mirroring a man's terrified face while he was chasing some poor sap through the fields, and the next you were standing in William’s shadow, whispering something cruel and cold that even made him pause. That duality? It was intoxicating.
William watches you sleep. Not even romantically, more in a study-the-phenomenon way. He once said, “You don’t breathe like normal people.”
You catch him staring often. Never blinking. Never ashamed.
He doesn’t smile. But when you're near, he does pause. That counts for something.
🌗
You carved him a small wooden bear once. Just left it on his windowsill. You never brought it up.
A week later, he tied one of your discarded hair ribbons to his belt. When Jackson asked, William ignored him. But you saw it, and you knew that was the closest thing to a confession you were gonna get.
🌘
you match William in the cold-blooded calculation he prides himself on. He admires that, even if it annoys him when you outmaneuver him during a hunt.
He hates Jackson’s theatrics, but if you choose to mimic them? Suddenly, it’s “tolerable.” he’ll deny favoritism with a dead stare.
He once told you, flatly, “You see too much.” you smiled and whispered back, “So do you.” since then, you’ve become his shadow.
🌑
when you pretend to be a survivor, William plays along in complete silence. He’ll even won't even bother trying to “miss”, letting the fear rise.
But the moment another survivor threatens you during your act? The cleaver is in the air before they can blink.
Afterwards, he’ll murmur, “Don’t do that again.” not because you fooled him, but because it almost made him feel something.
William’s more affectionate when the sun’s down. He likes the hush of the farm at night, the low creak of wood and distant cries, the way your eyes gleam in the dim like fire. If he say anything about it thought, you'll tell him to shut up, and then kiss him hard enough to bruise.
🌕Jackson🌕
🌕🌖🌗🌘🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕
🌕
Jackson doesn't just fall for people. He fixates. The first time he saw you, unblinking, calm in the face of his chaos, he knew the lord brought you to him for a reason.
He calls you nicknames like “crescent,” and “tiger” or when he's being your hype man to the folk unlucky enough to wake up in the farmhouse? “A divine shadow.”
There's a duality in you, cold silence one moment, blood-dripping grins the next, it has him captivated. It reminds him of a solar eclipse: rare, sacred, amazing.
🌖
Jackson genuinely believes you are a sign, an omen of something divine or apocalyptic. He gets quiet about it sometimes, thinking things to himself he's not sure if he'd even share with William.
“the lord said he’d send someone with dark in their bones and light in their eyes… and here you are.”
There are symbols carved into the walls that represent you, black circles surrounded by jagged rays, sometimes painted with real ash and blood.
🌗
You’re his favorite “survivor” in the farmhouse.
You and Jackson have made whole performances out of games with survivors. You’ll sometimes pretend to be hunted, crying out and begging, until the moment boredom strikes, and you turn and say, “Wasn’t that fun?”
He lives for your theatrics. You mirror his flamboyance so well, but where he’s fireworks and rodeos, you're masks and music. The combination is pretty lethal.
He lets you take the lead sometimes, just to watch. He gets this dreamy look when you work like he’s witnessing scripture in motion.
🌑
Jackson talks to your shadow when you’re not around. Just sits in the barn, cleaver in hand, mumbling “They’ll be back. They always come back.”
He’s tried to catch your shadow before, pressed his hand to it on the floor, whispering nonsense prayers.
You’ve woken up to him resting beside you, just staring.
🌓
Jackson’s volatile, but with you? He hesitates. Not out of fear, he knows you chose him for a reason, but reverence. You’re the only person whose judgment he actually considers other than his brothers.
If you’re angry, he gets real still. If you’re laughing, he joins in. but if you’re silent and want something? He might kneel, kiss your wrist, get a room ready for your wrath, might just ask straight up, “Tell me what you want, Tiger.”
Sometimes he swears you’re the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. “You’ve got those eclipse eyes. Darker than me. Brighter than any star. Prettier than sin.”
🌔
You’re one of the very few who sees past the carnival bark and glittering madness. You call him out when he’s pretending to be stupid or petulant.
You never flinch when he gets volatile. That unblinking gaze? It makes his hands shake, not from rage, but anticipation.
He’s carved up victims while speaking sweet nothing's to you like he’s reading you poetry. You listen, your eyes gleaming like crescent slivers of light, offering soft affirmations or counter-philosophies.
🌕
he prays with you, even if he’s the only one speaking
Jackson often insists on a quick prayer before a big hunt. You light the candles. He preaches. You just stare.
When it’s over, he presses your forehead to his and says, “We’re chosen. You and me. Sun, moon… and the lord in-between.”
