#mr pendleton

゛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.

Summer had arrived in London, and with it, the windows were flung wide.

Chapter rating: Universal, general audience

Relationships: Sir Pentious x Gender Neutral reader

[Chapter one - The Singular Gent]

Chapter Two - The Heat Of First Words

After tracing your shortcut for weeks more, it had become your habit to exchange bashful smiles and meek greetings with the strange bespectacled man, when your gazes did meet. Yet, you never uttered a word. He never did open wide his window, neither to offer a greeting nor to wish you a good morning, afternoon, or evening.

Was he a hermit? A monk, perhaps? Though his appearance did not resemble any monk you had previously beheld. He did not resemble any other man with his lengthy hair, for that matter. It did occur to you that perhaps he were a man of science, considering you witnessed what seemed to be implements of engineering resting upon the window ledge. You were not acquainted with many men of science, save perhaps for a fellow named Brunel, though he had been deceased twenty years or more.

When the weather had reached its most sweltering point in Whitechapel, you resolved upon a promenade. You had hoped that the sea's breath might waft up the Thames, a solace of sorts. Naturally, you did frequent your customary route, on the chance that your enigmatic gentleman might have a window ajar, and you did harbour the hope that he would be gazing out, as he usually now did.

As you rounded the corner, your heart gave a joyful leap. There he was, leaning from the window. His collars were undone, his tie was ever so slightly disarranged, and his long, raven locks were swept aside over his shoulder, tied off with a piece of twine, affording his neck a mere trifle of a breeze. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, as if to ward off the oppressive summer heat. He wiped his brow delicately with a handkerchief. You could see that grease or oil had dirtied his forearm. An engineer? You posed the thought to yourself. Gazing upward, you approached the window, now in full measure as was now customary.

The gentleman, now aware of your presence, granted your customary small smile and a modest wave. His gaze, inquisitive, peered at you from behind his golden framed spectacles. You returned the fellow's gesture, calling forth, "Good Afternoon!" Summoning the courage to address him now directly. If your face had not already grown ruddy from the sun, they jad grown ruddy from addressing the gentleman. He appeared almost astonished, as though he was a specter or ghost, newly perceived.

"Good afternoon!" he offered in return, with a certain timidity. A rasp lent itself to his voice. A palpable tension hung in the air as you stopped in your steps.

"Pray, good sir," you started, "I find it most irregular that we have been exchanging greetings near every day for weeks, and yet remain unacquainted. Might I be so bold as to enquire as to your name?" You ventured. Again, the gentleman bore a look that states that he was almost startled, almost troubled, yet a faint smile did grace his countenance.

"Pendleton," He declared. ",and might I enquire, what name it is that you bear?" You gave your name to him, and his expression brightened considerably. You noticed straight away, that this gentleman was not bred in Whitechapel. His manner of speech, a curious blending with Northern tones, denoted a certain degree of refinement. A well spoken chap. You proceeded:

"Might I enquire as to your occupation?" His face for the first time you had seen it, broke into a most radiant smile, his pearly whites were openly displayed for the world to observe, and one might now discern a distinct hook to his nose.

"I am an inventor, extraordinaire!" He proclaimed, now leaning from the window, supported by his hands, his face alight with joyous surprise that someone had paused to lend an ear. His eyes burnt with ardent fervour. You might've fancied that he were not altogether accustomed to socializing. His bearing, his very tone, possessed a singular sort of endearing enthusiasm. You found your heart fluttering.

"O! In the same manner as Brunel?" In honesty, you did not possess much of an understanding regarding the current inventor's sphere, yet you desired to project an air of...A thing of likely interest to the gentleman. You desired further knowledge of this, this Mr. Pendleton.

"A most great inspiration, indeed! Were it not for his influence, I should not be engaged in my current pursuits!" He straightened, his back slightly aching from his angle at the window. "And yourself? A fellow inventor?" The notion elicites a rather broad smile from yourself. Amusement passed through your lips in the form of a scoff. "I? No! Never! Though I confess to admiring the industry."

The noonday sun, high in the heavens, began to tingle any flesh left bare. You rubbed the nape of your neck, in a vain attempt to soothe the discomfort. "I should be utterly delighted to converse, Mr. Pendleton, but, I must take my leave." You paused. "Might we, perhaps, resume on another day?" You asked with hope. A fleeting shadow of disappointment momentarily crossed Mr. Pendleton's features, before his gentle smile returned. "Indeed! It's a pleasure at long last to have formed your acquaintance." With that, with the merest bow of your head, you took to the streets, river-bound. Pendleton, he retreated forthwith into the cool shelter of his workshop.

After rescuing you from the downpour, you now find yourself sitting for the first time, face to face with Mr Pendleton

Rating: General audiences

Relationships: Sir Pentious x reader

[Chapter one]

Chapter four - By Lamplight

The pair of you ascended the staircase to Mr Pendleton's workshop, illuminated by the glow of his lamp. The tips of your ears and fingers did now burn from the contrast of cold without to some warmth within.

Neither of you uttered a syllable. Mr. Pendleton's stomach tied itself into knots most grievous. He never had invited a soul into his workshop previously. Why had he bidden you enterance? He had beheld plenty of cold, damp urchins upon the thoroughfare, and not one had received an invitation within. Was it, perhaps, rhat he viewed you now as a friend?

At the staircase's summit , another wooden door sat guarding an entrance, through which Mr. Pendleton ushered you.

"Please, do take a seat." Said he, his voice most light and genuine with a faint hint of franticity. The chamber was of considerable size, complete with papers, tools, and mechanical components the likes of which you had never beheld. In one corner, a workbench stood laden with diverse mechanical components: screws, bolts, rivets, and small metal sheets, each within its pot or box. Above, papers hung, pinned to a line. Plans? Instructions, perchance? More metal pieces lined the walls toward the opposite corner, where bookcases stood filled with volumes on engineering, mechanics, and sciences, one may presume. Stray papers did nestle between and across the tomes, some books slumping where their neighbours had been removed and left elsewhere, and then there existed the window, between two other corners, which harbored a box and a rack with scrolls and more papers. Before it stood a desk, furnished with implements for the drafting of plans and tools beyond your recognition. A solitary chair was thrust aside, carelessly. In the fourth and final corner, resided a modest tea station, furnished with a diminutive stove and kettle. A solitary pan sat forlornly to one side, companioned by a bread bin.

"I must express my apologies for this disarray!" Mr. Pendleton started "I am not accustomed to receiving callers," As you took your seat upon the chair, it did strike you that this was the first instance of coming face to face with the gentleman. He possessed a stature exceeding your imaginings. Removing his hat, he suspended it from the doorknob, bestowing his scarf upon a hanging line. Divesting himself of his coat, he homed it upon a desk. His hair tumbled about his shoulders. "Might I offer you some tea?" He did at long last cease his motions to regard you, and then did gasp.

"Good heavens, where are my manners?" He scolded himself. With haste, he set the oil lamp before you and turned it up. "Might I relieve you of your coat? You must be yet quite frozen; permit me to find something to dry yourself..." His eyes held a a slight panic as he surveyed his workshop. He offered the shawl, which but an hour ago had graced his very own shoulders.

"No, that simply will not suffice." He murmured, before taking himself off to rummage elsewhere. You drew the shawl closer about yourself, finding immense comfort in its dry warmth and, truth be told, his very scent, though such a thing you'd never confess! From a far cabinet, he produced a sheet, old and dusty, and somewhat afflicted by moths.

"I beg your pardon, it is not the most homely of circumstances, yet at the very least, it is dry."

"Thank you." You smiled softly. The gentleman relieved you of the burden of your outer clothes, as much as proper, arranging it across the window ledge in the earnest hope that it might dry. You then baptized yourself in the sheet, over the shawl, enfolding it about your shoulders. Mr. Pendleton lingered a moment, as though lost in a daze, before he recovered himself with a most energetic bounce upon his heels.

"Yes! Tea! Of course!"

You sat in silence, save for the rain's percussion against the window and Mr. Pendleton's tea brewing. You swallow, throat commencing to pain you; a common cold most likely taking root.

"This be the very first occasion upon which we have found ourselves face to face." You mused, striving to shatter the silence.

"Indeed, it would appear so," Mr. Pendleton replied.

"I am sorry that it is owing to my dampened state." You offered a wry smile. The man, having concluded the brewing of the tea, poured two teacupfuls. He placed one before you, whilst he stood with a certain awkwardness across the table. You realised it was owing to your occupation of the only seat within the workshop.

"Oh, do you—"

The man shook his head.

"No, no, I implore you, be seated." He gestured that all was quite in order. He glanced about, quite unnerved for a moment even in his own habitat, unaccustomed as he was to such company. You, too, did likewise. Both your hearts did flutter most urgently.

"A sudden fancy strikes me," You start, suddenly, "now that this circumstance has come about, why don't we recount something about ourselves?Merely because our conversation transpires not from a window, it surely won't be so vastly dissimilar."

Winter's chill has reached London. The Yuletide season has stirred within you a desire to procure a gift for your newfound friend.

Please note, this chapter serves mainly as a narration and a setting of the scene. You can pass it by, yet writing a Christmas scene in Victorian London really did inspire me (I was loosely inspired by the picture accompanying this chapter)

Rating: General audiences

Relationships: Sir Pentious x reader

[Chapter one]

Chapter five - A gift for the gentleman

From that momentous evening onward, you and Mr. Pendleton had fostered a friendship. When time permitted, you would partake of tea together in the afternoons. He would unveil his contraptions and inventions, be they works in progress or completed marvels. He became animated and quite lively when so engaged, evincing a bright, fervent passion for his pursuits. His eyes shone brilliantly, his arms gesticulated with fervor, and once, on occasion, his fingers became entangled in his hair as he spoke, which, though it ought not have, did elicit a giggle from yourself. This gentleman, whom you had come to know over those past months, had grown exceedingly endearing. Would you go as far to admit that you have fostered affections for the gentleman? You didn't quite know. You knew, however, that each time his countenance did brighten with a smile, each instance of his exhilaration, so too did your own spirit take flight.

Your afternoon visits with Mr. Pendleton were the highlights of your week, an anticipated break from the ceaseless regularity of your daily labors. During those hours, you often found yourself marveling not just at the intricate mechanism of his creations, the whirling brass gears, the clever deployment of springs and levers, but at the subtlety of his character. He possessed a surprising, dry wit, often couched in the language of engineering, comparing a recalcitrant tea kettle to a poorly calibrated steam engine, which always earned a soft laugh from your breast. Yet, beneath the eccentricity and the endless tinkering, you perceived a deep-seated loneliness, a solitude. It was this unspoken kinship, perhaps, that fostered the peculiar warmth you felt in his presence.

The Yuletide season did approach with ever hastening pace. With no kin with whom to celebrate, you had, in years past, often resorted to spending it at the church. No public houses were to be opened. You deemed it unavailing to toil on the holiest of days. You did ponder what your enigmatic friend might be doing, never having spoken of family, nor even any friends, for that matter. It gave you pause to reflect – a gift. You must. For him.

The necessity of procuring a suitable gift occupied your thoughts for many days. What token could adequately convey the burgeoning esteem you held for such a singular gentleman? It could not be merely ornamental, for Mr. Pendleton was a man of utility and purpose, nor could it be too extravagant, lest it cause him embarrassment. You considered a new ledger for his meticulous notes, or perhaps a rare component for one of his devices, but these seemed too impersonal. No, the gift needed to be an expression of comfort and care, something to ward off the chill not merely of the London winter, but of his solitary existence. The image of him, slight and animated, hunched over his desk in the drafts of his workshop, solidified your resolution: a gift of warmth was paramount. A quilt.

Upon a brisk afternoon's walk, you embarked on your quest. The pristine snow, white as lilies, did crunch most delightfully beneath your boots. Want of caution would find the winter sun refracting off the snow's face, briefly blinding you. To avoid spoiling the surprise, you knew you would profess the plan to dear Mr Pendleton, you trod another road. With haste, you traversed Canon Street Road, river-bound, in quest of a Christmas market for perusal. The newly formed Salvation Army serenaded passersby at the street corner with Christmas carols, clad in furs of verdant and umber hues, as is the custom at this time of the year. Newsboys, swathed in coats of an exceeding largeness, did proclaim the day's tidings: "Protestors apprehended in Trafalgar Square!" Their mothers or fathers probably assured them they would grow into their coats.

It proved rather difficult to suppress a festive sentiment. With bands of the Salvation Army and other carolers, the strains of Good King Wenceslas and O Holy Night did permeate the streets of London. The nose was regaled by a fragrant bouquet of mince pies and spiced wines.

At long last, you chanced upon a market, brimming with Yuletide wares of every description. Confections aplenty, wines of distinction, wooden playthings for the younglings, and perfumes most fragrant. Yet, your heart was set on procuring a quilt for Mr. Pendleton. That autumnal eve made you realize the gentleman must suffer come winter's nights. Yes, his shawl was mostly wrapped about him, yet seemed to afford hardly any comfort. A quilt is what the man required, and maybe, if procured at a fair price, a bottle of wine to share.

Your eyes perused the stalls, tempted to procure an item for your own self. At long last, your gaze landed upon the perfect gift. A quilt, depicting a charming village scene of quaint and cozy scenery, wrought in traditional patchwork. Each patchwork block depicted a different feature, some two-storied homes, others bearing the semblance of petite shops or a church, all adorned with snowy winter embroidery. The outer border possessed especial charm, a continuous print of elaborate Christmas trees encircling the entirety of the quilt, framed by a slender, crimson inner border. You held it aloft, the better to discern its qualities. The craftsmanship was, indeed, quite fine. Upon enquiring further from the tradesman, it was revealed to be stuffed with duck down. An agreement was struck, and a prodigious sum of three English pounds exchanged hands, reduced from five after a spirited negotiation. You possessed sufficient funds for a bottle of spiced wine, priced at one shilling and sixpence.

You made haste homeward to wrap the gifts before the hour turned late.