Time Throws Fire
by Ophelia Everfall
Part One | Redux Eterna
Part Two | Polymath Blues
Part Three | The Feather
Part Four | Wizard
Content Warning: This is only a story.
Chapter Eight
Boreál and all its splendor was the chosen mark of Empress Lithia. The Sisters of Mercy would be first to fall upon those fated for her glorious remaking. Their broadcasting was now to begin.
Oria Belfor had been teasing Sister since the moment she’d reawakened them violently from their tank-bound slumber with her screaming shout into their ear, “Choke on a cock!”
That woman she’d known as her sister was soon to become conspirator in real once more, had long ago been found adrift from time in this eon’s past. She was recovered from a womb of etheric slumber, drifting, rediscovering place and form by this sister of soul and now blood; together they were queens of resurrection. They’d feast and live forever if they could survive each other.
Persephone Belfor wouldn’t be allowed a chance for that meal she’d wish to share most with her devilish sister. The same taunted in plainest fact from Oria at every opportunity—forward and back through time.
“I gave you the best face you’ll ever have,” was how the honest bell rang.
It was payback. For once they’d shared the best sex any fucking humans might, and Oria had gushed about the moment in her bliss.
“I think that’s the best sex I’ll ever have,” she’d told Sister, leaning back into her as they’d shared a roll of herb.
Persephone had laughed before cursing herself, “Probably will be for you.”
Fate had proven it the other way around.
These sisters were unlike most—something strange about the way their fire burned for each other had seen them use one another, both thinking themselves the wiser—entangling within a horror spiral until they’d need to return to this vessel for the task Empress had chosen for them; the sins of Sin.
Kinship was borne through one strongest bond of a rarest personality trait shared—their complete and utter disregard for other people—wielded in opposite ways and entirely different targets. Oria would take it all from those who’d not deserve it. Persephone wouldn’t give a thing except to those who deserved it most. This dichotomy between them enraged and enraptured the ladder. The former would ride giant waves of euphoric bliss and unmeasurable sorrow in wake of their times together. Something between them just wouldn’t give it up, at least Oria, for that had been written at some unknowable point in the future.
Eventually Persephone would relent. Realizing herself more to blame than she’d ever been willing to accept for their intermingling of spirit. No longer willing to fall asleep with the fear her dear sister might slip through a window in the middle of the night and into her room aboard Sin. There was some hope they might resume their fun as well. At least, deep down.
“Yeah, deep as fuck,” had been the way Persephone put it when told this clearest reception of divine truth received by her sister of wrought perfection.
Glory in battle would be coming soon—horrors delivered upon the deserving—spoils spread amongst those most beautiful so chosen—temptation plaguing Persephone’s mind constantly; that very thing which had her running from their sister’s brightest shining heart for so many grand-cycles after having been brought back from the dark.
It was that and only that—along with the hardened fact Oria gave the best head of all—and so her broadcast had begun with proclamation towards the entirety of Boreál.
“Hello to all my new favorite people. Thank you for being ours to care for from here on. We are here for you. Each and every one of you. All of you. Every little bit. Each and every one. We can’t wait.”
Before switching over to footage she’d pre-recorded before Persephone’s waking—her peak experience unshared where she’d sat atop her favorite floor bound, gyro scoping slut-saddle, some giant boy clit exploding her mouth with its gushing flow beyond the means she’d have to swallow—Oria thought of one more thing to say.
“We are the Sisters of Mercy—and we are merciful indeed.”
Cutting the live feed, she hit play on her touchpanel before typing a code in its numpad, then tossed it onto the end of Persephone’s bed as her footage hit the wall screen and was sent system wide. Oria’s flip of the hair had soft eyes land upon Sister, a widest and most see-through grin of blatantly inflated confidence aimed their way; clearly unable to hold the fearless facade at those fire-wide eyes of Persephone.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” was all they’d said at first.
Oria heel-toed her way across the designated ‘fuck chamber’ which she’d awoken Persephone in, galivanting towards the pantry for some snacks.
“Yes—yes. We’ve heard it all before.”
Persephone’s teeth were grit as she was caught in a perpetual vice-grip between laughing and raging.
She’d spoken it only to herself, “I’m really gonna fucking kill this bitch.”
The goading pre-orgasm moans from Oria, as she worked that boy up towards feeding her more of his ‘life fuel’, had been a frustratingly arousing thing for Persephone to hear, who indeed found much trouble replacing the tongue of her sister in appropriate fashion—especially it’s co-mingling with the perfect empathy borne rhythm of her fingers pulsations alongside it, and that way she’d suck a clit so perfectly with lips alone—especially those most delicate and playful lapping.
Every means of control Persephone sought to kill the feed with, or lower its surround-volume, was programmed to make it exponentially louder. When Oria returned with a glass of wine and some chocolate she’d looked over to the screen as casually she might.
“We was wildin.”
That was the final straw—a throat had been grasped—false confidence shattered—Oria’s great lack of plan a success; a fact reflected in her broadest smile—only elevating the heat of Sister as she’d pinned her down and began slapping the smile right off their face.
It had taken a while to get there but she’d found the magic number; a glorious twelve had removed it whole. Energy created from what was to come would be used to murder anyone who got into a ship with Oria other than her sister. Persephone decided to use the coming orgasm made upon her dear sister’s face for personal manifestation—demanding through that power sent forth into the universe the petty woman be carried forward through time to pull her from the void—suffer as she deserved through life a lonely and romantic oppression—then create wonderful things they might use to make change and rip practical abundance from Rhinestone at-large.
“That’s my slut,” is what she’d said over and over while grinding Oria’s face to a pulp. Whatever it was Persephone would accomplish in future heading with this darkest crafting of will—however long it affected her sister to be cursed in so many ways ahead of time, whatever dastardly notions were stowed only within her thoughts—it was already done.
It was also the hottest thing in the history of these two’s little universe, forward and back, which was about to get very large indeed.
