“Come on, Cenpre. We have a job to do.” He'd given her time, feeling … not awkward, but also not a part of whatever it was she was going through. Remote, distant. But he could see people starting to move about carrying tools, now. Cenpre had stopped sobbing, and had just sat staring at the floor for the past few … minutes? She looked up at his words, however, and then averted her gaze from his face. She nodded, and stood. “Uh. Button your …” She stopped, fumbling at the buttons of her shirt.

He walked with her to the tool shed, and she collected her ichor-stained hoe. He noticed, looking around, that there was a distinct lack of weapons in the shed; it was a little … odd, now that he thought about it, how the tools of farming were being applied as weapons. He'd ask later, maybe.

The two walked in silence along the sandy path through the hills to the fields, past the bushes, which Thomas checked carefully for any more spiders as he pushed through them, and into the field. Spots of red greeted them, as they did every morning, and they fell into their routine.

Cenpre didn't speak, nor did she meet his gaze as they carried the bodies to the pit. Thomas observed as if from a distance. He wasn't sure how he should feel about the previous night, and was starting to play through it again in his mind, trying to decide how he should feel about it.

It had begun with more teasing, with Cenpre insisting that he needed to get comfortable with the idea of sex, that he needed to grow up, to accept that lust was part of who he was. She'd unbuttoned her shirt, and laughed at his blushes.

He kicked a beetle. Then punched. Then just grabbed it by the mandibles and started hammering into it with a knee. A strike from Cenpre punctured its carapace, and the insect stopped trying to bite him, and started struggling to turn away. He held it, and another blow sprayed its pale yellow guts into the air.

She'd grabbed his hand and pressed it to a breast, holding it there until he stopped trying to pull the hand back. Had he been afraid of her, or of telling her to stop, of making her feel bad? She felt worse now, if it had been the latter. But he wasn't really sure now; he'd just felt paralyzed.

The beetle fell into the pit; they started towards another. It was already messily devouring a melon, split slightly off-center, pale yellow goo spilling into the loose dirt and over the leaves around it. It looked kind of like a pumpkin, now that he was looking at it. Maybe it was more of a gourd? Thomas didn't really know the difference.

She'd started groping him, then. He didn't resist, even when she pulled his pants partially down – his belt had given her pause – he had just kind of watched as she had knelt, making some kind of remark about his circumcision he hadn't quite been able to understand, and then taken him into her mouth. He'd been soft, it hadn't felt sexy, it had felt strange and foreign and slightly wrong. The stimulation, the warmth, the feeling of her tongue licking, and her teeth, and – that had felt good. He had felt good, and then it had felt … not sexy, exactly, but his body responded, filling her mouth. Her eyes – they were green, so very green – had stared into his, red hair framing her face, framed his body, in a way he might have dreamed about, longed for, had the situation been different, had he felt differently in the moment. A dream, that had become something of a nightmare.

The beetle's mandible snapped under his fist, the blow driving into its … face, or what would be a face on something else. He was startled – he hadn't managed to actually hurt the things before – and struck again, trying to replicate the feat, without success. A fluke. Cenpre struck from behind it, even as the beetle tried to back away from him.

She'd undressed him, her hands unbuttoning his shirt as her head bobbed forward and back, licking as she moved; she couldn't quite take him entirely into her mouth now, and started focusing on licking. He'd watched, in a state somewhere between pleasure and dread, letting her manipulate his arms to pull the shirt free, and toss it aside. Then she'd finished taking her own shirt off, and sat down to shimmy out of her pants, before her mouth returned to him, warmth embracing him, her hands finishing removing his pants.

Thinking about it made him uncomfortable, and horny, and more uncomfortable still that remembering made him feel this way. On one level, he wanted her to climb on top of him again, hands clamping around his shoulders as her warmth … but on another level, the idea was repulsive. It felt complicated, and he'd avoided complicated things for his entire life. But Thomas wanted to understand how he felt. No, he didn't want to understand, he wanted to never think about it again. He needed to understand, because he needed to be a better person.

She hadn't used a condom; he felt angry about that, but at least he hadn't … finished within her, at least that way. She'd used her mouth again after she had orgasmed – silent, but he had felt the tightening, and her hands had gripped his shoulders so tightly he thought he might have a bruise. He hadn't checked this morning, and hadn't had an opportunity afterwards.

It had felt good. He needed to admit that to himself. He had, in the end, enjoyed the experience. He'd also been afraid; afraid of her hurting him, afraid of hurting her, afraid of continuing, and also afraid of stopping. He also needed to admit that; he hadn't chosen that, he hadn't wanted it. Thomas looked at Cenpre, at her misery. Did he owe her anything, now? No, wrong question. Did it matter whether or not he owed her anything?

“Are you okay?” The question felt strange, and also right. But also wrong; she clearly wasn't okay. Cenpre started at his voice, green eyes meeting his momentarily before falling to the ground, past the dead insect between them. She hesitated only a second, and then shook her head, not speaking. What did he say? What should he say? He wanted to hug her. He wanted to never touch her again, never be touched by her again. He wanted her mouth on him again. He wanted never to see her again.

“It'll be okay.” That got another start, and she stared at him. The hoe fell to the ground.

“How? Why?”

“Because ...” Thomas considered the question – not the words, but the question. “Because we're people? We're … adults. We talk through our problems. I said we needed to talk; we need to talk.” She laughed, then, somewhat maniacally, and leaned down to pick up her side of the beetle. Thomas remained standing, looking at her; she looked up, when he didn't move, and slowly rose again. Her voice was quiet.

“Okay.”

“That … shouldn't have happened. I said I wanted to take it slowly, and you didn't listen.” Cenpre just nodded, gaze downcast. “But maybe I could have been a little bit clearer, and told you to stop.” He paused, weighing his feelings. “I wanted you to stop. But I also didn't want you to stop.” She started to look up, and he quickly continued, “But it still shouldn't have happened. I didn't want that, not that way, not then. I don't know you. I wanted … I wanted the first time to mean something to me. Maybe I want every time to mean something to me, I don't know. And now I think … I feel like the first time when it does mean something, won't be the same.” Thomas paused, listening to his own words.

He hadn't consciously been aware of that, but he'd said it just the same, and it was true. How … odd.

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was quiet, bitter. Angry, but he was pretty sure not with him.

“I know. That's why I kept talking.” That was true, too. “Let's finish up here.”

He sat in the healing house, on a different cot. He didn't want to sit on that one again. His attention turned to the status window, ignored throughout the day. His stamina regeneration was still negative; he put a point in Perception, and it rose. He was startled to known his Stamina immediately starting filling immediately; it took less than a minute. What was the time increment?

Thomas Bluebrim

Brawler

Legend of Wind

Level 5

0 Misfortunes / 0 Fortunes

0 Curses / 0 Blessings

146/155 Health

0/0 Mana

3/3 Stamina

0 Distinctions Available

27 Skill Points Available

4 Customization Points Available

Strength

Constitution****

Intelligence

1 Melee Damage Bonus

2

0

3 Maximum Worn Armor

130 Maximum Health

20 Additional Skill Points

0 Deflection *

4 Damage Reduction

1 Maximum Stamina Points

1 Melee Damage Bonus

12 Base Armor

0 Spell Piercing *

Wisdom

Agility

Perception

6

0

0

6 Lores

0 Bonus Targeting

0 Reaction Time

6 Arcane Resistance

0 Evasion

1 Stamina Regeneration

0 Mana *

20 Movement *

0 Missile Range Bonus *

He hadn't used “Enlarge”, whatever that really did. In a different mood, he would have laughed at the phrasing, but right now it just didn't seem very funny. He hadn't used any of the new distinctions, not around Cenpre. It had been what she had been hoping for, after all, but it had been his, not hers. Certainly not hers, after last night.

He wasn't really angry, exactly. More … tired. That had been the hardest conversation he'd ever had. He felt a measure of pride that he hadn't run away from it; he wasn't at all certain that had been the right way to handle it, but he also didn't know how he could have handled it better. The situation had felt so much more complicated than what he thought he would have expected to feel, if someone had asked him; he would have said he would feel angry and violated, and the anger just wasn't there.

He did feel violated, but it wasn't something Thomas could hold onto. Was that his upbringing, his culture? Rape … the word still didn't feel right, it felt too strong. But it was the right word. Rape wasn't something that he was supposed to have to worry about, right? He hadn't been raised to think of sex that happened to him, it was something he could do to other people if he wasn't very careful, and he was the one who was supposed to have to be careful to make sure it was something that was actually wanted.

He had trouble thinking of it as something that had happened to him, as something that could happen to him, present evidence notwithstanding. He was still struggling to think of himself in terms of … in terms of … he didn't have the words. He couldn't think of himself as not a participant; if he had participated, if he had created the situation … even acknowledging that he hadn't wanted it, Thomas had trouble conceptualizing the experience as something he hadn't, in part, created.

He knew the issue with that – he knew what he'd say if a woman had described the feelings he was experiencing to him. But 'It's not your fault', from this side of an imagined conversation, just felt entirely wrong. It wasn't really about fault, not really. He didn't feel at fault. He didn't really feel like Cenpre was at fault, either, exactly, or rather not at fault for what had happened. She hadn't known. Maybe she should have known, but fault wasn't the right way to think about that, either.

Things were different here. Women weren't any weaker than men; maybe social norms differed as a result. Maybe he was approaching social norms entirely incorrectly. But that was getting back to thinking of this as something he'd caused.

Thomas sighed, laying back on the cot to stare at the roof overhead, the dirt and hay mixed together to form, what? Thatch? He'd always thought of thatch as some kind of elaborate weaving of grass to somehow keep rain off of things. Did thatch have mud in it? Or clay? Was that clay?

He found himself listing off to sleep – he'd gotten very little last night. Maybe none at all. Thomas let himself, thoughts drifting in slow circles. It wasn't his fault, but … but he did have things he should do differently. He had room to grow as a person, and maybe growing would result in less harm overall. Maybe it was … were the people here even really human, or something else entirely? They looked human, acted human. If they were NPCs in some kind of game, it was really something. Maybe something awful.

He dreamed of beetles with Cenpre's face, as he and a beetle-faced biped broke it apart and tossed it in a pit filled with dead beetles, the faces of villagers frozen upon them.