They go into their room.
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 8
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The elevator door opens with a groan that sounds suspiciously like a dying animal, and Glam sisters step into the dim, grimy hallway of the One Star Wonder. The air smells like stale cigarettes and industrial-strength cleaner—a feeble attempt to mask the underlying stench of mildew and questionable life choices. Glitz kicks the door of room 212 with her stiletto heel, sending sparks skittering across the peeling maroon paint, before barging inside with all the subtlety of a lightning strike.
The room greets them like a reluctant host—dust motes swirling in the weak amber glow of the bedside lamp, the carpet’s hypnotic "00000" pattern swallowing their footsteps whole. Glitz wrinkles her nose at the oppressive quiet, the kind that feels like the walls are holding their breath. "Ugh, smells like Rolando’s dignity in here," she mutters, tossing her silver ponytail over one shoulder. A stray arc of electricity leaps from her fingertips toward the lamp on the nightstand—she aims to light it, but the bulb explodes in a shower of glass with a sharp pop.
Glitz blinks at the smoking remains, then grins, wide and unrepentant. "Oops."
Glam sighs—a slow, theatrical exhale—before extending one clawed finger toward the remaining lamp. A precise spark dances from her nail to the bulb, igniting it with a soft fwoomp. The weak amber glow barely pushes back the gloom, casting their daphne-blue skin in a sickly, jaundiced light. Shadows stretch long and skeletal across the peeling wallpaper.
"Wow, real impressive," Glitz drawls, flopping onto the bed with enough force to send a plume of dust motes swirling. The mattress groans beneath her, springs protesting as she sprawls like a starfish, silver ponytail fanning across a suspicious stain shaped vaguely like Florida. "You lit a lamp. Should I call the fucking Nobel committee?" She kicks one stiletto off, sending it skittering into the closet door with a crack of splintering wood.
Glam doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she runs a slow, deliberate claw along the peeling wallpaper, watching blue sparks dance in its wake. The floral motif—once elegant, now just sad—blackens and curls at the edges where her touch lingers. "Control," she purrs, flexing her bicep just to watch the lightning tattoo writhe under her skin. The motion strains her already-shredded crop top past its limits; seams pop with a sound like gunfire, fabric slithering down her torso to pool around her hips. She doesn't bother catching it.
Glitz's breath hitches. "Show-off," she accuses, but her fingers are already digging into the mattress, shredding polyester as she levers herself up. Static lifts her silver ponytail in crackling tendrils—then the charge builds, snapping through her miniskirt like it's tissue paper. Blackened scraps flutter to the carpet, joining the dust and dead flies in silent surrender.
Glam watches through half-lidded eyes, sprawled against the headboard like a queen on a throne of cigarette burns. Her smirk deepens as Glitz's stiletto straps combust mid-step, leaving smoldering footprints in the 00000-patterned abyss. "Always were impatient," she murmurs. The last syllable dissolves into a gasp when Glitz lunges—all wiry muscle and ozone—and pins her by the throat against peeling wallpaper. Their bare skin meets with the sizzle of live wires crossing.
Glitz's breath ghosts over Glam's collarbone, charged particles dancing between them. "Fast learner?" she taunts, grinding her thigh against Glam's dripping heat. The carpet fibers crisp beneath them. "Let's see how quick you come."
The wallpaper peels further as Glam arches—not from passion, but from the 90-watt jolt Glitz sends through her left nipple. Their laughter crackles like downed power lines when the bedside lamp explodes in a shower of glass.
Glam quickly electrocuted Glitz and pushed her into the armchair with enough force to send dust motes swirling into the weak amber lamplight. She stood over her, arms crossed beneath her swollen breasts—her daphne-blue skin shimmering with suppressed energy—and glared down at her sister with electric-blue eyes that flickered like a storm. "This isn't a fucking joke, Glitz. We don’t know how we got like this, what we can do, or how to stop frying everything we touch." Her voice dripped condescension as she gestured to the exploded lamp. "You saw what happened when you tried to turn something on. Control isn't optional. It's survival."
Glitz rolled her eyes, stretching lazily in the chair, her silver ponytail crackling against the cheap polyester upholstery. "Oh please. So we're, like, electric goddesses now. Big deal." She flexed one arm, veins pulsing under shimmering skin, and smirked. "We're stronger, hotter, and can probably melt steel with our pussies. What's the problem?"
The problem was currently smoldering in the corner—the remains of Glitz's third spontaneous combustion of the hour, this time taking out half the paisley bedspread. Glam didn't even glance at it. Instead, she stepped forward, looming over her sister, the weak lamplight casting her sharp cheekbones in chiaroscuro. "The problem," she hissed, "is that we don't know if these powers will stop growing." Her fingers twitched, sending a warning arc of electricity snapping between them. "What happens when your next temper tantrum fries someone's brain instead of their polyester sheets?"
Glitz groaned, tossing her head back with enough force to scorch the chair's headrest. "Ugh, fine. Be boring." She waved a lazy hand toward Glam, talons glinting. "You're the smart one anyway. Go meditate or whatever." She wiggled her toes—or rather, the charred remains of her stiletto straps—and smirked. "I'll just... supervise."
Glam didn't dignify that with a response. She simply lowered herself onto the filthy carpet, folding her mile-long legs into a flawless lotus position. The motion should've been ridiculous—a six-foot-tall daphne-blue goddess with lightning tattoos and a silver ponytail thick as a ship's rope sitting cross-legged in a roach motel—but she made it look effortless. Her eyes slid shut, long lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones. The air around her hummed faintly, charged particles aligning like obedient soldiers.
Glitz watched from the wreckage of the armchair, absently picking at a scorch mark on her thigh. "Sooo... you're just gonna sit there looking constipated until magic happens?" She wiggled her fingers in mock-mystical gestures, accidentally discharging a spark that vaporized a hole in the already-ruined bedspread. "Whoops."
Glam didn't react. The only movement was the slow pulse of the lightning tattoos snaking up her forearms—a visual echo of whatever internal symphony she was conducting. The burnt-carpet smell mixed with ozone as electrostatic strands of her silver ponytail lifted like she was submerged in invisible water.
Meanwhile, Glitz rolled her hips against her own fingers, thighs spreading wider on the ruined armchair. The armrest groaned under her grip, wood splintering as she traced the ridges of her own abs—now slick with a thin sheen of sweat that crackled faintly with static. Her electric-blue talons dipped lower, her pussy already swollen and glistening between her powerful thighs. She exhaled sharply when two fingers slid inside, her clit throbbing under the rough pad of her thumb.
Glam remained statue-still, her silver ponytail hovering mid-air like a frozen lightning strike. Only the occasional flicker of her eyelashes betrayed any awareness at all—though whether she was ignoring Glitz or genuinely entranced by her own power was impossible to tell.
Glitz, meanwhile, had given up on subtlety. She sprawled across the wrecked armchair, thighs splayed shamelessly wide, one electric-blue talon tracing idle circles around her clit while the other plunged into her dripping cunt with obscene wet sounds. Her daphne-blue stomach muscles rippled under her own touch, the lightning tattoos flickering erratically in time with her rising pulse. With a sharp grin, she curled her fingers deeper—then gasped as a stray spark arced from her fingertips straight into her swollen clit. Her back arched violently off the chair, silver hair crackling with static as her thighs clamped around her wrist. "F-fuck—!" she choked out, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
Suddenly Glam opens her eyes...
The room greets them like a reluctant host—dust motes swirling in the weak amber glow of the bedside lamp, the carpet’s hypnotic "00000" pattern swallowing their footsteps whole. Glitz wrinkles her nose at the oppressive quiet, the kind that feels like the walls are holding their breath. "Ugh, smells like Rolando’s dignity in here," she mutters, tossing her silver ponytail over one shoulder. A stray arc of electricity leaps from her fingertips toward the lamp on the nightstand—she aims to light it, but the bulb explodes in a shower of glass with a sharp pop.
Glitz blinks at the smoking remains, then grins, wide and unrepentant. "Oops."
Glam sighs—a slow, theatrical exhale—before extending one clawed finger toward the remaining lamp. A precise spark dances from her nail to the bulb, igniting it with a soft fwoomp. The weak amber glow barely pushes back the gloom, casting their daphne-blue skin in a sickly, jaundiced light. Shadows stretch long and skeletal across the peeling wallpaper.
"Wow, real impressive," Glitz drawls, flopping onto the bed with enough force to send a plume of dust motes swirling. The mattress groans beneath her, springs protesting as she sprawls like a starfish, silver ponytail fanning across a suspicious stain shaped vaguely like Florida. "You lit a lamp. Should I call the fucking Nobel committee?" She kicks one stiletto off, sending it skittering into the closet door with a crack of splintering wood.
Glam doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she runs a slow, deliberate claw along the peeling wallpaper, watching blue sparks dance in its wake. The floral motif—once elegant, now just sad—blackens and curls at the edges where her touch lingers. "Control," she purrs, flexing her bicep just to watch the lightning tattoo writhe under her skin. The motion strains her already-shredded crop top past its limits; seams pop with a sound like gunfire, fabric slithering down her torso to pool around her hips. She doesn't bother catching it.
Glitz's breath hitches. "Show-off," she accuses, but her fingers are already digging into the mattress, shredding polyester as she levers herself up. Static lifts her silver ponytail in crackling tendrils—then the charge builds, snapping through her miniskirt like it's tissue paper. Blackened scraps flutter to the carpet, joining the dust and dead flies in silent surrender.
Glam watches through half-lidded eyes, sprawled against the headboard like a queen on a throne of cigarette burns. Her smirk deepens as Glitz's stiletto straps combust mid-step, leaving smoldering footprints in the 00000-patterned abyss. "Always were impatient," she murmurs. The last syllable dissolves into a gasp when Glitz lunges—all wiry muscle and ozone—and pins her by the throat against peeling wallpaper. Their bare skin meets with the sizzle of live wires crossing.
Glitz's breath ghosts over Glam's collarbone, charged particles dancing between them. "Fast learner?" she taunts, grinding her thigh against Glam's dripping heat. The carpet fibers crisp beneath them. "Let's see how quick you come."
The wallpaper peels further as Glam arches—not from passion, but from the 90-watt jolt Glitz sends through her left nipple. Their laughter crackles like downed power lines when the bedside lamp explodes in a shower of glass.
Glam quickly electrocuted Glitz and pushed her into the armchair with enough force to send dust motes swirling into the weak amber lamplight. She stood over her, arms crossed beneath her swollen breasts—her daphne-blue skin shimmering with suppressed energy—and glared down at her sister with electric-blue eyes that flickered like a storm. "This isn't a fucking joke, Glitz. We don’t know how we got like this, what we can do, or how to stop frying everything we touch." Her voice dripped condescension as she gestured to the exploded lamp. "You saw what happened when you tried to turn something on. Control isn't optional. It's survival."
Glitz rolled her eyes, stretching lazily in the chair, her silver ponytail crackling against the cheap polyester upholstery. "Oh please. So we're, like, electric goddesses now. Big deal." She flexed one arm, veins pulsing under shimmering skin, and smirked. "We're stronger, hotter, and can probably melt steel with our pussies. What's the problem?"
The problem was currently smoldering in the corner—the remains of Glitz's third spontaneous combustion of the hour, this time taking out half the paisley bedspread. Glam didn't even glance at it. Instead, she stepped forward, looming over her sister, the weak lamplight casting her sharp cheekbones in chiaroscuro. "The problem," she hissed, "is that we don't know if these powers will stop growing." Her fingers twitched, sending a warning arc of electricity snapping between them. "What happens when your next temper tantrum fries someone's brain instead of their polyester sheets?"
Glitz groaned, tossing her head back with enough force to scorch the chair's headrest. "Ugh, fine. Be boring." She waved a lazy hand toward Glam, talons glinting. "You're the smart one anyway. Go meditate or whatever." She wiggled her toes—or rather, the charred remains of her stiletto straps—and smirked. "I'll just... supervise."
Glam didn't dignify that with a response. She simply lowered herself onto the filthy carpet, folding her mile-long legs into a flawless lotus position. The motion should've been ridiculous—a six-foot-tall daphne-blue goddess with lightning tattoos and a silver ponytail thick as a ship's rope sitting cross-legged in a roach motel—but she made it look effortless. Her eyes slid shut, long lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones. The air around her hummed faintly, charged particles aligning like obedient soldiers.
Glitz watched from the wreckage of the armchair, absently picking at a scorch mark on her thigh. "Sooo... you're just gonna sit there looking constipated until magic happens?" She wiggled her fingers in mock-mystical gestures, accidentally discharging a spark that vaporized a hole in the already-ruined bedspread. "Whoops."
Glam didn't react. The only movement was the slow pulse of the lightning tattoos snaking up her forearms—a visual echo of whatever internal symphony she was conducting. The burnt-carpet smell mixed with ozone as electrostatic strands of her silver ponytail lifted like she was submerged in invisible water.
Meanwhile, Glitz rolled her hips against her own fingers, thighs spreading wider on the ruined armchair. The armrest groaned under her grip, wood splintering as she traced the ridges of her own abs—now slick with a thin sheen of sweat that crackled faintly with static. Her electric-blue talons dipped lower, her pussy already swollen and glistening between her powerful thighs. She exhaled sharply when two fingers slid inside, her clit throbbing under the rough pad of her thumb.
Glam remained statue-still, her silver ponytail hovering mid-air like a frozen lightning strike. Only the occasional flicker of her eyelashes betrayed any awareness at all—though whether she was ignoring Glitz or genuinely entranced by her own power was impossible to tell.
Glitz, meanwhile, had given up on subtlety. She sprawled across the wrecked armchair, thighs splayed shamelessly wide, one electric-blue talon tracing idle circles around her clit while the other plunged into her dripping cunt with obscene wet sounds. Her daphne-blue stomach muscles rippled under her own touch, the lightning tattoos flickering erratically in time with her rising pulse. With a sharp grin, she curled her fingers deeper—then gasped as a stray spark arced from her fingertips straight into her swollen clit. Her back arched violently off the chair, silver hair crackling with static as her thighs clamped around her wrist. "F-fuck—!" she choked out, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
Suddenly Glam opens her eyes...
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June 13
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