Can a frayed rope be mended?

Manea addressed Irilyth's concerns about the wrath of Alastor with a sly and defiant grin, sending a delightful shiver running down the little blonde fae's back. Manea was such an incredible and imposing woman, she often marveled at how she could look into the face of someone as dangerous as Alastor and simply choose to do something to piss him off without any concern or regard for her own safety. She wished she could have been half as brave as Manea was, but that just wasn't who she was, and Iri was okay with that. She had Manea to look after her—and look after her she was doing oh so well right now. As Manea responded that she actually hoped that Alastor was furious with them and that she couldn't wait to see the look on his face, Irilyth's breath caught as a grin of her own began to slowly appear on her muzzle, followed shortly by little squeaks of delight as the large purple fae resumed her trail of kisses and nibbles down her pale chest and stomach, teasing over warm flesh through thin fur. Violet lips made the golden woman squirm beneath her, back arching off the plush bed of luxurious furs while she watched Manea descend down her svelte body, practically worshipping every inch her mouth graced with tender affections.

Iri breathed a shaky sigh of satisfaction, raspberry red eyes half hidden behind fluttering lids as they glazed over with heady desire. "I hope he’s furious too… I hope he hates me for what we’re about to do…" said Irilyth in a rare show of defiant confidence, grinning down at her lover just as Manea’s muzzle moved down between her thighs, and then Irilyth’s breath was stolen away in a sharp gasp, ruby eyes going wide and rolling back in her head. "Manea…!" And then Iri was washed away in a flood of pure euphoria, drowning in the sensations of her lover and the heat they kindled together.

- fade -

"Manea" & "Irilyth"