Hungry
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 16
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel lounged in the oversized hot tub, water lapping at the massive shelves of his pecs like waves against cliffs. Steam curled around his white hair, now longer and wilder, clinging damply to his shoulders. Around the tub lay a graveyard of empty pizza boxes—twenty-three of them, lids flung open, grease stains blooming like abstract art on cardboard. The delivery girl (Crystal, apparently) had made three separate trips, each time blushing harder as she handed over more boxes to the “party host” she never actually saw.
Angel’s stomach rumbled again—deeper, hungrier than he’d ever felt. The transformation had burned through calories like a furnace; his new metabolism demanded fuel. He lifted an entire extra-large pepperoni—still hot, cheese stretching in gooey strings—and shoved it whole into his mouth. Crust cracked. Sauce smeared across his lips. He chewed once, twice, then swallowed—Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the column of his throat.
“Mmm,” he purred, wiping sauce from his chin with the back of one long, chrome-pink nail. “Pizza for breakfast, world domination for lunch. Living the dream.”
He leaned back, head resting on the tub’s edge, moaning low and satisfied as hot water soothed muscles that no longer knew fatigue. His right hand drifted beneath the surface, fingers trailing down the razor-cut ridges of his abs until they found the thick, veined length of his cock—still semi-hard, monstrous even at rest. He wrapped his palm around it once, stroking lazily, then shifted focus.
He pushed one long, manicured finger into the slit.
The stretch was immediate—sharp, exquisite pain that bordered on ecstasy. The urethra yielded around the intrusion, tight ring of muscle parting for the glossy claw. He pushed deeper—first knuckle, second—until half his finger was buried inside his own cock. A shudder ran through him; his hips bucked involuntarily, water sloshing over the edge.
He bit his lower lip, suppressing the building urge to splurge. The pain sharpened—bright, electric—and he moaned deeply, voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. His free hand gripped the tub rim, claws sinking into acrylic with faint cracking sounds.
He withdrew the finger slowly—slick with precum and his own fluids—then scooped a small pile of cocaine from the brick beside the tub. He snorted it off the nail in one theatrical inhale, head snapping back.
The rush hit like lightning—power, euphoria, clarity all at once.
The cocaine melted into his bloodstream, and with it came cold, crystalline intelligence.
His mind—already razor-sharp—sharpened further. Thoughts raced at impossible speeds: pattern recognition, probability matrices, long-term consequences branching like fractal trees. He realized, with detached amusement, that his IQ had spiked far beyond human limits. Highest in the world? No. Highest that had ever existed.
He twisted the finger still buried in his cock—slow, deliberate. Fresh pain lanced through him; he hissed in pleasure, hips jerking. The urge to ejaculate surged again—he clamped down with iron control, muscles flexing involuntarily along his length.
Consequences crystallized in his mind.
Strength to lift buildings. Skin that turned bullets to dust. Speed that blurred past sound. Senses that mapped the world in microscopic detail. Sexual charisma that could make armies kneel.
But exposure meant war.
Governments would come. Scientists would hunt the machine. Cartels, corporations, militaries—they’d all want the weapon that had created him. Dissection. Replication. Control.
No.
For now, he would stay hidden. Play the long game. Build power quietly—money first, influence next, then domination.
With this body he could become a billionaire in months—blackmail, theft, extortion, all trivial. But if he played every card perfectly…
He could enslave the species.
Rule it.
Become its god in truth.
The thought sent another shiver through him. He twisted his finger deeper—pain cresting into blinding pleasure—and forced himself to hold back. Not yet. Control. Always control.
Cherri stirred on the couch.
She blinked awake slowly—eyes focusing on the mountain of pizza boxes, then on the steaming hot tub, then on Angel—head tilted back, moaning, finger buried deep in his own cock, body gleaming with water and sweat.
Her breath caught.
Angel opened his eyes—cyan slits glowing faintly in the dim light—and smiled.
“Morning, Sugar Tits,” he purred, voice thick with smug sensuality. “Water’s perfect. Come join your god.”
Cherri rose without hesitation—clothes rumpled, hair wild, eyes glassy with lingering awe and fresh hunger. She padded across the room, shedding her shirt as she went.
She stepped into the tub—water rising to her waist—and pressed herself against him. Her small hands roamed his chest—tracing veins, squeezing pecs that dwarfed her palms, feeling nipples harden under her thumbs.
She leaned in, lips closing around one thick, swollen nipple—sucking hard, tongue flicking.
Angel groaned—deep, animal—hips bucking once beneath the water. His free hand tangled in her hair, guiding her mouth while the finger inside his cock twisted again—pain and pleasure spiking in perfect harmony.
Sunrise painted the balcony gold.
Morning had come.
And Angel Dust—newly minted god—was already planning breakfast.
Angel...
Angel’s stomach rumbled again—deeper, hungrier than he’d ever felt. The transformation had burned through calories like a furnace; his new metabolism demanded fuel. He lifted an entire extra-large pepperoni—still hot, cheese stretching in gooey strings—and shoved it whole into his mouth. Crust cracked. Sauce smeared across his lips. He chewed once, twice, then swallowed—Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the column of his throat.
“Mmm,” he purred, wiping sauce from his chin with the back of one long, chrome-pink nail. “Pizza for breakfast, world domination for lunch. Living the dream.”
He leaned back, head resting on the tub’s edge, moaning low and satisfied as hot water soothed muscles that no longer knew fatigue. His right hand drifted beneath the surface, fingers trailing down the razor-cut ridges of his abs until they found the thick, veined length of his cock—still semi-hard, monstrous even at rest. He wrapped his palm around it once, stroking lazily, then shifted focus.
He pushed one long, manicured finger into the slit.
The stretch was immediate—sharp, exquisite pain that bordered on ecstasy. The urethra yielded around the intrusion, tight ring of muscle parting for the glossy claw. He pushed deeper—first knuckle, second—until half his finger was buried inside his own cock. A shudder ran through him; his hips bucked involuntarily, water sloshing over the edge.
He bit his lower lip, suppressing the building urge to splurge. The pain sharpened—bright, electric—and he moaned deeply, voice echoing off the bathroom tiles. His free hand gripped the tub rim, claws sinking into acrylic with faint cracking sounds.
He withdrew the finger slowly—slick with precum and his own fluids—then scooped a small pile of cocaine from the brick beside the tub. He snorted it off the nail in one theatrical inhale, head snapping back.
The rush hit like lightning—power, euphoria, clarity all at once.
The cocaine melted into his bloodstream, and with it came cold, crystalline intelligence.
His mind—already razor-sharp—sharpened further. Thoughts raced at impossible speeds: pattern recognition, probability matrices, long-term consequences branching like fractal trees. He realized, with detached amusement, that his IQ had spiked far beyond human limits. Highest in the world? No. Highest that had ever existed.
He twisted the finger still buried in his cock—slow, deliberate. Fresh pain lanced through him; he hissed in pleasure, hips jerking. The urge to ejaculate surged again—he clamped down with iron control, muscles flexing involuntarily along his length.
Consequences crystallized in his mind.
Strength to lift buildings. Skin that turned bullets to dust. Speed that blurred past sound. Senses that mapped the world in microscopic detail. Sexual charisma that could make armies kneel.
But exposure meant war.
Governments would come. Scientists would hunt the machine. Cartels, corporations, militaries—they’d all want the weapon that had created him. Dissection. Replication. Control.
No.
For now, he would stay hidden. Play the long game. Build power quietly—money first, influence next, then domination.
With this body he could become a billionaire in months—blackmail, theft, extortion, all trivial. But if he played every card perfectly…
He could enslave the species.
Rule it.
Become its god in truth.
The thought sent another shiver through him. He twisted his finger deeper—pain cresting into blinding pleasure—and forced himself to hold back. Not yet. Control. Always control.
Cherri stirred on the couch.
She blinked awake slowly—eyes focusing on the mountain of pizza boxes, then on the steaming hot tub, then on Angel—head tilted back, moaning, finger buried deep in his own cock, body gleaming with water and sweat.
Her breath caught.
Angel opened his eyes—cyan slits glowing faintly in the dim light—and smiled.
“Morning, Sugar Tits,” he purred, voice thick with smug sensuality. “Water’s perfect. Come join your god.”
Cherri rose without hesitation—clothes rumpled, hair wild, eyes glassy with lingering awe and fresh hunger. She padded across the room, shedding her shirt as she went.
She stepped into the tub—water rising to her waist—and pressed herself against him. Her small hands roamed his chest—tracing veins, squeezing pecs that dwarfed her palms, feeling nipples harden under her thumbs.
She leaned in, lips closing around one thick, swollen nipple—sucking hard, tongue flicking.
Angel groaned—deep, animal—hips bucking once beneath the water. His free hand tangled in her hair, guiding her mouth while the finger inside his cock twisted again—pain and pleasure spiking in perfect harmony.
Sunrise painted the balcony gold.
Morning had come.
And Angel Dust—newly minted god—was already planning breakfast.
Angel...
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·
June 13
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