゛YOU GIVE HIM THE HAIR TIE ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆
Pendleton’s hair, in his human life, is likely longer than what’s considered proper for a gentleman of his era, and that’s deliberate. He’s not one for social conventions — he’s an inventor, a dreamer, someone with ink-stained fingers and a head full of clockwork.
So his jet-black hair tends to fall over his face when he’s hunched over blueprints or soldering a contraption, strands escaping his vision while he mutters to himself.
He rarely ties it up unless it’s practical when he’s too deep in work and finally realizes, “Blast these wretched locks— I can’t see the gear alignment!” and hastily pulls it into a messy low ponytail with whatever string or scrap of ribbon he finds nearby. It’s charmingly unkempt, a small rebellion against the polished nobility around him.
Now imagine you noticing this how he constantly pushes his hair back with a faintly frustrated sigh, how it always falls into his eyes again.
So one day, maybe you stands behind him and says softly, “Hold still for a moment, won’t you?”
He startles, because personal space is a concept he’s still learning to navigate, but he complies.
You gathers his hair deftly, fingers brushing the back of his neck.
Pendleton practically freezes.
He’s used to being observed, not touched.
And suddenly he’s the subject, not the spectator.
Your fingers work through the silken strands, tying it into a neat high ponytail or a simple braid. You compliments him, perhaps teasingly, perhaps sincerely. “Good heavens, Pendleton, you have the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen. You really ought to show it off more often.”
He goes bright red, of course.
There’s a small, stuttered laugh as he fumbles for a reply.
“P-pretty? My hair? My dear, surely you jest— It’s just… practical length for insulation, that’s all…”
Yet his voice trails off, because he secretly loves the attention, the feeling of your hands, and the warmth in your tone.
He might even catch his reflection later and pause. The braid feels… personal.
Something no one else would ever think to do for him.
To him, that simple act becomes intimate trust.
He’s not the man who gets affection easily.
So someone touching his hair, admiring it, not for vanity, but for its beauty, touches a part of him that still doesn’t quite believe he deserves gentleness.
He keeps that ribbon, or tie, tucked away carefully afterward. Maybe even wear it often, pretending it’s just convenience, but secretly, it’s comfort.
Proof that he’s seen. That someone looked at him and thought,
“You’re beautiful in your own strange way.”
It had been weeks since that evening, yet the ribbon remained, folded carefully in the corner of Pendleton’s desk drawer between a stack of notes and the spare lenses for his goggles.
He told himself he’d simply forgotten to return it.
That it was merely convenient to keep it there, in case of another long night of work. But every time he caught sight of it, the truth settled in his chest with a quiet, unspoken warmth.
Tonight, the city outside is swallowed in fog. The only light in his room comes from the lamp and the small furnace that clicks faintly with every pulse of heat.
He has been at his desk for hours — tinkering, revising, adjusting a stubborn gear that refuses to fit. His shoulders ache, his eyes sting, and his hair has long since fallen into disarray, clinging to his cheeks in damp strands.
He exhales, weary, then pauses.
His gaze drifts to the drawer.
When he opens it, the faint scent of metal and paper meets something softer, a trace of perfume from that day, still clinging to the ribbon.
For a long moment, he just holds it between his fingers. The silk is frayed now at the ends, but he smiles faintly, almost shyly, as if caught in the act of sentiment.
“Purely functional...” he mutters under his breath, though no one is there to hear it.
He gathers his hair back and ties it high, the ribbon slipping into a neat knot. The color stands out against the black —a small, tender mark in a world of brass and smoke.
The weight of his hair lifts from his face, and for the first time that night, his thoughts slow.
He returns to his work, the rhythm of gears steady once more. But now, when the clock ticks and the furnace hums, the sound feels less lonely.
Every time the ribbon brushes against the back of his neck, it reminds him of warmth — of someone’s hands, gentle and sure, and a voice saying, “You can keep it. It suits you.”
By the time dawn touches the fog, Pendleton is asleep at his desk, spectacles crooked, the ribbon still knotted in his hair.
And though the fire burns low, there’s a faint, peaceful smile at the corner of his lips as if in some quiet dream, he’s not working alone anymore.
