#(( YEAH I WAFFLED BACK AND FORTH ABOUT PUTTING THIS ON THE SIDEBLOG FOR A HOT MOMENT

[royalreef]

@playnights​ inquired: The smell of brimstone signals demonic arrival, and sure enough, there's strong & familiar hands lifting Miranda from the ground; Dahlia, of course, not wanting to leave her princess waiting. The tips of tusks glide against scales as they hook beneath fabric, before sharply tearing it away with little tenderness or hesitation. Starting with the top, as per the occasion, but the bellowing growl that could felt through her (already bare) chest spoke to the fact she'd be just as obliged to bring her teeth downward. 

                         Miranda has an excellent sense of smell.

       Though most think first of her hearing, of her talent at being able to listen in on things that no one else could, she can smell almost as good as she can hear. The scent of brimstone is not only noticed, but she can pick up on slighter, more complicated elements of it. She knows what brimstone itself smells like, unique from the markers that denote the presence of a demon, able to scent the individual differences between the two, missed on most. Further than that, she knows this specific demon well enough to have absolutely no doubt as to who it is, able to tell the scent of home and her beloved anywhere.

       She doesn’t turn her head. She’s playing along — smile creeping up and over her lips no matter what she does, her fins flicking up to attention, their tips twitching. She’s still pretending to stare off into some nowhere land, acting like she’s distracted, like she doesn’t know what’s coming.

      It just makes it more fun to gasp as Dahlia’s hands do seize around her. It doesn’t even strain her to lift Miranda up, more bulky than she is heavy, light and oh-so-delicate in Dahlia’s arms. Like a proper princess. Fragile, delicate, soft. A frail little thing, a shining and lovely crown jewel, wrapped up in so many layers just for Dahlia to tear into. Just like how she wraps Dahlia’s presents, after all. Plenty of paper, all for her to have so much fun tearing through.

        One hand curls tight around Dahlia’s horns as she digs in, gripping tight enough to make her knuckles go white, while the other finds her hair and grabs a fistful. She pulls, trying not to pull too hard, but not exactly minding if she ends up goading Dahlia on, either. Miranda’s thrown her head back in ecstasy, growling with a primal lust, and if she’d going feral too, then she wants Dahlia to join her. Those teeth are already being put to so much good use, top torn away with little care or tenderness, feeling so many layers torn away like tissue paper in one movement. Her clothes are made with durability in mind, but even they don’t last against this onslaught, and it sends bolts of pleasure up Miranda’s spine alone.

        Her knees have wrapped around Dahlia’s shoulders, flexing her claws on them as she tries to hang on. Miranda’s body is starting to flush warm, then hot, and her tail is swishing, and her mouth has already opened up to pant like a dog for more. More. More. More. Just that wasn’t enough, couldn’t be enough for Dahlia’s greedy princess. She issued that dare for a reason, after all. She wouldn’t have wanted no one to take home their grand prize, and this alone has flicked at the hungry part of Miranda’s brain that turns into a full-body ache and need.

       Her lingerie, somehow, has survived. A little worse for wear, but it isn’t connected to the rest of her layers, and thus it wasn’t pulled away. Not that its very good at hiding her upper body, all those rosy pink scales glittering like diamonds, a bounty well-won. Nor that it will last much longer at this rate, but the anticipation alone for what’s coming is enough to make Miranda’s thoughts do dizzy loops, feeling even more sharply all the points where its still hugging her torso and accenting her frame, just waiting for it to come off as well. Waiting for Dahlia to tear away her skirts too, for her to see the full extent of it, before it too is turned into fabric scraps.

        “Please, please, please, pretty please, my Dahlia—” Her words are breathless and beautiful and unnecessary. Not like Miranda’s making any effort towards hiding exactly what’s echoing down their soul tether, what burning desires and needs and wants are swimming in her mind as Dahlia holds her. As she holds Dahlia too, tugging on the bull by her horns. It’s just nice, to give vocal confirmation too, and to tell her how much she wants her.