quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: As we all know, a gentle touch can move the whole scene. For the TFC grotesques, closeness is something they have never learned, something they have observed from the periphery over the centuries.
And then you come. Your hand rises in pure kindness.
Your palm rests, warmth touching cool skin. Your fingers search through the hair, tracing the small routes, giving them something they never dared to desire.
Head pats!
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 4.2K
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: drabble/s · tfc x gn! reader · head pats · fluff · soft monsters · touch-starved creatures · gentle intimacy · monsters being soft · found family · comfort · no angst just warmth!
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
You Pat Him:
You barely raised your hand before he noticed.
Pierrot’s amber eyes locked onto the motion with the rapt attention of a starving man watching food approach. When your hand touched his head, fingers interlaced through his long white locks, which felt surprisingly soft against your fingertips, he was silent.
Not just paused. Stopped. His whole body went rigid, his eye widening, his lips parting beneath the mask.
Then, slowly, almost impossibly, he leaned into it.
Like a flower turning toward the sun. Like a man dying of thirst finding water. His eyes drifted shut, and a sound escaped—soft, broken, grateful. “No one…” he paused, “No one touches me like this. not anymore.” He lifted a hand to meet yours, pressing your palm harder against his head.
“Please. Don’t stop.”
When you finally had to pull away, he followed your hand with his gaze, dizzy and torn.
“Come back?”
He Pats You:
His hand hovered for an eternity before landing.
Pierrot shuddered at the very idea of tripping up with you—his fingers, long and nervous, were shaking uncontrollably, and his amber eyes scrutinized your face frantically, almost pleadingly, for any indication of hesitation and fear. Every muscle in him was tensed and ready to retreat at the first sign that he was going too far.
When you offered nothing, and then you leaned into his touch the way he had just done, something in his face broke apart. “Oh,” he breathed, that ранe, musical voice of his trembling with wonder. “Oh, you... you like this?”
His touch passed through your hair, filled with a quiet ache, feeling the texture and weight and you beneath the surface. Every slow movement of his hands was almost ceremonial, tremulous and faithful.
“You’re so soft,” he breathed, almost to himself. “So warm. So… here.”
He pulled you to him, forehead to forehead, his breath passing across your skin in a warm murmur.
“I want to do this forever.” The words were raw and sincere, drawn from a deep well within him. “Will you let me do this forever? Please? I’ll be so gentle. I’ll never stop being gentle. I just—I need—”
He pressed a kiss to your hair. Then another. Then another, each one more reverent than the last.
"Mine," he whispered against your skin. "My dear.”
His arms were wrapped around you, hard and probing, a jumble of fear and compassion intertwined like a desperate attempt to mend himself whole again through you. His face was buried in your hair, his breathing shuddering, his entire body shaking with the struggle to contain the emotion you’d awakened within him.
“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you for letting me touch you. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for staying.”
He held you as though you were something fragile and exquisite, something made of spun glass and stardust, something you didn’t touch carelessly.
Something like the most precious thing in his broken, lovely world.
Because, to him, you were.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
You Pat Him:
He saw it coming.
Because Harlequin noticed everything—the movement in your weight, the lift of your arm, the intention in your eyes. His grin sharpened, ready with a teasing comment about how adorable you were being.
Then your hand came down on his head.
His words trailed off.
His neon green eyes snapped open. His tendrils, which were usually drifting lazily, stood stiff as steel. His body locked in place, as if a machine had encountered strange programming.
“What—” His voice cracked. “What are you—”
You stroked softly behind the spot where his ear would be, if he had one.
Then he relaxed, let go of the moment.
Literally sagged, his spine curving, his head dropping, a sound escaping him that was absolutely not a purr (it was definitely a purr).
"That's—" He swallowed hard. "That's not—I don't—"
His hand came up, not to stop you, but to cover his own face, hiding the flush spreading across his cheeks.
"You can't just—" Another swallow. "You can't just do that. Without warning. Without—" He peaked at you through his fingers. "...Again?"
He Pats You:
He approached it like a hunt.
Harlequin moved around you, observing and soaking up everything. His sharp eyes took in every nuance of every facial expression, every variation in your posture, every degree of the angle that constricted your breathing, every degree of touch that made your eyes flutter shut.
His tendrils trailed behind him through the air, yet you can feel the focus—intense, sharper than any second he portrayed on stage.
When he finally managed to deliver the blow, with his hand resting on your head with a surprisingly soft, almost ceremonial gentleness, his grin spread wide, triumphantly so.
“Found it,” he purred, a two-toned whisper that dripped with calm, self-satisfied triumph. “The weak spot.”
His touch had been so accurate, so playful, so skilful, dancing over all your nerves with a chilling precision. He scratched lightly behind your ear, made patterns on your scalp, homing in on the weak spot that made you tremble.
"You make the best faces," he murmured, genuinely delighted. "Little human, melting under my hand like butter in the sun. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are when you're soft? When you're not trying to be tough or clever or anything other than just... you?"
His voice had changed, too, the playful snap giving way to something almost gentle.
He kept at it long after he should have stopped—long after the game was over, long after the punchline had been delivered. He just kept touching you. He just kept looking at you. He kept releasing all those little savoring breaths on you.
“Don’t get too used to this,” he lied, his voice rough.
But his hand never stopped. It never eased off. It never withdrew.
He moved closer, close enough so that his chest was against your own, and the warmth he carried enveloped you. His other hand rose to support your jaw, to bring your face to meet his.
“You're something else, you know that?” His voice was soft, unadorned, as if he was speaking without even thinking about it. “Something I didn't see coming. Something I can't quite pin down.”
His thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light.
"I watch you. All the time. When you're not looking. When you think no one sees." A pause. "I see everything. The way you smile at Pierrot like he's not broken. The way you talk to the Ticket Taker like he's not a filing cabinet with a pulse. The way you look at me like I'm not just... a game."
His hand resumed its easy motion, slowing to a softer beat. Softer.
"I don't know what to do with that. With you. With the way you make me want to—" He stopped, swallowed hard, and said, "Never mind."
But he didn't move away. Didn't retreat behind his usual sharpness.
Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel real.
"You're not supposed to make me feel like this," he whispered. "Soft. Quiet. Human." A breath. "But you do. And I hate it. And I love it. And I don't know which one scares me more."
He pulled back, his grin sliding back into place—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Don't tell anyone I said that." A pause. "One more minute," he murmured. "Just one more. Then I'll let you go…”
He didn't. Not for a long, long time. And when you finally did part, he caught your wrist—just once—and pressed a kiss to your palm.
"Forgetting something," he lied again. "Just... making sure you remember who found your weak spot first." But the way he looked at you as he walked away...
That wasn't a game at all.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
You Pat Him:
Your hand reached for him slowly—not out of fear, but out of respect.
The Jester had an air, a weight, about him that made even the simplest gesture, even the simplest touch, seem out of reach.
His burning purple eyes followed your approach, perfectly still, perfectly patient. One word, one glance, one gesture of that enormous presence could have stopped you in your tracks. One word, one glance, one gesture of displeasure, without even moving a muscle, could have sent you running.
He didn't.
Your hand had been resting on the curve of his head, avoiding the area of the horns, the one place you could touch without climbing all over him like he was a mountain. It had been warm, firm, real.
And then, almost unbelievably, the eyes had changed. Just a little. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice the change had occurred.
"Bold," the voice had rumbled, low enough that you were the only one who heard it. "No one touches me."
His hand had come up, slow, deliberate, and had covered yours. Not moving it. Not pulling it away. Simply... holding it there. Accepting it.
"You're either very brave," he had murmured, "or very foolish, little human." A pause, heavy as a weight you can’t quite shake. “...I haven’t decided which I prefer.” His thumb brushed your knuckles—once. Just enough to register, to linger without rushing.
He didn’t let you go. Didn’t step away.
Just existed in that moment, letting you touch him, letting you see him, letting you be the one person in centuries bold enough to try. When you started to pull back, his grip tightened—barely, but enough. “Stay,” he murmured, not a command but a request.
So you stayed. And the Jester, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, simply... was. Held. Touched. Seen.
By you.
He Pats You:
When Jester’s hand descended, time stood still.
Not with any sort of flourish, but with the weight of his attention, the force of his presence, focused intently on you. His hand came down, resting over your head, warm, heavy, but strangely gentle.
The weight of his gaze fell on you, and you felt it, steady and heavy, while the rest of the world melted away: the distant din of the circus, the soft glare of the lantern, the beat of your own heart. It was all about him, his presence, his hand, this instant.
His hand was warm and real, solid and steady, and somehow that didn’t contradict the softness of his touch. He wasn’t pushing, grabbing, possessing. More like he was simply resting his hand on you, and that was somehow a blessing, a promise.
“You fit,” he said, and his deep voice was full of awe. “Under my hand. You fit.”
His thumb moved through your hair, slow and careful. He studied it, felt it, explored it. He learned the texture, the weight, the you inside it.
“This is... pleasing,” he says, the words costing him something to produce. He speaks from a place that doesn't often speak. “The texture. The warmth. The way you trust me enough to let this.”
He says it again, and again, his hand moving through your hair as a question, a venture, a statement.
Nobody touches the Jester. Nobody dares.
And yet here you are, underneath his touch, soft and trusting, yours in a way he hadn't realized he might want you to be.
He finally spoke, his words a little softer now, a little more intimate. "You can have this whenever you want. My attention. My touch." A pause followed, a heavy one, a meaningful one. "My softness. I don’t give it away easily. I don’t give it at all. But for you..."
He left that sentence hanging, unfinished.
Because his hand was resting on top of your head, still, still touching, still connected. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t done anything but stand there with you in that moment, allowing you access to him in a way he’d never allowed anyone else."
His other hand rose to cup your jaw. He tilted your face up to meet the intensity of his gaze.
"You are mine," he said quietly. Not a question. A fact. "Do you understand? In this moment, in this touch, in this softness—you are mine."
His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I..." A pause. The words caught. "I am yours. However briefly. However impossibly. Yours." He pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just enough to feel real.
Then he straightened, his hand giving one last, gentle pass over your hair before, reluctantly withdrawing. "You may return," he said, his voice regaining its usual weight. "When you wish. For more... softness." A pause. "I will be here."
And the way he looked at you as he turned away...
That wasn't a decree at all.
That was a promise.
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
You Pat Him:
He froze completely.
The Ticket Taker’s figure went stiff, first white, then white and blue eyes flashing in rapid, chaotic bursts—like a system suddenly overloaded. His pen suspended mid-word. His shoulders locked. Every muscle became a rigid monument of startled professionalism.
“Visitor,” he uttered, the voice flat but tight. “What are you—”
You touched lightly at the back of the Ticket Taker’s skull, at the point where his collar met his hair in perfect starch and perfect grooming.
His breath caught. "I don't—this isn't—" He swallowed, hard. "There’s no protocol for—" He raised a hand, not to stop you, but to grasp his own sleeve. A desperate attempt at grounding himself.
"If you continue to press the issue," he went on, "then I shall be forced to..." He hesitated, unable to find the words for this, the proper construct for kindness.
"...Again," he breathed at last. "If you must. I suppose I could... endure... this moment.”
He Pats You:
He approached it like a task.
Because the Ticket Taker approached each instant as if it were a task to be fulfilled—exact, precise, businesslike.
His hand came down with a precise angle, a precise rhythm, as if he had spent years studying the art of quiet observation. When it came down on your head, its pressure was just so neither too hard, nor too soft.
It started out quietly—his eyes relaxing, his shoulders unkinking from their usual rigidity. His hands, those tightly coiled instruments of precision, relaxed and fell into a natural rhythm, unashamed to meander. He touched you without a plan—threading through your hair, making slow, aimless circles on your scalp, finding you by feel rather than by numbers on a page.
"This is... pleasant," he admitted softly, the edge in his tone replaced by something softer, more gentle.
There was a pause, his fingers continuing their movement, steady, sure.
"Your softness, your warmth, the way you seek out the contact without hesitation." Another pause, longer than the last.
"I have made countless observations about you, your habits, your preferences, your patterns." His hand paused again, the fingers continuing their movement.
"But this... this was not in any file." His fingers continued, well past the time when the data collection would have been finished, well past the time when any rational being would have stopped.
"I find myself... reluctant to stop."
His words came hard, like they had to be wrestled out. It was in the way his grid of eyes darted, faster and faster, in the slight clench of his jaw. It was in the way his stiff, orderly life seemed to try and avoid feeling.
“Is that… acceptable?”
The question was soft, tentative, out of character for the man, out of character for the Ticket Taker, the man who processes, files, controls everything, asking for permission to continue touching you.
You nodded.
He exhaled, a soft sound, almost relieved, like he’d been holding his breath without even knowing it.
His hand found its rhythm again, this time gentle, steady, present.
“You are,” he whispered, the words falling into something intimate, “the most pleasing variable I’ve ever met.” The words were suspended there, just full of significance.
Not 'specimen.' Not 'subject.' Not 'visitor.'
His other hand rose, hesitantly, and hovered close to your face.
"May I?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.
You nodded, and he cupped your cheek in a way that felt almost impossible. His thumb moved across your cheekbone, your jaw, the edge of your mouth, and each gesture was a question, a discovery, a revelation.
"You're warm," he observed, his voice steady and his tone full of awe. "Always so warm." He hesitated, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I've noticed that before, but..." He cleared his throat. "It's different, feeling it. You're different."
He pulled you close, not in anger, not in need, but in a way that felt almost certain, almost safe.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said, admitting defeat. “With you. With the way you make me want to… stop filing. Stop processing. Just… be. Here. With you.”
His forehead against yours, his grid-eyed gaze melting away to nothing.
“This is inefficient,” he said, his voice a whisper against your skin. “This is… illogical. This is everything I’ve spent centuries avoiding.”
He paused, breathed, and then said:
“I don’t care for once.”
He kept you there, in the quiet of his kingdom, his hand still tangled in your hair, his other hand still cradling your face.
He moved closer, his words brushing against your lips. “Take it if you want. When you want. My time. My attention. My… gentleness.” He paused, then added, “If that would be... acceptable.”
He pressed forward, “I find myself... reluctant to stop.” The words seemed to cost him. “Is that... acceptable?” When you nodded, a sound escaped him, a sound almost like a sigh of relief, and he went on.
“You are,” he murmured, “the most pleasing variable I have ever encountered.”
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
You Pat Him:
His head was cocked at an odd angle—a chance since he’s too tall for you to reach, his eyes fixed intently upon you as you approached, as if he were some kind of specimen under glass.
“Curious,” he said, his voice almost clinical. “What is your—”
And before he could complete the question, your hand reached out to touch his head, his hood, wherever that dark shape could be said to possess a head.
The light from his goggles shone brightly cyan as he talked.
“Physical contact. Voluntary. With me.” He sounded shocked. “Fascinating. Your heart rate increases and levels off immediately. Your pupils dilate, yet remain constricted. You’re not afraid; you’re enjoying this.”
He leaned forward just enough for you to notice.
“Pleasant,” he said. “The pressure. The warmth. The intent behind it.”
His eyes locked onto you with renewed interest.
“I think I’d like to research this further—the effects of light touch on your physiology. With your permission, naturally, sweetie.”
He Pats You:
His touch began as clinical curiosity, precise and methodical. His cyan eye scanned you like a specimen under a microscope, cataloging every micro-expression, every twitch, every physiological response to his fingers in your hair.
“Fascinating,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “Piloerection at the base of the scalp. Pupil dilation within normal bounds but clearly reactive. Heart rate…” He paused, listening to the rhythm. “Elevated, yet not a fear signal—more like interest, perhaps pleasure.”
His fingers moved with care, tracing the contours of your head with a scientist’s exactitude.
And then something changed. It was small, a shift away from clinical detail and towards warmth, a softness creeping into his analytical eyes.
“Aha,” he breathed, his tone tinged with true surprise. “I see now. The allure.”
His hands continued to move through your hair, softer than you had ever heard, softer than you had ever felt.
“Your answers are lovely,” he said, his tone quiet, a quietness that was new, a quietness that was different.
“The ease with which you let go, relaxing against my touch. The trust you place in me, closing your eyes, leaning forward, offering yourself to my hands, unhesitating.” His thumb traced the shell of your ear, feather-light.
"I have studied many subjects over the centuries. Countless specimens.” A pause. "None of them have ever looked at me the way you do. Like I'm not something to be feared. Like I'm just... me."
He continued on, lost in what he was seeing, and something more, something that could have been affection had he kept a file for such things.
“I could do this for hours,” he said, his words nearly dreamy. “Analyze the effects of gentle touch on your body, catalog all of your reactions, measure all of your shivers and sighs.” A pause. “Enjoy the process. Enjoy you.”
His cyan goggles looked at yours, and for a moment, there was nothing clinical about it.
"Would you permit that? Extended observation? For... science?"
The word was almost a joke now—a thin veil over something realer, something softer, something he didn't have a name for.
His eyes glinted, but this time, they were softer, almost affectionate.
“You know, sweetie,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, the diminutive slipping out as if it had been there all the time, “I have spent centuries searching for anomalies, for exceptions to every rule, for things that refuse to be categorized.”
His hand never wavered in its gentle, unhurried caress.
“I thought I was searching for data, for discoveries, for breakthroughs.” Pause. “I was searching for you, but I didn’t even know it.”
He drew you closer, settling you at his side, his fingers continuing their gentle, unhurried stroking through your hair.
“Stay,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “just a little longer, please, I want to remember this, the weight of you, the warmth, the feeling of you pressed against me as if you belonged there, as if you had been meant to be there.”
Pause, soft now, the word almost a caress, almost an acknowledgement, almost a claim.
“You are my favorite specimen, my most interesting subject.” Pause, searching for words that didn’t exist in his medical lexicon.
And for the first time in centuries, the Doctor didn’t just observe...
...didn’t just study, didn’t just think—he felt.
✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶
You Pat Her:
She froze the moment you touched her.
Not from fear, but from awe. Her one pink eye opened wide with a spark of light, and she shivered at your touch. When you scratched gently behind her horns, she let out a little breathless moan.
Nobody touches her. Nobody sees her. Nobody—
Except you.
Her hands reached out to grip your sleeve, drawing you closer to her. Her face pressed into your hand, hungry for more touch, more warmth, more reassurance that all of this was real.
When you finally pulled your hand back, she looked up at you with a sky full of stars in her eyes—thankful, but sad from loneliness. And then she reached out to put your hand back on her head, nodding resolutely.
Again. Please. Never stop.
She Pats You (Silently?):
Her touch was a whisper—almost nothing, cautious, curious, hopeful.
And when you didn’t pull back, when you moved closer to it, her whole face changed to joy. Pure joy, quiet joy, joy unadorned. She handled you with a gentle haste, her small hands outlining you, learning the feel of your hair, the warmth of your skin. Each touch was a question:
Is this okay? Do you want this? Do you want me?
As you nodded, and your smile touched hers, she made a noise that was not a noise—a tremor of joy that you felt rather than heard. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes shut, her hands steady on your face.
Thank you. For really seeing me. For touching me. For staying.
When you had to go, she held your sleeve once again, and pressed a kiss into your palm.
Come back. Please come back. I’ll be here.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Whenever i think about how gentle Pierrot tries to be with MC despite the fact that hes a monster whos killed several and will kill again,all i can think about is how much the others are probably thinking
I think that when you're overstimulated you should appear kind of grayed out and no one should be able to interact with you like a locked character in a video game
Welcome To Peanut’s Circus @theholypeanut - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
