Quietly
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 10
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Cherri gripped the wheel, knuckles white, as the hatchback rattled down the deserted forest road. Moonlight sliced through the canopy, turning the asphalt silver. In the back seat, Angel shifted—trying to stretch his seven-foot frame in the cramped space.
The first warning was a low groan from the chassis.
Then the suspension screamed.
Angel’s massive shoulders pressed outward, pecs flexing against the roof lining. Fabric tore. Metal creaked. He giggled, delighted.
“Oopsie—”
The rear axle snapped with a gunshot crack. Both back tires exploded in twin booms—rubber shredding, rims sparking on asphalt. The doors buckled outward and fell off with dull thuds, clattering into the underbrush. The frame twisted, glass popping from the windows. The car lurched, skidded sideways, and ground to a halt in the middle of the road, a smoking, mangled skeleton of steel and upholstery.
Angel’s head poked through what used to be the roof. He blinked once, then burst into wicked, musical giggles.
“Well, fuck me sideways and call me a convertible,” he purred, voice dripping smug amusement. “Guess the little tin can couldn’t handle all this goddess.”
Cherri stumbled out, barefoot on cold asphalt, staring in horror at the wreckage. “My car… my fucking car…”
Angel tilted his head, still giggling. “Your car? Sweetie, that was a rolling landfill with delusions of adequacy. Consider it an upgrade—now you travel first-class.” He patted the twisted roof beside him like it was a loyal pet. “Poor thing gave its life for art.”
Cherri’s eyes filled with tears. She knelt beside the driver’s door—or what was left of it—poking uselessly at the mangled dashboard. “I can’t… I can’t fix this…”
Angel sighed theatrically and braced both hands against the crumpled roof. Metal shrieked as he pushed. The frame tore open like wet cardboard. He unfolded himself from the wreckage—seven feet of naked, sculpted perfection rising into the moonlight. Cool night wind kissed his skin; nipples hardened into sharp peaks on his massive pecs. Veins pulsed across every muscle, gleaming faintly.
He stretched—arms overhead, back arching, abs rippling into razor-sharp definition. The motion was pure sensuality: slow, deliberate, pornographic. He rolled his shoulders, biceps ballooning, triceps horseshoeing, and let out a low, satisfied moan.
Cherri looked up from the ruined car, tears streaking her freckled cheeks, and froze. Lust and awe warred on her face.
Angel sauntered toward the nearest pine—hips rolling, long white hair swaying. He laid one delicate palm against the rough bark. The trunk groaned. With a casual flex of his fingers the wood splintered; fibers cracked like gunfire. He tugged.
The entire tree—forty feet tall, roots ripping free—came out of the ground like a weed. Dirt rained. He laughed—bright, cruel—and clenched. The thick trunk exploded between his fingers in a shower of splinters and sap. Two jagged halves thudded to the earth.
Cherri’s mouth hung open. No sound came out.
Angel turned back to the car remains. He bent, gripped the twisted frame with both hands, and lifted. The scrap screeched as he hoisted it overhead—easily, effortlessly—like it weighed nothing. Metal groaned as he compressed it between his palms. Fenders crumpled inward, roof folded, chassis compacted. In seconds he held a perfect, basketball-sized sphere of mangled steel.
He giggled again—high, delighted—and began to play. He bounced the ball off one pec, caught it behind his back, spun it on one long fingernail like a globe. Each movement sent fresh waves of pleasure through his hypersensitive muscles.
“New favorite toy,” he purred. “Lightweight, durable… just like my patience.”
Cherri finally found her voice. “Angel… how are we getting home?”
He caught the ball mid-air and cocked his head toward a small, weathered sign half-hidden in the brush: JUNKYARD – 1.5 MI →
Angel’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Who said anything about going home, Sugar Tits? I’m in no rush. New body, new playground.” He tossed the metal sphere casually over one shoulder; it sailed into the trees with a distant crash. “Besides… I’ve got some stress to work off.”
Cherri opened her mouth to protest—then closed it. She knew that tone. Resistance was pointless.
Angel started walking—sensual, predatory stride—toward the sign. Cherri hurried after him, half-running to keep up with his long legs.
The junkyard gate was heavy chain-link, padlocked and rusted. Angel didn’t break stride. He hooked two fingers through the links and yanked. Metal screamed; the entire gate tore free from its posts in a shower of sparks and snapped bolts. He tossed it aside like a used tissue.
Inside, mountains of twisted steel and abandoned vehicles loomed under floodlights. Angel’s eyes lit up like a child in a candy store.
He walked straight to a rusted pickup truck—full-size, four-door. He gripped the front bumper with one hand and lifted. The truck rose smoothly off the ground—tires dangling, engine block groaning. He flipped it overhead like a pancake, then slammed it down onto another car. Metal buckled with a thunderous crunch.
Next he grabbed a delivery van by the roof. He squeezed. Windows exploded outward; frame crumpled inward like tinfoil. He laughed—bright, manic—and tore the van in half lengthwise, tossing both pieces into a pile.
Cherri watched from the gate, speechless, thighs clenched, breath shallow. Every flex, every casual act of destruction sent fresh heat pooling between her legs. She was terrified. She was soaked. She was his.
Angel turned, white hair whipping, pecs bouncing with the motion. He flexed both arms overhead—biceps peaking into mountains, veins throbbing, abs carved into brutal relief.
“See something you like, baby?” he called, voice dripping smug venom. “Or are you just gonna stand there dripping while I redecorate?”
Cherri swallowed hard. Her voice came out small, reverent.
“You’re… you’re a god.”
Angel’s grin widened—sharp, predatory, utterly satisfied.
“And you, Sugar Tits, just built me the altar.”
He turned back to the junkyard, already reaching for the next target.
The night was young.
And he had barely started playing.
The first warning was a low groan from the chassis.
Then the suspension screamed.
Angel’s massive shoulders pressed outward, pecs flexing against the roof lining. Fabric tore. Metal creaked. He giggled, delighted.
“Oopsie—”
The rear axle snapped with a gunshot crack. Both back tires exploded in twin booms—rubber shredding, rims sparking on asphalt. The doors buckled outward and fell off with dull thuds, clattering into the underbrush. The frame twisted, glass popping from the windows. The car lurched, skidded sideways, and ground to a halt in the middle of the road, a smoking, mangled skeleton of steel and upholstery.
Angel’s head poked through what used to be the roof. He blinked once, then burst into wicked, musical giggles.
“Well, fuck me sideways and call me a convertible,” he purred, voice dripping smug amusement. “Guess the little tin can couldn’t handle all this goddess.”
Cherri stumbled out, barefoot on cold asphalt, staring in horror at the wreckage. “My car… my fucking car…”
Angel tilted his head, still giggling. “Your car? Sweetie, that was a rolling landfill with delusions of adequacy. Consider it an upgrade—now you travel first-class.” He patted the twisted roof beside him like it was a loyal pet. “Poor thing gave its life for art.”
Cherri’s eyes filled with tears. She knelt beside the driver’s door—or what was left of it—poking uselessly at the mangled dashboard. “I can’t… I can’t fix this…”
Angel sighed theatrically and braced both hands against the crumpled roof. Metal shrieked as he pushed. The frame tore open like wet cardboard. He unfolded himself from the wreckage—seven feet of naked, sculpted perfection rising into the moonlight. Cool night wind kissed his skin; nipples hardened into sharp peaks on his massive pecs. Veins pulsed across every muscle, gleaming faintly.
He stretched—arms overhead, back arching, abs rippling into razor-sharp definition. The motion was pure sensuality: slow, deliberate, pornographic. He rolled his shoulders, biceps ballooning, triceps horseshoeing, and let out a low, satisfied moan.
Cherri looked up from the ruined car, tears streaking her freckled cheeks, and froze. Lust and awe warred on her face.
Angel sauntered toward the nearest pine—hips rolling, long white hair swaying. He laid one delicate palm against the rough bark. The trunk groaned. With a casual flex of his fingers the wood splintered; fibers cracked like gunfire. He tugged.
The entire tree—forty feet tall, roots ripping free—came out of the ground like a weed. Dirt rained. He laughed—bright, cruel—and clenched. The thick trunk exploded between his fingers in a shower of splinters and sap. Two jagged halves thudded to the earth.
Cherri’s mouth hung open. No sound came out.
Angel turned back to the car remains. He bent, gripped the twisted frame with both hands, and lifted. The scrap screeched as he hoisted it overhead—easily, effortlessly—like it weighed nothing. Metal groaned as he compressed it between his palms. Fenders crumpled inward, roof folded, chassis compacted. In seconds he held a perfect, basketball-sized sphere of mangled steel.
He giggled again—high, delighted—and began to play. He bounced the ball off one pec, caught it behind his back, spun it on one long fingernail like a globe. Each movement sent fresh waves of pleasure through his hypersensitive muscles.
“New favorite toy,” he purred. “Lightweight, durable… just like my patience.”
Cherri finally found her voice. “Angel… how are we getting home?”
He caught the ball mid-air and cocked his head toward a small, weathered sign half-hidden in the brush: JUNKYARD – 1.5 MI →
Angel’s smile turned razor-sharp. “Who said anything about going home, Sugar Tits? I’m in no rush. New body, new playground.” He tossed the metal sphere casually over one shoulder; it sailed into the trees with a distant crash. “Besides… I’ve got some stress to work off.”
Cherri opened her mouth to protest—then closed it. She knew that tone. Resistance was pointless.
Angel started walking—sensual, predatory stride—toward the sign. Cherri hurried after him, half-running to keep up with his long legs.
The junkyard gate was heavy chain-link, padlocked and rusted. Angel didn’t break stride. He hooked two fingers through the links and yanked. Metal screamed; the entire gate tore free from its posts in a shower of sparks and snapped bolts. He tossed it aside like a used tissue.
Inside, mountains of twisted steel and abandoned vehicles loomed under floodlights. Angel’s eyes lit up like a child in a candy store.
He walked straight to a rusted pickup truck—full-size, four-door. He gripped the front bumper with one hand and lifted. The truck rose smoothly off the ground—tires dangling, engine block groaning. He flipped it overhead like a pancake, then slammed it down onto another car. Metal buckled with a thunderous crunch.
Next he grabbed a delivery van by the roof. He squeezed. Windows exploded outward; frame crumpled inward like tinfoil. He laughed—bright, manic—and tore the van in half lengthwise, tossing both pieces into a pile.
Cherri watched from the gate, speechless, thighs clenched, breath shallow. Every flex, every casual act of destruction sent fresh heat pooling between her legs. She was terrified. She was soaked. She was his.
Angel turned, white hair whipping, pecs bouncing with the motion. He flexed both arms overhead—biceps peaking into mountains, veins throbbing, abs carved into brutal relief.
“See something you like, baby?” he called, voice dripping smug venom. “Or are you just gonna stand there dripping while I redecorate?”
Cherri swallowed hard. Her voice came out small, reverent.
“You’re… you’re a god.”
Angel’s grin widened—sharp, predatory, utterly satisfied.
“And you, Sugar Tits, just built me the altar.”
He turned back to the junkyard, already reaching for the next target.
The night was young.
And he had barely started playing.
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·
June 13
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