[ 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
[ 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.