Costume party
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 10
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Astrid's sparkling blue eyes narrowed as she took in the chaotic scene below—the neon-lit street packed with costumed revelers, their laughter and shouts rising faintly through the night air. Vampires, devils, queens, and superheroes mingled under pulsing strobes, drinks sloshing as they danced on the open terrace. A slow, wicked smile curled her plump black lips.
She glanced down at herself—the glossy black bodysuit clinging to every sculpted curve, the opera glove trailing up her arm, the witch hat tilted just so. With a throaty chuckle, she adjusted the hat's brim. "Well, darling," she purred to no one, "looks like I'm already dressed for the occasion." The irony was delicious.
Astrid's broom dipped through the cold night air like a shadow, slipping into the alley behind the club with predatory silence. Her black-glass stilettos touched down on cracked pavement, the sound swallowed by the bass thumping from the venue ahead. She stepped off the broom—it hovered obediently for half a second before shrinking with a soft *pop* into a hairpin-sized sliver of wood. With a flick of her wrist, she tucked it into the sleek updo beneath her witch hat, smirking at her own ingenuity.
The alley reeked of spilled liquor and cigarette butts, but Astrid inhaled deeply anyway, savoring the grime like a fine perfume. How deliciously beneath me, she thought, running her black nails down the glossy curve of her hip. She adjusted her hat to a jauntier angle, rolled her shoulders back, and strode toward the pulsing neon glow of the club’s entrance with the languid confidence of a panther entering a petting zoo.
Bouncers flanked the velvet rope—thick-necked men with earpieces and practiced scowls. Astrid didn’t break stride. One of them moved to block her, his meaty palm rising. "Private event, ma’am. Costume contest entrants only—"
Her plump lips curled. She didn’t stop walking.
The bouncer’s fingers grazed her shoulder—then froze. His pupils dilated unnaturally, his mouth slackening as Astrid’s glowing blue eyes locked onto his. A whisper of green electricity curled from her black nails into his collarbone, invisible to anyone else. "Darling," she murmured, her voice honeyed poison, "you *want* to let me in." His Adam’s apple bobbed. The velvet rope fell. Astrid glided past without breaking stride, her hips swaying with deliberate, hypnotic rhythm.
Inside, the club was a riot of sweaty bodies and cheap sequins. A tipsy vampire in plastic fangs stumbled into her path; Astrid caught him by the throat with one hand, lifting him effortlessly until their faces were level. His feet kicked uselessly inches above the floor. "Oops," she purred, watching his confusion warp into terror. She set him down gently—then flicked his forehead with a black nail. He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, snoring loudly into a puddle of neon-purple cocktail.
"One down," Astrid mused, stepping over him. Her nostrils flared at the mingled scents of vodka and desperation. A DJ’s remix of "Sympathy for the Devil" thundered through the speakers as she carved a path through the crowd, her every movement calculated to draw eyes. A group of faux superheroes gawked as she passed; she paused mid-stride, arching one sculpted eyebrow. "Problem, boys?" Their spines straightened like scolded dogs. One, dressed as a bargain-bin Thor, dropped his plastic hammer with a clatter.
Her laughter—low, rich, cruel—drowned in the bass as she ascended a short staircase to the VIP section. Below, the dance floor seethed like an anthill she’d kicked, gazes trailing her every movement: men slack-jawed, women biting their lips in grudging envy. Astrid drank it in like vintage champagne, her ego swelling with each gawking stare. *Pathetic little moths*, she mused, running a black nail along the railing. Drawn to my flame, destined to burn.
The bar gleamed like an altar under strobe lights. Astrid approached with deliberate, predatory grace, her hips swaying in a rhythm designed to hypnotize. The bartender—a ginger woman barely thirty, her freckled nose wrinkled under a ridiculous witch hat adorned with plastic spiders—blinked up at her. Astrid’s lip curled. *How quaint.*
“A Black Dahlia,” Astrid purred, leaning forward just enough to make the woman crane her neck. “Absinthe misted over a coupe glass, chilled to precisely 3°C. A float of crème de violette, then two dashes of orange bitters—not three—over a single, perfect ice sphere. Topped with…” She paused, savoring the bartender’s widening eyes. “A live orchid petal. Not fake. Not wilted. Alive.”
The woman swallowed, her throat bobbing. “That’s… really specific.”
"Darling, I am specific," Astrid drawled, tapping a black nail against the bar for emphasis. The sound was sharper than it should have been—like metal on stone. The bartender’s gaze dropped to it, then back up to Astrid’s face, curiosity overtaking her nerves.
Astrid killed her wonderfully—the bartender’s widening eyes, the way her fingers twitched against the cocktail shaker, the sharp intake of breath as she absorbed the absurd complexity of the order. It was all fuel, each flicker of admiration and jealousy stoking the furnace of Astrid’s ego. She leaned back slightly, letting the strobe lights catch the metallic sheen of her black-clad thighs, knowing full well the woman was staring.
The bartender wiped her hands on her apron, hesitant. “You, uh… really went all out with the costume,” she said, nodding at Astrid’s form-fitting witch ensemble. “Like… Venom fucked a witch or something.” There was no malice in her tone, just genuine curiosity.
Astrid’s plump black lips parted in a delighted, throaty giggle. “Darling, that’s exactly what I was going for,” she purred, stretching her arms overhead in a languid arc, letting the bartender’s gaze drag over every sculpted curve. The living black substance of her suit rippled subtly, as if agreeing.
The woman blinked, then grinned—a flash of freckled cheek and crooked teeth. “Badass.” She turned to assemble the drink, but not before Astrid caught the way her eyes lingered on the deep cut of her abs, the impossible swell of her enhanced bust.
Astrid flexed her right arm deliberately, watching the bartender's gaze drop to her biceps as the sleek black material stretched taut over the sculpted muscle beneath. The bartender—a freckled thing with bitten nails and a nose ring—audibly inhaled as Astrid's bicep peaked like polished obsidian, veins tracing rivers of power under her glossy skin. "Venom fucked a witch?" Astrid mused, rolling her shoulders back to make her deltoids pop. "Darling, I *am* the upgrade." She arched one eyebrow, smug as a panther lounging on a throne of bones.
The bartender's fingers fumbled the absinthe bottle, nearly dropping it before catching it against her hip. "Holy shit," she breathed, staring openly now at Astrid's physique—the way her trapezoids framed her neck like armor, the way her abs formed a geometric masterpiece beneath the suit's plunging neckline. "Is that... like, a muscle suit? Or—"
Astrid threw her head back and laughed, the sound rich and throaty, vibrating through the bartender's chest like a struck gong. She planted both palms on the bar and leaned forward, letting the dim lighting accentuate the shadow between her breasts. "Sweet, naive child," she purred, flexing her pectorals just to watch the bartender's pupils dilate further. "Every inch is *earned*. Well," she amended with a wicked grin, "mostly. Witchcraft does have its perks."
The bartender licked her lips—nervously, then hungrily. Astrid tracked the motion with predatory precision. Oh, this was delicious. The girl was practically vibrating with attraction, her fingers twitching against the shaker like she wanted to reach out and touch. Astrid let the silence stretch, savoring the tension, before abruptly straightening and rolling her shoulders again. The bartender jolted as if electrocuted.
Astrid...
She glanced down at herself—the glossy black bodysuit clinging to every sculpted curve, the opera glove trailing up her arm, the witch hat tilted just so. With a throaty chuckle, she adjusted the hat's brim. "Well, darling," she purred to no one, "looks like I'm already dressed for the occasion." The irony was delicious.
Astrid's broom dipped through the cold night air like a shadow, slipping into the alley behind the club with predatory silence. Her black-glass stilettos touched down on cracked pavement, the sound swallowed by the bass thumping from the venue ahead. She stepped off the broom—it hovered obediently for half a second before shrinking with a soft *pop* into a hairpin-sized sliver of wood. With a flick of her wrist, she tucked it into the sleek updo beneath her witch hat, smirking at her own ingenuity.
The alley reeked of spilled liquor and cigarette butts, but Astrid inhaled deeply anyway, savoring the grime like a fine perfume. How deliciously beneath me, she thought, running her black nails down the glossy curve of her hip. She adjusted her hat to a jauntier angle, rolled her shoulders back, and strode toward the pulsing neon glow of the club’s entrance with the languid confidence of a panther entering a petting zoo.
Bouncers flanked the velvet rope—thick-necked men with earpieces and practiced scowls. Astrid didn’t break stride. One of them moved to block her, his meaty palm rising. "Private event, ma’am. Costume contest entrants only—"
Her plump lips curled. She didn’t stop walking.
The bouncer’s fingers grazed her shoulder—then froze. His pupils dilated unnaturally, his mouth slackening as Astrid’s glowing blue eyes locked onto his. A whisper of green electricity curled from her black nails into his collarbone, invisible to anyone else. "Darling," she murmured, her voice honeyed poison, "you *want* to let me in." His Adam’s apple bobbed. The velvet rope fell. Astrid glided past without breaking stride, her hips swaying with deliberate, hypnotic rhythm.
Inside, the club was a riot of sweaty bodies and cheap sequins. A tipsy vampire in plastic fangs stumbled into her path; Astrid caught him by the throat with one hand, lifting him effortlessly until their faces were level. His feet kicked uselessly inches above the floor. "Oops," she purred, watching his confusion warp into terror. She set him down gently—then flicked his forehead with a black nail. He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings, snoring loudly into a puddle of neon-purple cocktail.
"One down," Astrid mused, stepping over him. Her nostrils flared at the mingled scents of vodka and desperation. A DJ’s remix of "Sympathy for the Devil" thundered through the speakers as she carved a path through the crowd, her every movement calculated to draw eyes. A group of faux superheroes gawked as she passed; she paused mid-stride, arching one sculpted eyebrow. "Problem, boys?" Their spines straightened like scolded dogs. One, dressed as a bargain-bin Thor, dropped his plastic hammer with a clatter.
Her laughter—low, rich, cruel—drowned in the bass as she ascended a short staircase to the VIP section. Below, the dance floor seethed like an anthill she’d kicked, gazes trailing her every movement: men slack-jawed, women biting their lips in grudging envy. Astrid drank it in like vintage champagne, her ego swelling with each gawking stare. *Pathetic little moths*, she mused, running a black nail along the railing. Drawn to my flame, destined to burn.
The bar gleamed like an altar under strobe lights. Astrid approached with deliberate, predatory grace, her hips swaying in a rhythm designed to hypnotize. The bartender—a ginger woman barely thirty, her freckled nose wrinkled under a ridiculous witch hat adorned with plastic spiders—blinked up at her. Astrid’s lip curled. *How quaint.*
“A Black Dahlia,” Astrid purred, leaning forward just enough to make the woman crane her neck. “Absinthe misted over a coupe glass, chilled to precisely 3°C. A float of crème de violette, then two dashes of orange bitters—not three—over a single, perfect ice sphere. Topped with…” She paused, savoring the bartender’s widening eyes. “A live orchid petal. Not fake. Not wilted. Alive.”
The woman swallowed, her throat bobbing. “That’s… really specific.”
"Darling, I am specific," Astrid drawled, tapping a black nail against the bar for emphasis. The sound was sharper than it should have been—like metal on stone. The bartender’s gaze dropped to it, then back up to Astrid’s face, curiosity overtaking her nerves.
Astrid killed her wonderfully—the bartender’s widening eyes, the way her fingers twitched against the cocktail shaker, the sharp intake of breath as she absorbed the absurd complexity of the order. It was all fuel, each flicker of admiration and jealousy stoking the furnace of Astrid’s ego. She leaned back slightly, letting the strobe lights catch the metallic sheen of her black-clad thighs, knowing full well the woman was staring.
The bartender wiped her hands on her apron, hesitant. “You, uh… really went all out with the costume,” she said, nodding at Astrid’s form-fitting witch ensemble. “Like… Venom fucked a witch or something.” There was no malice in her tone, just genuine curiosity.
Astrid’s plump black lips parted in a delighted, throaty giggle. “Darling, that’s exactly what I was going for,” she purred, stretching her arms overhead in a languid arc, letting the bartender’s gaze drag over every sculpted curve. The living black substance of her suit rippled subtly, as if agreeing.
The woman blinked, then grinned—a flash of freckled cheek and crooked teeth. “Badass.” She turned to assemble the drink, but not before Astrid caught the way her eyes lingered on the deep cut of her abs, the impossible swell of her enhanced bust.
Astrid flexed her right arm deliberately, watching the bartender's gaze drop to her biceps as the sleek black material stretched taut over the sculpted muscle beneath. The bartender—a freckled thing with bitten nails and a nose ring—audibly inhaled as Astrid's bicep peaked like polished obsidian, veins tracing rivers of power under her glossy skin. "Venom fucked a witch?" Astrid mused, rolling her shoulders back to make her deltoids pop. "Darling, I *am* the upgrade." She arched one eyebrow, smug as a panther lounging on a throne of bones.
The bartender's fingers fumbled the absinthe bottle, nearly dropping it before catching it against her hip. "Holy shit," she breathed, staring openly now at Astrid's physique—the way her trapezoids framed her neck like armor, the way her abs formed a geometric masterpiece beneath the suit's plunging neckline. "Is that... like, a muscle suit? Or—"
Astrid threw her head back and laughed, the sound rich and throaty, vibrating through the bartender's chest like a struck gong. She planted both palms on the bar and leaned forward, letting the dim lighting accentuate the shadow between her breasts. "Sweet, naive child," she purred, flexing her pectorals just to watch the bartender's pupils dilate further. "Every inch is *earned*. Well," she amended with a wicked grin, "mostly. Witchcraft does have its perks."
The bartender licked her lips—nervously, then hungrily. Astrid tracked the motion with predatory precision. Oh, this was delicious. The girl was practically vibrating with attraction, her fingers twitching against the shaker like she wanted to reach out and touch. Astrid let the silence stretch, savoring the tension, before abruptly straightening and rolling her shoulders again. The bartender jolted as if electrocuted.
Astrid...
13 views
·
June 13
Log in to comment