He have some trouble
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 19
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel swung through the storm like he owned the fucking sky—cum ropes slicing the rain in thick, glistening arcs, each one sticking to rooftops with a wet thwack that made him cackle. No more cautious stops at every ledge. Nah, he flowed now—graceful, arrogant, a seven-foot diva in a too-tight rubber suit that barely contained his pecs and left his cock swinging free like a pendulum of destiny.
“Ha! Look at me, toots!” he crowed to the empty night, flipping mid-swing in a perfect triple twist before catching the next rope. “Spider-Man wishes he had these assets. I got the web, the ass, and the attitude. Eat shit, web-head!”
Below, tiny mortals scurried through the downpour—umbrellas, headlights, oblivious little ants who had no clue a god was ballet-dancing across their skyline. Angel sneered down at them, voice dripping smug venom.
“Run along, darlings. Mommy’s busy redecorating the city. Wouldn’t want to ruin your pathetic little lives with a glimpse of perfection.”
He launched into another acrobatic flourish—spinning upside-down, legs split wide, white hair whipping like a banner—then landed on a rooftop with a theatrical flourish, one hand on his hip, the other blowing a kiss to no one.
“Ten out of ten, bitches. Even the rain can’t mess up this hair.”
Lightning cracked the sky like a pissed-off diva’s slap.
It struck the exact building his current rope was anchored to.
The wall exploded outward in a shower of bricks and rebar. The cum rope snapped with a wet pop, and Angel’s eyes went wide for the first split second.
“Oh shit—!”
He plummeted straight through a fourth-floor window in a shower of glass, rolling across the floor like a wrecking ball in heels. Desks shattered. Computers exploded in sparks. Monitors flew like confetti. He crashed through three cubicles before skidding to a stop in a cloud of drywall dust and broken dreams.
Angel pushed himself up, brushing glass off his pecs like it was lint. “Well, that was dramatic. Five stars for entrance, zero for landing. Who the fuck designed this building? A toddler with anger issues?”
Smoke rose. Flames licked the walls. The sprinkler system sputtered once… then died with a pathetic hiss. Fire alarms wailed, but the system was toast.
Angel stood, rubber suit torn in interesting places, and grinned. “Oh, honey. This place is fabulous.”
He started running—stilettos of the suit clicking like it was a runway. He shoulder-checked a wall; it exploded outward. Another door? He kicked it into splinters. He burst straight into a blazing room—flames roaring around him like an overenthusiastic audience.
For one heartbeat he panicked. “Shit—!”
Then… nothing. The fire licked his skin, danced across his pecs, caressed his abs… and did absolutely jack shit. Not even a singe.
Angel blinked. Then threw his head back and laughed—loud, theatrical, pure evil delight.
“Well, fuck me sideways with a burning torch! Fireproof? Darling, I’m not just bulletproof—I’m flame-retardant fabulous! Take that, you basic inferno. You couldn’t even give me a tan!”
He heard boots thundering up the stairs—firefighters, yelling orders, hoses dragging.
Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no, no, no. Mommy does not do photo ops with the local fire department.”
He bent his knees and leaped straight up—bursting through the ceiling like it was tissue paper. Plaster rained down as he crashed into the floor above, straight into another inferno. Flames everywhere. Heat like a furnace.
He spotted the window at the far end, still intact. Perfect exit.
He aimed his cock and fired a thick rope—only for the cum to hit the flames mid-air and whoosh into a blazing streak of fire-cum.
Angel stared, then burst out laughing so hard his pecs bounced.
“My cum is flammable?! Oh my god, that is the most extra thing I’ve ever heard! Spider-Man shoots webs—I shoot fireworks! Honey, I’m a walking Fourth of July!”
He didn’t stop. He charged straight through the blaze—flames parting around him like they knew better—smashed through the outer wall in an explosion of brick and fire, and fired a fresh rope into the next building. It stuck. He swung out into the storm, rain hissing off his superheated skin.
Swing after swing, he flowed through the city—laughing wickedly the whole way, white hair plastered to his face, rubber suit in stylish tatters.
Finally he released the last rope and dropped into a dark alley behind Chazwick’s building—landing en pointe like a ballerina who’d just murdered the competition.
He straightened, brushed rain from his pecs, and smirked at the gloomy surroundings.
Option 1: The alley is empty, no one is there. Angel starts climbing the building.
Option 2: Someone is in the alley—a gang busy selling drugs.
“Ha! Look at me, toots!” he crowed to the empty night, flipping mid-swing in a perfect triple twist before catching the next rope. “Spider-Man wishes he had these assets. I got the web, the ass, and the attitude. Eat shit, web-head!”
Below, tiny mortals scurried through the downpour—umbrellas, headlights, oblivious little ants who had no clue a god was ballet-dancing across their skyline. Angel sneered down at them, voice dripping smug venom.
“Run along, darlings. Mommy’s busy redecorating the city. Wouldn’t want to ruin your pathetic little lives with a glimpse of perfection.”
He launched into another acrobatic flourish—spinning upside-down, legs split wide, white hair whipping like a banner—then landed on a rooftop with a theatrical flourish, one hand on his hip, the other blowing a kiss to no one.
“Ten out of ten, bitches. Even the rain can’t mess up this hair.”
Lightning cracked the sky like a pissed-off diva’s slap.
It struck the exact building his current rope was anchored to.
The wall exploded outward in a shower of bricks and rebar. The cum rope snapped with a wet pop, and Angel’s eyes went wide for the first split second.
“Oh shit—!”
He plummeted straight through a fourth-floor window in a shower of glass, rolling across the floor like a wrecking ball in heels. Desks shattered. Computers exploded in sparks. Monitors flew like confetti. He crashed through three cubicles before skidding to a stop in a cloud of drywall dust and broken dreams.
Angel pushed himself up, brushing glass off his pecs like it was lint. “Well, that was dramatic. Five stars for entrance, zero for landing. Who the fuck designed this building? A toddler with anger issues?”
Smoke rose. Flames licked the walls. The sprinkler system sputtered once… then died with a pathetic hiss. Fire alarms wailed, but the system was toast.
Angel stood, rubber suit torn in interesting places, and grinned. “Oh, honey. This place is fabulous.”
He started running—stilettos of the suit clicking like it was a runway. He shoulder-checked a wall; it exploded outward. Another door? He kicked it into splinters. He burst straight into a blazing room—flames roaring around him like an overenthusiastic audience.
For one heartbeat he panicked. “Shit—!”
Then… nothing. The fire licked his skin, danced across his pecs, caressed his abs… and did absolutely jack shit. Not even a singe.
Angel blinked. Then threw his head back and laughed—loud, theatrical, pure evil delight.
“Well, fuck me sideways with a burning torch! Fireproof? Darling, I’m not just bulletproof—I’m flame-retardant fabulous! Take that, you basic inferno. You couldn’t even give me a tan!”
He heard boots thundering up the stairs—firefighters, yelling orders, hoses dragging.
Angel’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no, no, no. Mommy does not do photo ops with the local fire department.”
He bent his knees and leaped straight up—bursting through the ceiling like it was tissue paper. Plaster rained down as he crashed into the floor above, straight into another inferno. Flames everywhere. Heat like a furnace.
He spotted the window at the far end, still intact. Perfect exit.
He aimed his cock and fired a thick rope—only for the cum to hit the flames mid-air and whoosh into a blazing streak of fire-cum.
Angel stared, then burst out laughing so hard his pecs bounced.
“My cum is flammable?! Oh my god, that is the most extra thing I’ve ever heard! Spider-Man shoots webs—I shoot fireworks! Honey, I’m a walking Fourth of July!”
He didn’t stop. He charged straight through the blaze—flames parting around him like they knew better—smashed through the outer wall in an explosion of brick and fire, and fired a fresh rope into the next building. It stuck. He swung out into the storm, rain hissing off his superheated skin.
Swing after swing, he flowed through the city—laughing wickedly the whole way, white hair plastered to his face, rubber suit in stylish tatters.
Finally he released the last rope and dropped into a dark alley behind Chazwick’s building—landing en pointe like a ballerina who’d just murdered the competition.
He straightened, brushed rain from his pecs, and smirked at the gloomy surroundings.
Option 1: The alley is empty, no one is there. Angel starts climbing the building.
Option 2: Someone is in the alley—a gang busy selling drugs.
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June 13
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