“Get on your knees,” but imagine im sending it from peach.
SEND ‘GET ON YOUR KNEES’ TO TELL ALANA JUST THAT.
STATUS: *TO THE TUNE OF IT’S PATSY* IIIIIT’S TRASH DAY, TRASH DAYYYY~ --NO MORE GUYS I’M DYING.
The quality of that tone, that voice, makes her listen immediately. Therein is a very particular way to get her to listen, and listen she does. Eyes flick upward and there’s a sort of patience on her face as she registers the very cadence of those words. Peach is always sweetly spoken-- there’s a dulcet kindness to her every word, every lilting syllable, every tender letter just out of her mouth. And Alana hangs onto it, holds it close to her heart, and when she listens every single sense of calm is an adoring thing. There’s nothing fearful to be had in the demand.
She listens. She’s so small there, on her knees, eyebrow quirked in quizzical patient, her head tilted. Those vibrant blue eyes of hers keep affixed on that soft, soft face, and she only just flicks dark hair from her sight. She has to blow it away carefully. There’s a low sound of utmost pleasure in the back of her throat-- a warm thing, settled all the way inside her rib-cage. A flush settles across her cheeks. The kind of pale, flushed visage of a pretty doll, something porcelain.
(Her hip twinges and she ignores it. Pointedly.)
“Of course.”
