[ he isn't alone in that, after all, but the happenstance of it is less important to her than one pressing question. ]
You enjoyed it?
[ it's difficult here to have their voices heard, to be perceived as anything but property. it's integral that no one has used him, coerced him into an experience he hadn't wanted. ]
[ it's easier for him to think back, to dwell on what was good about it, what he's pretty certain he got right (even though it's been communicated multiple times that he doesn't need to linger in his own head about that part) than to talk about it. even typing out the words makes his hand twitch. ]
[ she leaves it at that, at the rush of her relief. better than anyone, she knows of his past, and how he has fought to escape it; it would be a cruel twist of fate for him to endure the same treatment here.
that comes easier than the memory of her own arrival. the subject isn't one she wants to broach, cagey; finn, she knows, would never look at her the same if he knew the specifics. ]
When I first arrived. Anyone who didn't answer their survey like they wanted had to pay a fee.
[ i don't regret it, she nearly adds, but choosing not to regret it means coming to terms with it and indulging in self-reflection she doesn't want to sort through. she can't reconcile that, not yet, but it doesn't change the truth of it. ]
Yeah, Poe was asking me whether or not they'd slapped a bracelet on me, before. Sounds like that was part of it?
[ he'd gotten the basic summary of events without any of the details, information he didn't necessarily need to know in order to create a mental picture. and just like with poe, he's not going to prod any further into what rey experienced unless she wants to talk about it. ]
I know it's not the last time I'm going to have to do it unless I want to get tossed into a cell. Or whatever they toss people into. I guess I wanted to have more of a choice in the matter, the first time.
[ he knows it won't always be like that. it wasn't on board the maria. ]
[ for now, she leaves it at that. what had come after — tumenlia, and the aftermath — is a more complex story to share, and she remains unnerved by what she had become during those times, goaded into a version of herself she couldn't accept. ]
You still have choices here. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise.
[ put another way: he hadn't not wanted to lose his virginity, and now that he has it's not something he regards with anything resembling regret. but he also doesn't want to rely on the generosity of others just to feel like he has to fill a quota. ]
I guess I just pictured it happening differently than this.
[ differently. she knows the feeling well enough. years had passed on jakku without the need to trade herself; now, duplicity is demanding she do just that to ensure her survival.
this, she'll survive. as she always has, and as she always will, without giving it the power to break her.
but she knows well enough what he means. filling quotas are expected here, an obligation, not of pure free will. it sours the concept of it, regret or no regret. ]
It could still happen differently if you let it.
[ not every experience has to be defined by meeting requirements, after all, but perhaps she's merely hopeful. making the most of a situation they have to endure. ]
[ it tinges every interaction, skews every remark. he knows not everyone thinks along the same lines as he does in regards to what's been asked of them, required of them, and yet that doesn't make it any easier.
he'd wanted it to have more meaning, something motivated by freedom and desire rather than requirement. and maybe she's right. maybe it still could. ]
You're right. It's... what I really want, when I let myself think about it.
[ she lapses into silence for a moment, but she's never been one not to leap recklessly into her impulses, and it's that instinct that leads her to bluntly consider, despite the possibility for unease and rejection: ]
We could try, if you wanted. If you want to know what it's like.
[ more than that, she trusts him — more than she would trust most here. her first friend — and only friend, for a time. ]
[ how does he even begin to tell her that when he'd ever started to envision what it would be like, her face was the first that popped into his mind? how does he put that into words when he can barely muster them talking about what's required of them on even a normal basis?
he doesn't answer right away, but it's not because he's not interested in taking her up on it. the exact opposite, actually. ]
I trust you. More than anyone. If you want to too, then... I want to try.
[ it isn't meant to reassure, necessarily, but to disperse those doubts — blunt, candid, rather than any intentional soothing. all the same, it drives the point home: she, too, trusts him; after a lifetime of wariness, that holds significant weight.
it seems like the natural step. finn is ... good. good, compassionate, familiar, provides her a sense of security she has rarely felt. she can think of no one else she should want in that way; as for who she shouldn't want, but has pined after — she shelves that thought, pushing it away. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ he isn't alone in that, after all, but the happenstance of it is less important to her than one pressing question. ]
You enjoyed it?
[ it's difficult here to have their voices heard, to be perceived as anything but property. it's integral that no one has used him, coerced him into an experience he hadn't wanted. ]
no subject
[ it's easier for him to think back, to dwell on what was good about it, what he's pretty certain he got right (even though it's been communicated multiple times that he doesn't need to linger in his own head about that part) than to talk about it. even typing out the words makes his hand twitch. ]
Yeah. I did.
When you say "us," you mean... you too?
no subject
[ she leaves it at that, at the rush of her relief. better than anyone, she knows of his past, and how he has fought to escape it; it would be a cruel twist of fate for him to endure the same treatment here.
that comes easier than the memory of her own arrival. the subject isn't one she wants to broach, cagey; finn, she knows, would never look at her the same if he knew the specifics. ]
When I first arrived.
Anyone who didn't answer their survey like they wanted had to pay a fee.
[ i don't regret it, she nearly adds, but choosing not to regret it means coming to terms with it and indulging in self-reflection she doesn't want to sort through. she can't reconcile that, not yet, but it doesn't change the truth of it. ]
no subject
[ he'd gotten the basic summary of events without any of the details, information he didn't necessarily need to know in order to create a mental picture. and just like with poe, he's not going to prod any further into what rey experienced unless she wants to talk about it. ]
I know it's not the last time I'm going to have to do it unless I want to get tossed into a cell. Or whatever they toss people into. I guess I wanted to have more of a choice in the matter, the first time.
[ he knows it won't always be like that. it wasn't on board the maria. ]
no subject
[ for now, she leaves it at that. what had come after — tumenlia, and the aftermath — is a more complex story to share, and she remains unnerved by what she had become during those times, goaded into a version of herself she couldn't accept. ]
You still have choices here. Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise.
no subject
[ put another way: he hadn't not wanted to lose his virginity, and now that he has it's not something he regards with anything resembling regret. but he also doesn't want to rely on the generosity of others just to feel like he has to fill a quota. ]
I guess I just pictured it happening differently than this.
no subject
this, she'll survive. as she always has, and as she always will, without giving it the power to break her.
but she knows well enough what he means. filling quotas are expected here, an obligation, not of pure free will. it sours the concept of it, regret or no regret. ]
It could still happen differently if you let it.
[ not every experience has to be defined by meeting requirements, after all, but perhaps she's merely hopeful. making the most of a situation they have to endure. ]
no subject
he'd wanted it to have more meaning, something motivated by freedom and desire rather than requirement. and maybe she's right. maybe it still could. ]
You're right. It's... what I really want, when I let myself think about it.
no subject
[ she lapses into silence for a moment, but she's never been one not to leap recklessly into her impulses, and it's that instinct that leads her to bluntly consider, despite the possibility for unease and rejection: ]
We could try, if you wanted.
If you want to know what it's like.
[ more than that, she trusts him — more than she would trust most here. her first friend — and only friend, for a time. ]
no subject
[ how does he even begin to tell her that when he'd ever started to envision what it would be like, her face was the first that popped into his mind? how does he put that into words when he can barely muster them talking about what's required of them on even a normal basis?
he doesn't answer right away, but it's not because he's not interested in taking her up on it. the exact opposite, actually. ]
I trust you. More than anyone.
If you want to too, then... I want to try.
no subject
[ it isn't meant to reassure, necessarily, but to disperse those doubts — blunt, candid, rather than any intentional soothing. all the same, it drives the point home: she, too, trusts him; after a lifetime of wariness, that holds significant weight.
it seems like the natural step. finn is ... good. good, compassionate, familiar, provides her a sense of security she has rarely felt. she can think of no one else she should want in that way; as for who she shouldn't want, but has pined after — she shelves that thought, pushing it away. ]
Come over when you can. We'll try something then.