Science
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 6
by
copier
· original author:
an188
A few days slipped by in Cherri’s once-spartan apartment, and Angel Dust remade it in his image with the casual ruthlessness of someone claiming conquered territory.
The bathroom counter vanished beneath towers of high-end serums, retinol creams, peptide gels, diamond-infused face masks, and a rotating lineup of niche perfumes—ouds one day, vanilla-amber gourmands the next. The kitchen cabinets, previously stocked with instant ramen and protein bars, now housed blenders, organic kale, collagen peptides, adaptogenic mushroom powders, and every exotic fruit needed for Angel’s meticulously calibrated nutrient shakes. Walk-in closets that once held Cherri’s ripped band tees and mismatched boots were now bursting with Angel’s wardrobe: pink-and-white striped bodysuits, black hot pants, thigh-high stockings, platforms with crystal heels, silk robes monogrammed in gold. Cherri’s own clothes had been quietly relegated to a single drawer.
She didn’t complain. She couldn’t. Every new invasion felt like proof he intended to stay—like forgiveness was only one more act of perfect obedience away. She still craved him the way a junkie craves the needle: the memory of his body pinning hers, the way he used to fill her until she couldn’t think, the way he made her come so hard the world dissolved. That addiction lived under her skin now, constant and gnawing. She would have traded her scholarship, her degree, her entire future just to feel him inside her again.
Angel knew it. He counted on it.
He spent his days in lavish, deliberate self-worship. Mornings began with two-hour jacuzzi soaks, scented oils turning the water milky, steam curling around his long limbs. Afternoons were sunbathing sessions on the balcony—naked except for tiny pink briefs, skin glistening with SPF 100+ body oil, turning slowly like meat on a spit. Evenings meant full-body rituals: exfoliation, masking, massage with gua sha tools, nail buffing until they gleamed like glass. Cherri begged to help. She knelt beside the tub, voice small and trembling.
“Please, Angel. Let me rub the oil in. I’ll be so careful. I just want to touch you.”
He never looked at her. “No. You lost that privilege when you ran off to play Einstein. Go study or something. Mommy’s busy.”
Each refusal was a calculated cut. He could see the withdrawal symptoms: the way her hands shook when she passed him a towel, the way her pupils dilated when his robe slipped off one shoulder, the way she lingered too long when bringing him fresh smoothies. He was starving her on purpose. Let the need build until it cracked her open.
One lazy afternoon he sprawled on the sectional in nothing but baby-pink boxer briefs, long legs stretched across the cushions. One hand worked lazily between his thighs—slow, indulgent strokes—while the other scrolled through encrypted burner apps on his phone. The investment mess was still simmering: two of his femme personas were now flagged in federal crypto-fraud alerts, shell companies subpoenaed, investigators sniffing around wallets. Angel smirked. Good thing Anthony Angelo had never touched any of it directly. He remained a ghost. He made a mental note: retire those aliases permanently.
A new message lit the screen. Verosika Mayday.
“Valentino’s still losing his shit over you. Screaming in three languages. I miss your cock, pretty boy. Come play when you’re done hiding? 💋”
Angel’s smile sharpened. The fight ploy had worked perfectly—everyone believed he’d stormed off in a tantrum. No one was looking for a quiet disappearance. He left Verosika on read.
The front door clicked. Cherri stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, physics textbook clutched to her chest like a shield. She froze when she saw him: legs spread, hand still lazily stroking himself through pink fabric, TV droning some reality show in the background.
“Hey, Sugar Tits,” he drawled without looking up. “How was nerd school?”
Cherri set the bag down carefully. “Good. We’re doing quantum entanglement labs this week. It’s… intense.”
Angel finally glanced at her. “Quantum entanglement. Cute. You still think that shit matters?”
She swallowed. “It does. To me.”
He laughed—low, cutting. “To you. Right. Because you’re building such a bright future away from me. Tell me again why you thought leaving was a good idea.”
Cherri’s shoulders hunched. “I told you. I needed to try. But I came back. I chose you.”
“You crawled back,” he corrected. “On your knees. Begging. After you let some nobody stick his dick in you. Don’t romanticize it.”
Her freckled cheeks flushed. “I was wrong. I know that. But my degree—it could help us. Help you.”
Angel sat up slowly, hand still resting possessively over his crotch. “Help me? Oh this I gotta hear. Go on, genius. Enlighten me.”
Cherri took a tentative step closer. “Physics isn’t just theory. The stuff I’m learning—materials science, energetics, even some classified propulsion concepts I’ve glimpsed in the lab—if I finish, if I get access to better resources, I could build things. Real things. Things that could make you untouchable. Security systems. Escape routes. Hell, custom explosives that leave no trace. I could make you—”
She hesitated.
Angel arched one perfect brow. “Make me what?”
Cherri lifted her chin, voice trembling but determined. “I could make you a superman.”
The bathroom counter vanished beneath towers of high-end serums, retinol creams, peptide gels, diamond-infused face masks, and a rotating lineup of niche perfumes—ouds one day, vanilla-amber gourmands the next. The kitchen cabinets, previously stocked with instant ramen and protein bars, now housed blenders, organic kale, collagen peptides, adaptogenic mushroom powders, and every exotic fruit needed for Angel’s meticulously calibrated nutrient shakes. Walk-in closets that once held Cherri’s ripped band tees and mismatched boots were now bursting with Angel’s wardrobe: pink-and-white striped bodysuits, black hot pants, thigh-high stockings, platforms with crystal heels, silk robes monogrammed in gold. Cherri’s own clothes had been quietly relegated to a single drawer.
She didn’t complain. She couldn’t. Every new invasion felt like proof he intended to stay—like forgiveness was only one more act of perfect obedience away. She still craved him the way a junkie craves the needle: the memory of his body pinning hers, the way he used to fill her until she couldn’t think, the way he made her come so hard the world dissolved. That addiction lived under her skin now, constant and gnawing. She would have traded her scholarship, her degree, her entire future just to feel him inside her again.
Angel knew it. He counted on it.
He spent his days in lavish, deliberate self-worship. Mornings began with two-hour jacuzzi soaks, scented oils turning the water milky, steam curling around his long limbs. Afternoons were sunbathing sessions on the balcony—naked except for tiny pink briefs, skin glistening with SPF 100+ body oil, turning slowly like meat on a spit. Evenings meant full-body rituals: exfoliation, masking, massage with gua sha tools, nail buffing until they gleamed like glass. Cherri begged to help. She knelt beside the tub, voice small and trembling.
“Please, Angel. Let me rub the oil in. I’ll be so careful. I just want to touch you.”
He never looked at her. “No. You lost that privilege when you ran off to play Einstein. Go study or something. Mommy’s busy.”
Each refusal was a calculated cut. He could see the withdrawal symptoms: the way her hands shook when she passed him a towel, the way her pupils dilated when his robe slipped off one shoulder, the way she lingered too long when bringing him fresh smoothies. He was starving her on purpose. Let the need build until it cracked her open.
One lazy afternoon he sprawled on the sectional in nothing but baby-pink boxer briefs, long legs stretched across the cushions. One hand worked lazily between his thighs—slow, indulgent strokes—while the other scrolled through encrypted burner apps on his phone. The investment mess was still simmering: two of his femme personas were now flagged in federal crypto-fraud alerts, shell companies subpoenaed, investigators sniffing around wallets. Angel smirked. Good thing Anthony Angelo had never touched any of it directly. He remained a ghost. He made a mental note: retire those aliases permanently.
A new message lit the screen. Verosika Mayday.
“Valentino’s still losing his shit over you. Screaming in three languages. I miss your cock, pretty boy. Come play when you’re done hiding? 💋”
Angel’s smile sharpened. The fight ploy had worked perfectly—everyone believed he’d stormed off in a tantrum. No one was looking for a quiet disappearance. He left Verosika on read.
The front door clicked. Cherri stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, physics textbook clutched to her chest like a shield. She froze when she saw him: legs spread, hand still lazily stroking himself through pink fabric, TV droning some reality show in the background.
“Hey, Sugar Tits,” he drawled without looking up. “How was nerd school?”
Cherri set the bag down carefully. “Good. We’re doing quantum entanglement labs this week. It’s… intense.”
Angel finally glanced at her. “Quantum entanglement. Cute. You still think that shit matters?”
She swallowed. “It does. To me.”
He laughed—low, cutting. “To you. Right. Because you’re building such a bright future away from me. Tell me again why you thought leaving was a good idea.”
Cherri’s shoulders hunched. “I told you. I needed to try. But I came back. I chose you.”
“You crawled back,” he corrected. “On your knees. Begging. After you let some nobody stick his dick in you. Don’t romanticize it.”
Her freckled cheeks flushed. “I was wrong. I know that. But my degree—it could help us. Help you.”
Angel sat up slowly, hand still resting possessively over his crotch. “Help me? Oh this I gotta hear. Go on, genius. Enlighten me.”
Cherri took a tentative step closer. “Physics isn’t just theory. The stuff I’m learning—materials science, energetics, even some classified propulsion concepts I’ve glimpsed in the lab—if I finish, if I get access to better resources, I could build things. Real things. Things that could make you untouchable. Security systems. Escape routes. Hell, custom explosives that leave no trace. I could make you—”
She hesitated.
Angel arched one perfect brow. “Make me what?”
Cherri lifted her chin, voice trembling but determined. “I could make you a superman.”
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June 13
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