[ Even when she looks outside her personal inheritance of outright antitheism — a thing not to bring up, especially when she's trying to win somebody over — Roza thinks the devout life sounds lonely. On tiptoes, she loops the edge of a blanket over the jutting horns of a wall-mounted hunted animal, the blank-black eyes of which she glances into, as though gauging its mood. She pats its lower jaw, apologetically. Her descent onto flat feet is slower, thoughtful. ]
I didn't do anything until I was maybe nineteen. Homeschooled, you know. Everybody always says "I can tell" about that one.
[ Her open grin is self-deprecating, barbell in her tongue flashing bright in the center of it. Left-handed, Roza tugs the knitted blanket backward, creating a cavernous opening for the two of them. ]
( isolde offers the polite smile of someone who wants to deny something, without having any evidence to the contrary — as far as first impressions go, the maximum isolde can say is that roza is unflinchingly kind, and simultaneously remarkably pretty. if that's what homeschooled is, then she is that in spades.
regardless, isolde crouches down and scoots her way into their little recluse, pillows tucked under her arms to pad out the space. she fluffs them, sets them down, and then plops herself on one, folding her legs automatically, the way she does for meditation and breathing exercising, the cousins of prayer. it feels a little like what she imagines girl scouts should feel like — secretive, girlish whimsy. she ends up loosing a giggle at how fun it is, looking down at her hand folded in her lap. )
Ah — ( she goes a little pink in the cheeks. isolde isn't sure she's shy, she's just — remembering. it's kind of an answer in and of itself. ) Once, yes. I'm about to shock you. ( she does drop her voice, uninterested in letting the boys overhear: ) It wasn't my first kink club.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I didn't do anything until I was maybe nineteen. Homeschooled, you know. Everybody always says "I can tell" about that one.
[ Her open grin is self-deprecating, barbell in her tongue flashing bright in the center of it. Left-handed, Roza tugs the knitted blanket backward, creating a cavernous opening for the two of them. ]
Have you been to Otherworld?
no subject
regardless, isolde crouches down and scoots her way into their little recluse, pillows tucked under her arms to pad out the space. she fluffs them, sets them down, and then plops herself on one, folding her legs automatically, the way she does for meditation and breathing exercising, the cousins of prayer. it feels a little like what she imagines girl scouts should feel like — secretive, girlish whimsy. she ends up loosing a giggle at how fun it is, looking down at her hand folded in her lap. )
Ah — ( she goes a little pink in the cheeks. isolde isn't sure she's shy, she's just — remembering. it's kind of an answer in and of itself. ) Once, yes. I'm about to shock you. ( she does drop her voice, uninterested in letting the boys overhear: ) It wasn't my first kink club.