Go to sleep
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 13
by
copier
· original author:
an188
"I am *exhausted*," Astrid muttered to no one in particular, stumbling toward her king-sized bed with the grace of a drunk giraffe. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving behind only the dull ache of overused muscles and the phantom tingle of magic still buzzing under her skin. She didn't even bother peeling off the ruined bodysuit—just face-planted into the silk sheets with a groan, her platinum hair fanning out like a shattered halo. Within seconds, she was out cold, one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress, fingers still twitching occasionally as if casting spells in her sleep.
Morning came too soon. The shrill ringtone of her phone—a custom recording of her own laughter, because of course—jolted her awake like a bucket of ice water. She groped blindly for the device, her eyelids refusing to cooperate. "What," she snarled into the phone, her voice raspy with sleep.
"Ms. Winterbourne?" The timid lilt of her secretary's voice made Astrid's skin prickle with irritation. "It's 10:15. The board meeting started fifteen minutes ago. Mr. Kensington is—"
Astrid cracked one eye open. Sunlight poured through the penthouse windows, illuminating the wreckage of last night: the gin-soaked balcony, the smoking broomstick propped against her designer chaise, and—oh. The impossible swell of her own biceps straining against the living latex bodysuit. Every muscle stood in sharp relief, her once-sleek frame now corded with supernatural power. And her huge, hard, gravity-defying breasts A slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
"Tell Kensington to choke on his PowerPoint," Astrid purred, stretching like a satisfied panther. The bodysuit creaked dangerously. "I'm taking... a leave of absence. Personal matters."
A pause. "A—a month?" Her secretary sounded like she'd been slapped. "But the quarterly reports—"
Astrid flexed her thighs, watching the fabric ripple. "Are beneath me." She said it with such conviction that the secretary on the phone gasped audibly—but Astrid wasn't referring to PowerPoint presentations. The bedframe groaned as she rolled onto her side, her new proportions testing the limits of Italian craftsmanship.
The secretary's voice turned breathy. "Ms. Winterbourne, if you're—unwell—"
"I'm *perfect*," Astrid snapped, then caught herself. She softened her tone like warmed honey. "Darling, clear my schedule. Tell Kensington I've contracted something... exotic." She traced a gloved fingertip down her own collarbone, imagining the board's balding VP sputtering into his tie.
A shaky exhale. "And... our weekend?" The girl's voice dipped—half fear, half want.
Astrid's reflection smirked in the floor-length mirror across the bedroom. The witch rolled onto her stomach, letting the secretary hear the creak of leather sheets. "Oh, we'll *reschedule*," she purred. "Be a good girl and keep my inbox empty." She hung up without waiting for a reply.
The phone clattered onto the nightstand. Astrid stretched—a full-body ripple that made the bedframe groan—and studied her hands. Veins threaded beneath obsidian latex like rivers of ink. Power hummed under her skin, leftover energy from last night's... activities. She flexed, watching biceps bulge. "Glorious," she murmured, then frowned. The suit clung tighter than yesterday. Her hips strained the seams; her breasts threatened to split her bodysuit.
Astrid rolled off the bed with the languid grace of a panther stretching after a kill, her enhanced muscles rippling beneath the glossy black bodysuit that now seemed more like a second skin than clothing. The morning light caught the subtle sheen of her transformed physique—every curve and contour more pronounced, more *dangerous*. She ran her hands down her own sides with possessive delight, fingertips tracing the way the material clung to her widened hips and fuller breasts before stepping into the ensuite bathroom.
The shower stall, all black marble and gold fixtures, seemed to hum in anticipation as she approached. Astrid paused at the threshold, turning her head to catch her reflection in the full-length mirror. "Darling," she murmured to her mirrored self, "you look like temptation carved from onyx." The reflection winked back before she stepped forward—and gasped as the bodysuit dissolved into her skin like ink returning to water. The sensation was decadent, like sinking into a bath of warm silk. She wiggled her toes against the cool tile and laughed, low and throaty. "Now *that's* what I call a wardrobe malfunction in the best possible way."
The shower responded to her presence before she touched the controls, rain-head jets bursting to life with steaming water that enveloped her instantly. Astrid arched into the spray with a pleased sigh, letting it cascade over her enhanced physique—the water sluicing down newly defined shoulders, over the swell of breasts that had gained both size and perfect firmness, following the delicious dip of her waist before running in rivulets down her thickened thighs.
She reached for the artisanal soap—imported from some French atelier at exorbitant cost—and began lathering it between her palms with deliberate, sensual motions. "Mmm, *much* better without that pesky fabric in the way," she purred, dragging soapy hands up her own torso in slow, worshipful strokes. Her fingers lingered at her collarbones, tracing the newly prominent bones before sliding down to cup her own breasts, kneading them with possessive delight. The soap made her skin gleam under the water's caress, every curve and muscle defined like a marble statue come to life.
Astrid ran her hands down her sculpted torso with a groan of pure hedonism, fingertips catching on the ridges of her newly defined abs. The steam curled around her like an adoring crowd as she flexed—biceps swelling, shoulders rolling with predatory grace. "Darling," she murmured to her reflection in the fogged glass, "if Botox saw you now, it would weep in its little syringe." Water sluiced off the hard curve of her ass as she turned, admiring the way her thighs could probably crush a man's windpipe. The thought made her clench them together with a throaty laugh.
Astrid stepped out of the shower, rivulets of water cascading off her impossibly sculpted physique—the kind of body that made Renaissance sculptors weep into their chisels. The bathmat beneath her feet absorbed droplets with silent luxury as she stretched, watching her own biceps flex in the fogged mirror. "Mm. Even *I* would fuck me," she purred, running hands down the hard planes of her abdomen, fingers catching on the indentations of muscle that hadn't existed yesterday. The movement sent a shiver up her spine—not from cold, but from the raw, coiled power thrumming beneath her skin like a panther in velvet gloves.
She reached for the towel just as the last droplet slid down the curve of her hip. But before her fingers could graze Egyptian cotton, the air around her *rippled*. A slick, inky darkness erupted from her pores, slithering over her bare skin in liquid ribbons that sent prickles of pleasure radiating through her nerves. The sensation was decadent—like being dipped in warm honey laced with electricity. Astrid threw her head back with a throaty laugh as the substance enveloped her, solidifying into the familiar glossy black bodysuit, the seams stitching themselves around her curves with a lover's precision. "Darling," she murmured to the sentient fabric now hugging her thighs, "if I'd known you could do *that*, I'd have fired my tailor years ago."
Astrid arched one sculpted eyebrow at her reflection as the last droplets of water evaporated from her skin—not from the air’s warmth, but by some silent command of the living darkness now coiled beneath her surface. The bodysuit clung tighter than ever, as if savoring every new ridge of muscle she’d acquired overnight. She dragged a fingertip along her collarbone, watching the fabric ripple like liquid obsidian in response. "Darling," she mused to her reflection, "if narcissism were an Olympic sport, I’d podium naked." The mirror fogged briefly—whether from residual steam or some arcane amusement, she couldn’t tell—before clearing to reveal her face now framed by perfectly arched brows and smoldering kohl-lined eyes.
She blinked. The makeup hadn’t been there a second ago.
Astrid's laughter dripped with wicked delight as she twirled before the mirror, watching the bodysuit ripple and reform around her exaggerated curves like liquid night. "Oh, you absolute *darling*," she crooned to her reflection, running black-lacquered nails down her own waist. The fabric pulsed beneath her touch—alive, responsive, hungry. "Who needs couture when you're wearing *sentience*?" The last droplets of water evaporated from her skin with an almost obedient haste, as if the very air feared displeasing her.
She tilted her chin, examining her bare face—still flawless, still smug, but missing its usual war paint. A slow smirk curled her lips. If the suit could materialize at will...why not the rest? Closing her eyes, Astrid imagined the precise sweep of winged liner, the plumping weight of matte black lipstick, the smolder of smoked-out shadow. Heat prickled along her eyelids, her lips—not unpleasant, but possessive, like a lover's teeth grazing sensitive skin. When she opened her eyes, her reflection stared back with kohl-lined intensity, mouth a perfect bruise-dark pout.
Suddenly...
Morning came too soon. The shrill ringtone of her phone—a custom recording of her own laughter, because of course—jolted her awake like a bucket of ice water. She groped blindly for the device, her eyelids refusing to cooperate. "What," she snarled into the phone, her voice raspy with sleep.
"Ms. Winterbourne?" The timid lilt of her secretary's voice made Astrid's skin prickle with irritation. "It's 10:15. The board meeting started fifteen minutes ago. Mr. Kensington is—"
Astrid cracked one eye open. Sunlight poured through the penthouse windows, illuminating the wreckage of last night: the gin-soaked balcony, the smoking broomstick propped against her designer chaise, and—oh. The impossible swell of her own biceps straining against the living latex bodysuit. Every muscle stood in sharp relief, her once-sleek frame now corded with supernatural power. And her huge, hard, gravity-defying breasts A slow, wicked grin spread across her face.
"Tell Kensington to choke on his PowerPoint," Astrid purred, stretching like a satisfied panther. The bodysuit creaked dangerously. "I'm taking... a leave of absence. Personal matters."
A pause. "A—a month?" Her secretary sounded like she'd been slapped. "But the quarterly reports—"
Astrid flexed her thighs, watching the fabric ripple. "Are beneath me." She said it with such conviction that the secretary on the phone gasped audibly—but Astrid wasn't referring to PowerPoint presentations. The bedframe groaned as she rolled onto her side, her new proportions testing the limits of Italian craftsmanship.
The secretary's voice turned breathy. "Ms. Winterbourne, if you're—unwell—"
"I'm *perfect*," Astrid snapped, then caught herself. She softened her tone like warmed honey. "Darling, clear my schedule. Tell Kensington I've contracted something... exotic." She traced a gloved fingertip down her own collarbone, imagining the board's balding VP sputtering into his tie.
A shaky exhale. "And... our weekend?" The girl's voice dipped—half fear, half want.
Astrid's reflection smirked in the floor-length mirror across the bedroom. The witch rolled onto her stomach, letting the secretary hear the creak of leather sheets. "Oh, we'll *reschedule*," she purred. "Be a good girl and keep my inbox empty." She hung up without waiting for a reply.
The phone clattered onto the nightstand. Astrid stretched—a full-body ripple that made the bedframe groan—and studied her hands. Veins threaded beneath obsidian latex like rivers of ink. Power hummed under her skin, leftover energy from last night's... activities. She flexed, watching biceps bulge. "Glorious," she murmured, then frowned. The suit clung tighter than yesterday. Her hips strained the seams; her breasts threatened to split her bodysuit.
Astrid rolled off the bed with the languid grace of a panther stretching after a kill, her enhanced muscles rippling beneath the glossy black bodysuit that now seemed more like a second skin than clothing. The morning light caught the subtle sheen of her transformed physique—every curve and contour more pronounced, more *dangerous*. She ran her hands down her own sides with possessive delight, fingertips tracing the way the material clung to her widened hips and fuller breasts before stepping into the ensuite bathroom.
The shower stall, all black marble and gold fixtures, seemed to hum in anticipation as she approached. Astrid paused at the threshold, turning her head to catch her reflection in the full-length mirror. "Darling," she murmured to her mirrored self, "you look like temptation carved from onyx." The reflection winked back before she stepped forward—and gasped as the bodysuit dissolved into her skin like ink returning to water. The sensation was decadent, like sinking into a bath of warm silk. She wiggled her toes against the cool tile and laughed, low and throaty. "Now *that's* what I call a wardrobe malfunction in the best possible way."
The shower responded to her presence before she touched the controls, rain-head jets bursting to life with steaming water that enveloped her instantly. Astrid arched into the spray with a pleased sigh, letting it cascade over her enhanced physique—the water sluicing down newly defined shoulders, over the swell of breasts that had gained both size and perfect firmness, following the delicious dip of her waist before running in rivulets down her thickened thighs.
She reached for the artisanal soap—imported from some French atelier at exorbitant cost—and began lathering it between her palms with deliberate, sensual motions. "Mmm, *much* better without that pesky fabric in the way," she purred, dragging soapy hands up her own torso in slow, worshipful strokes. Her fingers lingered at her collarbones, tracing the newly prominent bones before sliding down to cup her own breasts, kneading them with possessive delight. The soap made her skin gleam under the water's caress, every curve and muscle defined like a marble statue come to life.
Astrid ran her hands down her sculpted torso with a groan of pure hedonism, fingertips catching on the ridges of her newly defined abs. The steam curled around her like an adoring crowd as she flexed—biceps swelling, shoulders rolling with predatory grace. "Darling," she murmured to her reflection in the fogged glass, "if Botox saw you now, it would weep in its little syringe." Water sluiced off the hard curve of her ass as she turned, admiring the way her thighs could probably crush a man's windpipe. The thought made her clench them together with a throaty laugh.
Astrid stepped out of the shower, rivulets of water cascading off her impossibly sculpted physique—the kind of body that made Renaissance sculptors weep into their chisels. The bathmat beneath her feet absorbed droplets with silent luxury as she stretched, watching her own biceps flex in the fogged mirror. "Mm. Even *I* would fuck me," she purred, running hands down the hard planes of her abdomen, fingers catching on the indentations of muscle that hadn't existed yesterday. The movement sent a shiver up her spine—not from cold, but from the raw, coiled power thrumming beneath her skin like a panther in velvet gloves.
She reached for the towel just as the last droplet slid down the curve of her hip. But before her fingers could graze Egyptian cotton, the air around her *rippled*. A slick, inky darkness erupted from her pores, slithering over her bare skin in liquid ribbons that sent prickles of pleasure radiating through her nerves. The sensation was decadent—like being dipped in warm honey laced with electricity. Astrid threw her head back with a throaty laugh as the substance enveloped her, solidifying into the familiar glossy black bodysuit, the seams stitching themselves around her curves with a lover's precision. "Darling," she murmured to the sentient fabric now hugging her thighs, "if I'd known you could do *that*, I'd have fired my tailor years ago."
Astrid arched one sculpted eyebrow at her reflection as the last droplets of water evaporated from her skin—not from the air’s warmth, but by some silent command of the living darkness now coiled beneath her surface. The bodysuit clung tighter than ever, as if savoring every new ridge of muscle she’d acquired overnight. She dragged a fingertip along her collarbone, watching the fabric ripple like liquid obsidian in response. "Darling," she mused to her reflection, "if narcissism were an Olympic sport, I’d podium naked." The mirror fogged briefly—whether from residual steam or some arcane amusement, she couldn’t tell—before clearing to reveal her face now framed by perfectly arched brows and smoldering kohl-lined eyes.
She blinked. The makeup hadn’t been there a second ago.
Astrid's laughter dripped with wicked delight as she twirled before the mirror, watching the bodysuit ripple and reform around her exaggerated curves like liquid night. "Oh, you absolute *darling*," she crooned to her reflection, running black-lacquered nails down her own waist. The fabric pulsed beneath her touch—alive, responsive, hungry. "Who needs couture when you're wearing *sentience*?" The last droplets of water evaporated from her skin with an almost obedient haste, as if the very air feared displeasing her.
She tilted her chin, examining her bare face—still flawless, still smug, but missing its usual war paint. A slow smirk curled her lips. If the suit could materialize at will...why not the rest? Closing her eyes, Astrid imagined the precise sweep of winged liner, the plumping weight of matte black lipstick, the smolder of smoked-out shadow. Heat prickled along her eyelids, her lips—not unpleasant, but possessive, like a lover's teeth grazing sensitive skin. When she opened her eyes, her reflection stared back with kohl-lined intensity, mouth a perfect bruise-dark pout.
Suddenly...
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June 13
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