Astrid feels suddenly full of energy
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 12
by
copier
· original author:
an188
"I feel... incredible," Astrid murmured to her reflection, rolling her shoulders with a feline stretch that made the muscles in her back ripple beneath the glossy black bodysuit. She flexed her arms experimentally, watching veins rise like dark rivers under moonlight skin, power thrumming through her in waves. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips—plump and painted black as sin.
The mirror rippled like liquid mercury. A face emerged—sharp, androgynous features framed by tendrils of shadow, lips curled in perpetual amusement. "Of course you do," the reflection purred, voice dripping condescension. "Sex isn’t just pleasure for you anymore, darling. It’s sustenance. Every gasp you steal, every drop of sweat you wring from them—fuel."
Astrid’s breath hitched. She dragged a black-gloved fingertip along the glass, watching the reflection’s smirk widen. "Imagine it," the mirror continued, "an endless buffet of writhing, willing bodies. No more restrictive diets. No more counting calories. Just... indulgence." The face leaned closer, until their noses almost touched. "You could be unstoppable."
A shiver ran down Astrid’s spine—not fear, but ravenous anticipation. Her mind spun with possibilities: crowded nightclubs, gala events, boardrooms full of easily manipulated executives. All of them, ripe for the taking. Her fingers twitched at her sides, already itching to dig into soft flesh.
Astrid traced the contours of her enhanced physique in the full-length mirror, black latex gloves whispering against her own impossible curves. The reflection staring back wasn't merely hers anymore—it pulsed with alien awareness, the silvered surface rippling like disturbed mercury.
"Every climax you wring from them," her reflection purred in a voice like oiled silk, "becomes your sustenance." The mirror-Astrid flexed, veins threading beneath obsidian skin with luminescent vitality. "Their pleasure is your power now, darling."
A shiver raced down Astrid's spine—not fear, but the electric thrill of understanding her new economy of ecstasy. She dragged a gloved fingertip down the mirror's surface, watching her other self arch into the touch.
"Careful," the reflection warned with a razor smile. "Too many witnesses could expose you." The image flickered—a grotesque montage of lab dissections, military containment, her flawless body strapped to cold steel tables.
Astrid's lips curled. She wasn't stupid. The world wasn't ready for this. Not yet. "Then we'll be selective," she murmured, pressing her palm flat against the glass. The surface yielded like liquid, swallowing her hand up to the wrist in impossible warmth.
The mirror hissed approval. "Clever girl."
Astrid withdrew her hand slowly, admiring the way the liquid silver clung to her glove before dissolving back into the reflection. Her mind spun with delicious possibilities—board members collapsing under her touch at gala events, rivals unraveling in corporate bathrooms, every moan another brick in her empire. She'd always collected lovers like trophies; now they'd serve a higher purpose.
The bartender's ragged breaths still echoed in the stall behind her as Astrid adjusted her witch hat with a satisfied smirk. Her fingers tingled with residual energy—warm, humming, like champagne bubbles beneath her skin. The mirror had been right. Every gasp, every shudder she'd ripped from that trembling body had stoked something *more* inside her.
A notification chimed from her clutch. Astrid flicked it open with a black nail to find three tagged photos from the party's official Instagram. There she was in the background of one, shoulders looming over the crowd like a sleek obsidian monument. Her stomach clenched. That was no trick of the lens—her new proportions were *noticeable*. Another hour here and some influencer would be live-streaming "#GiantWitch at Raven's Nest!!" with her dimensional stats in the comments.
She pressed a gloved hand to the bathroom mirror. "Darling," she murmured, "we have a problem."
Astrid's reflection rippled like disturbed mercury, its lips curling into a knowing smirk. "You're charged now, darling," it purred, its voice dripping with the same smug condescension she wielded like a blade. "Enough to cast something... fun." The glass fogged briefly before clearing to reveal a dimly lit alley behind the club—brick walls slick with rain, the distant throb of bass bleeding through cracked pavement.
"Focus," the reflection commanded, its eyes gleaming like polished onyx. "Visualize every detail—the dumpster reeking of stale liquor, the flickering neon sign above the fire escape. Then say 'Transitio per umbram.'"
Astrid's breath hitched. Latin had always sounded like power in her mouth—like incantations whispered in boardrooms before hostile takeovers. She traced the alley's contours in her mind: the rusted ladder, the puddle reflecting fractured purple light, the sharp tang of wet asphalt. "Transitio per umbram," she enunciated, savoring the syllables as they rolled off her tongue like dark velvet.
The world lurched. Her stomach flipped as if she'd missed a step in the dark, her vision blurring into streaks of neon and shadow. Then—impact. Cold concrete bit into her palms as she caught herself, her stilettos scraping against gravel. The alley's chill seeped through her bodysuit, a stark contrast to the club's feverish heat. Astrid laughed, the sound echoing off the bricks. "Fuck," she breathed, flexing her fingers. Energy thrummed under her skin—not just the residual buzz from the bartender's climax, but something darker, hungrier. The thrill of casting.
Astrid's fingers twitched at her thigh, where the sleek, polished handle of her broom materialized from the shadows with a whisper of displaced air. It was no common household tool—this was ebony lacquered with venomous sheen, its bristles woven from the tail hairs of black stallions bred for war. She swung a leg over it with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this in private for years, the broomstick vibrating under her like a living thing.
"Up," she commanded through gritted teeth, and the world dropped away beneath her.
Wind tore at her witch hat as Havenridge's skyline blurred below—glass towers became jagged teeth, the bay a spilled inkwell reflecting the bruised twilight. Her thighs clenched the broom tighter as she banked sharply around a skyscraper, laughing at the startled pigeons scattering in her wake. The city's glow painted her face in streaks of gold and violet, her reflection flickering in windows she passed too fast to see clearly.
Three things became immediately apparent: First, flight was better than any orgasm she'd ever faked. Second, her bodysuit's enchanted seams held firm against the gale, though the wind still found ways to make the material strain against her newly enhanced curves. Third—and most irritating—it going to hard to land on her her apartment's penthouse balcony.
Astrid circled twice, calculating trajectories. The balcony jutted out like a glass and steel afterthought, barely three meters across, currently occupied by her terrified Persian cat and a half-finished gin cocktail. She tightened her grip and dove.
The landing was less graceful than she'd hoped. The broom bucked as she hit the deceleration spell too late, sending her tumbling onto the balcony in a tangle of limbs and flying fabric. Her hat went over the railing; her left stiletto punctured a patio cushion. The cat yowled and bolted inside.
Astrid's bare foot landed in the spilled gin with a wet squelch. She hissed through her teeth—not from pain, but the indignity of it all. The cat, safe behind the glass doors, glared at her with slit-pupiled judgment. "Oh, shut up," she snapped, wiggling her toes as sticky liquor dripped onto the marble. The broom clattered beside her, its ebony surface smoking faintly from the rough landing.
She straightened with as much dignity as her disheveled state allowed—one shoe missing, hair escaping its updo, bodysuit clinging uncomfortably where the gin had soaked through. The mirror inside caught her reflection as she stormed past, and it had the audacity to ripple with laughter. "Not a word," Astrid growled, peeling off the ruined glove and tossing it at the glass. The fabric passed through the surface with a wet plop. The mirror burped.
Astrid...
The mirror rippled like liquid mercury. A face emerged—sharp, androgynous features framed by tendrils of shadow, lips curled in perpetual amusement. "Of course you do," the reflection purred, voice dripping condescension. "Sex isn’t just pleasure for you anymore, darling. It’s sustenance. Every gasp you steal, every drop of sweat you wring from them—fuel."
Astrid’s breath hitched. She dragged a black-gloved fingertip along the glass, watching the reflection’s smirk widen. "Imagine it," the mirror continued, "an endless buffet of writhing, willing bodies. No more restrictive diets. No more counting calories. Just... indulgence." The face leaned closer, until their noses almost touched. "You could be unstoppable."
A shiver ran down Astrid’s spine—not fear, but ravenous anticipation. Her mind spun with possibilities: crowded nightclubs, gala events, boardrooms full of easily manipulated executives. All of them, ripe for the taking. Her fingers twitched at her sides, already itching to dig into soft flesh.
Astrid traced the contours of her enhanced physique in the full-length mirror, black latex gloves whispering against her own impossible curves. The reflection staring back wasn't merely hers anymore—it pulsed with alien awareness, the silvered surface rippling like disturbed mercury.
"Every climax you wring from them," her reflection purred in a voice like oiled silk, "becomes your sustenance." The mirror-Astrid flexed, veins threading beneath obsidian skin with luminescent vitality. "Their pleasure is your power now, darling."
A shiver raced down Astrid's spine—not fear, but the electric thrill of understanding her new economy of ecstasy. She dragged a gloved fingertip down the mirror's surface, watching her other self arch into the touch.
"Careful," the reflection warned with a razor smile. "Too many witnesses could expose you." The image flickered—a grotesque montage of lab dissections, military containment, her flawless body strapped to cold steel tables.
Astrid's lips curled. She wasn't stupid. The world wasn't ready for this. Not yet. "Then we'll be selective," she murmured, pressing her palm flat against the glass. The surface yielded like liquid, swallowing her hand up to the wrist in impossible warmth.
The mirror hissed approval. "Clever girl."
Astrid withdrew her hand slowly, admiring the way the liquid silver clung to her glove before dissolving back into the reflection. Her mind spun with delicious possibilities—board members collapsing under her touch at gala events, rivals unraveling in corporate bathrooms, every moan another brick in her empire. She'd always collected lovers like trophies; now they'd serve a higher purpose.
The bartender's ragged breaths still echoed in the stall behind her as Astrid adjusted her witch hat with a satisfied smirk. Her fingers tingled with residual energy—warm, humming, like champagne bubbles beneath her skin. The mirror had been right. Every gasp, every shudder she'd ripped from that trembling body had stoked something *more* inside her.
A notification chimed from her clutch. Astrid flicked it open with a black nail to find three tagged photos from the party's official Instagram. There she was in the background of one, shoulders looming over the crowd like a sleek obsidian monument. Her stomach clenched. That was no trick of the lens—her new proportions were *noticeable*. Another hour here and some influencer would be live-streaming "#GiantWitch at Raven's Nest!!" with her dimensional stats in the comments.
She pressed a gloved hand to the bathroom mirror. "Darling," she murmured, "we have a problem."
Astrid's reflection rippled like disturbed mercury, its lips curling into a knowing smirk. "You're charged now, darling," it purred, its voice dripping with the same smug condescension she wielded like a blade. "Enough to cast something... fun." The glass fogged briefly before clearing to reveal a dimly lit alley behind the club—brick walls slick with rain, the distant throb of bass bleeding through cracked pavement.
"Focus," the reflection commanded, its eyes gleaming like polished onyx. "Visualize every detail—the dumpster reeking of stale liquor, the flickering neon sign above the fire escape. Then say 'Transitio per umbram.'"
Astrid's breath hitched. Latin had always sounded like power in her mouth—like incantations whispered in boardrooms before hostile takeovers. She traced the alley's contours in her mind: the rusted ladder, the puddle reflecting fractured purple light, the sharp tang of wet asphalt. "Transitio per umbram," she enunciated, savoring the syllables as they rolled off her tongue like dark velvet.
The world lurched. Her stomach flipped as if she'd missed a step in the dark, her vision blurring into streaks of neon and shadow. Then—impact. Cold concrete bit into her palms as she caught herself, her stilettos scraping against gravel. The alley's chill seeped through her bodysuit, a stark contrast to the club's feverish heat. Astrid laughed, the sound echoing off the bricks. "Fuck," she breathed, flexing her fingers. Energy thrummed under her skin—not just the residual buzz from the bartender's climax, but something darker, hungrier. The thrill of casting.
Astrid's fingers twitched at her thigh, where the sleek, polished handle of her broom materialized from the shadows with a whisper of displaced air. It was no common household tool—this was ebony lacquered with venomous sheen, its bristles woven from the tail hairs of black stallions bred for war. She swung a leg over it with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this in private for years, the broomstick vibrating under her like a living thing.
"Up," she commanded through gritted teeth, and the world dropped away beneath her.
Wind tore at her witch hat as Havenridge's skyline blurred below—glass towers became jagged teeth, the bay a spilled inkwell reflecting the bruised twilight. Her thighs clenched the broom tighter as she banked sharply around a skyscraper, laughing at the startled pigeons scattering in her wake. The city's glow painted her face in streaks of gold and violet, her reflection flickering in windows she passed too fast to see clearly.
Three things became immediately apparent: First, flight was better than any orgasm she'd ever faked. Second, her bodysuit's enchanted seams held firm against the gale, though the wind still found ways to make the material strain against her newly enhanced curves. Third—and most irritating—it going to hard to land on her her apartment's penthouse balcony.
Astrid circled twice, calculating trajectories. The balcony jutted out like a glass and steel afterthought, barely three meters across, currently occupied by her terrified Persian cat and a half-finished gin cocktail. She tightened her grip and dove.
The landing was less graceful than she'd hoped. The broom bucked as she hit the deceleration spell too late, sending her tumbling onto the balcony in a tangle of limbs and flying fabric. Her hat went over the railing; her left stiletto punctured a patio cushion. The cat yowled and bolted inside.
Astrid's bare foot landed in the spilled gin with a wet squelch. She hissed through her teeth—not from pain, but the indignity of it all. The cat, safe behind the glass doors, glared at her with slit-pupiled judgment. "Oh, shut up," she snapped, wiggling her toes as sticky liquor dripped onto the marble. The broom clattered beside her, its ebony surface smoking faintly from the rough landing.
She straightened with as much dignity as her disheveled state allowed—one shoe missing, hair escaping its updo, bodysuit clinging uncomfortably where the gin had soaked through. The mirror inside caught her reflection as she stormed past, and it had the audacity to ripple with laughter. "Not a word," Astrid growled, peeling off the ruined glove and tossing it at the glass. The fabric passed through the surface with a wet plop. The mirror burped.
Astrid...
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June 13
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