Sadly, he's deathly afraid of ruining you, afraid that he'll somehow taint you with his touch. You weren't meant for his world, ugly and harsh and brutal. You weren't meant for him.

But oh gods, with every kind word, every soft stroke of your hand over his arm, with every heavy look and gentle smile, he can feel the vice-like grasp on his composure slipping.

Two words: TOUCH. STARVED.

His heart starts to jack-hammer if you do so much as brush past him.

You have to make the first move, otherwise he'll be forever stuck hiding his feelings away and stealing guilty touches to his neglected manhood every night after you've fallen asleep.

Romance was never in the cards for the Pseudo. He thought he'd live and die as a hermit, alone and gruff in his own little world.

He was a virgin when you met him.

He's a man who's entire life has been lived waiting for the next fight, the next bruise or black eye, so to suddenly be treated in a way that isn't intended to harm turns his entire world on its head.

When he sees you naked for the first time, bathed in the silvery moonlight outside his tent without a stitch of clothing on, he thought he'd died and gone to the afterlife.

You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, like a fairy tale come to life right in front of him.

That is, of course, when his self-doubt sets in. Pseudo has always been confident in all things. He's borderline arrogant. But now he's suddenly forced to wonder what you might think of him when he finally removes his loincloth....

He tries to convince you that this is a very bad idea, an argument which you counter by carefully taking his enormous hand in your own and pressing his palm to your chest, breaking whatever barrier he'd put up between the pair of you.

Pseudo might not know what he's doing, but that isn't to say he's not a damn fast learner.

He's no stranger to exerting control where he needs to, adept as he is in various martial arts. He may be a brute on the battlefield but with you, he's painfully delicate, treating you with more care than you thought the rough and tumble hermit would ever be capable of.

He just wants to get this right. He's almost reverent in his attention, curious to explore your anatomy with his strong, slender fingers. He didn't even consider that his tongue could be used as a tool until he caught that first scent of your arousal, and suddenly his curiosity turned into a hunger so profound, he just let instinct guide him and tugged your legs apart for easier access.

Pseudo has a voracious appetite, that much you learn very early on. He'll growl and wrench you back towards him if you start trying to wriggle out of his grasp to escape his unrelenting attention.

Guttural grunts, gravelly moans and hard, ragged puffs of air are all the sounds he emits, sometimes even daring to slip in the odd praise here and there. Which gives you the idea to praise him back.

That's how you discover exactly what it takes to make Pseudo fall to pieces beneath you.

When you turn the tables on him and introduce him to his first head, he can barely control himself, twitchy and uncertain, fighting to keep his legs apart as he lays flat on his back and gapes up at the stars in dazzled wonder.

He realises, in the midst of everything, that... he needs you. He needs you to stay with him. The thought of you leaving or disappearing as suddenly as you appeared in his life fills him with paralysing dread, and he starts clinging to you, lost in the murk of arousal and protective instinct, rambling about how you're his now, how he'll kick the kak out of anyone who so much as looks at you in a way he doesn't like.

He's still clingy long after you've both finished. "Can we just... stay like this for a bit?"

After your first night together, Pseudo gets a lot more confident. He's strong, so he'll hoist you up into his arms with ease and press you up against a wall or, hell, even a tree, just something that'll keep you pinned in place while he leaves sloppy, eager kisses all over your neck, your chest, wherever he can reach.

He wants to leave some kind of mark on you, just so the other denizens of Zenozoik know you're off-limits.

You try your best to hide it from Pseudo. But while he might be a gruff, oblivious grump most of the time, even he’s not dense enough to miss the tell-tale signs of pain when he sees them.

“You hurtin’?” he asks point-blank one night, staring unwaveringly at you as you lay on your back in the grass, just out of range of the light cast by his campfire. He aims for aloof, misses spectacularly, and lands on undeniable concern.

Stiffening at the sound of his voice, you manage to utter a quiet, “No,” which is about as convincing as one of Eo’s sales pitches.

He’s… worried isn’t quite the right word. Bothered. He’s bothered by your behaviour. You keep disappearing, and every time you tell him to give you some privacy, he’s left pacing tracks in the dirt, plagued by the idea that you’ll either be snatched up by one of Gemini’s goons, or that you’ll just… vanish. Just like that. As easily and inexplicably as you’d appeared in his life.

The Boy notices that you’ve been glum, absent and unusually quiet of late. He worries aloud to his Guardian, wondering if he’s upset you somehow. Pseudo confesses that it’s far more likely you’re upset with him, not the Boy.

You overhear their conversation and make an effort to be more chipper, despite the pain that threatens to double you over and the horrendous discomfort of travelling through Zenozoik’s harsh landscape when every ten steps seems to jostle more blood from your body, and you’re forced to hide your grimaces lest you risk drawing the attention of your companions.

But their attention is already on you, Pseudo’s most of all.

You’re hurting. He’d know the look of pain even on a face as strange and otherworldly as yours. What he doesn’t know, is why you seem so determined to hide it.

He watches you like a hawk – the hand that rubs tenderly over your stomach, the twist of your lips when you squeeze your eyes shut and bare your teeth once you think he’s fallen asleep, like something is digging into your flesh with its claws.

It’s three days into your ordeal that everything comes to a head.

You don’t even notice that Pseudo has dropped behind you as you all make your way up the winding, cragged slopes of the Zonectic Mountains. You’re too deep inside your own head, only pulled out of it when his voice suddenly cracks through the air behind you.  

“Kak!”

Your head shoots up and you falter, nearly tripping in your haste to turn and see where the danger is.

You haven’t even made it halfway around when Pseudo promptly slams into your back.

“Hey!” you cry as he hauls you off your feet and all but frog-marches you towards a large, flat-topped boulder protruding from the centre of the trail.

As soon as your knees hit the side of the rock, he stops.

Ignoring your bleats of alarm and the startled Boy squawking questions in his ear, Pseudo presses an enormous palm between your shoulders and forces you down, bending you at the waist until your torso is pressed against the rough, cold rock.

With a belligerent yell, you attempt to lift your head and glare at him, barking out his name. “Pseudo! What the Hell do you think you’re-!” A sharp, shrill scream tears its way out of your throat when the Hermit suddenly pushes two calloused but gentle fingers right into the gusset of your trousers, probing carefully at the stiff material.

Bursting into a panic, you kick back reflexively, your heel connecting with his shin.

He grunts, pulling away slightly and giving you enough leeway to twist your head around to see him holding his fingers up in front of his face, inspecting them through narrow, jaundiced eyes. The pads of his fingertips... they're...

Oh… Oh god, no.

“You’re hurt,” he growls, feverish and urgent, and there’s malice in his words like a jagged blade, pointing at whoever dared to lay their hands on you. You can see his mind racing back, trying to pinpoint the moment it must have happened.

Now, you think, would be the perfect time for a monster to show up and finish you off. It’d probably be less painful than being bent awkwardly over a rock whilst Pseudo turns his focus onto the spots of deep, dark crimson staining the back of your trousers.

If he weren’t so alarmed, he might have balked at the intimacy of touching you here, but right now, his only concern is finding out how bad the damage is and fixing it.

You nearly have a heart attack when his fingers slip beneath your waistband and start to pull.

“Let me see,” he grunts whilst you thrash against his grip, shrieking his name so loudly that your voice cracks with fear, and that’s what finally gives him pause.

“Get off!” you blurt.

“We need to heal you,” he utters, suddenly whipping towards the Boy who has landed on the ground nearby, anxiously wringing his hands, “Kid, you can heal her right? Use me. Use me to heal her, now!”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Pseudo,” you snap, “Let me up! I’m not hurt!”  

“You’re bleeding.”

Hopefully to death, if the embarrassment doesn’t kill you first.

There are tears glistening at the corners of your eyes, and Pseudo spots them in the grey light, going rigid as he watches them break free of your lashes and roll down your cheeks. “If you let me go, I’ll tell you what’s going on,” you promise, “Just, please stop!”

And as if he finally registers the compromising position he has you in, and the terrified whites of your eyes, he pulls back, allowing you to whirl around and press your spine against the rock behind you, sinking down until you hit the ground with a thud.

You’re beyond mortified, sick with humiliation. The tips of your ears feel like they’re sunburned, and you can’t bring yourself to meet Pseudo’s gaze, not even when he drops to his knees in front of you and stares hard at your face, his bruising fists clenched on top of each thigh.

“Who did this to you?” he rumbles dangerously.

You never thought, in all your wildest dreams, that you’d one day have to explain the menstrual cycle to a seven-foot-something Hermit who has never even met a human before, let alone one who suffers with periods.

The Boy, you send off to one side, far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation between you and his guardian. He sulks, of course, worried out of his feathers, but after some protesting, he begrudgingly obliges.

You try to keep things clean for Pseudo’s sake, the details aren’t important. All he needs to know is that, no, you’re not dying. No, you’re not injured, followed by a much more emphatic ‘No!’ he cannot see where you’re hurt!

His expression falls steadily from indignation to shellshock over the course of your explanation, and his eyes flick down to your ripped shirt when you tell him how you’ve been… hiding your problem.

“Every month?” he whispers when you're finished, swallowing thickly.

“Yup,” you groan, popping the ‘p.’

Psuedo looks down at his hands, twined together in his lap. “Kak,” he utters, peering back up at you after a moment to add, “Kak…”

“Preaching to the choir, Soods.”

Now he’s the one who’s embarrassed. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he presses, pretending the nickname doesn’t cause his stomach to flip.

“Because!” Curling your arms around your knees, you bury your face in them and huff, “It’s embarrassing.”

“How come?”

“I mean… The blood, it’s from… you know…” You trail off, pulling a face. People generally don’t like hearing about it, you’ve known other men who blanch at the mere mention of periods, so why would Pseudo want to know the gory details?

“Blood’s just blood,” he sniffs instead, “Doesn’t matter where it’s from.”

Hesitant, you draw your gaze up from behind your knees and blink at him tiredly. Huh.

"Shit... M'gonna need some new trousers," you deflect, missing the streak of inspiration that darts across Pseudo's face.

He’s fairly miffed that you didn’t tell him about the issue you were having sooner. Could have saved yourself a lot of trouble.

The very same night, Pseudo pitches camp and leaves you there with the Boy, telling you both that he has an errand to run. He’s barely gone an hour, but by the time he returns, both you and the kid have fallen asleep together, the latter clutched protectively to your chest within the tent.

It’s too dark for anyone to say they saw the fond smile working at Pseudo’s jaw.

With a grunt, the Hermit drops down near the firepit and gets to work.

The next morning sees you groggily pulling yourself from the tent, only to almost trip over a neat pile of cloth on the ground. Gawking, you realise they’ve all been cut into strips, clean and soft and… the best thing to suit your needs. And there, next to the pile...

"Ha... Sneaky bastard," you murmur, holding up a pair of loose, black breeches. They'll be enormous on you, but they're clean, and they're wearable. And they're black. Harder to see stains on black clothes, after all.

Suddenly misty-eyed, you turn to see Pseudo crouching over the cauldron with his back to you.

When you open your mouth to croak out a quiet but grateful ‘thank you,’ he merely grunts in response and twists around to toss something in your direction.

Fumblingly, you manage to catch it, glancing down at the smooth, glass vial in your hand. A fizzing, scarlet liquid sloshes within.

“Somethin’ I cook up if ever I eat food that's gone bad,” Pseudo elaborates, shrugging a shoulder and turning back to his fire, “Maybe it’ll settle your stomach too… If you want.”

He pretends not to hear you pad softly across the grass towards him.

Even crouched down to tend the flames, he’s still tall, but not tall enough that you can’t reach.

Planting your hands gently on his bulbous shoulders, you feel the muscles jump slightly at your touch. It must be testament to how much he’s coming to trust you, because while Pseudo gives a start, he doesn’t pull away. Merely frowns at the flames near his feet in confusion as you lean over his shoulder and push your mouth close to his ear.

“Thanks Pseudo,” you whisper, and before you can think better of it, you press a chaste kiss to the side of his temple, hardly minding the coarse, leathery texture beneath your lips. A week ago, you might have quailed at the idea of putting your mouth near him. Now? It doesn't seem so bad.

It’s over in a moment, and you’re already disappearing from the camp with the vial and a handful of the cloth strips in your arms by the time Pseudo's ears have stopped ringing.

He hasn’t moved from the firepit, though his eyes remain wide open, staring dumbly at the orange flames as they crackle and spit around the kindling.

Suddenly, from the tent behind him… “Ooh~! Pseudo likes Y/n~!”

The Hermit has to resist the very reasonable urge to hurl his ladle at the teasing bundle of feathers. “Do not!” he argues.

“Do too!”

“Do not!”

“Then how come you’re letting the cauldron boil over?”