The alley is empty
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 20
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel landed lightly on his tiptoes in the dark alley, graceful as a ballerina who’d just murdered the competition and stolen its spotlight. The rubber suit clung to him like a desperate ex—zipper still open, massive pecs spilling out, cock swinging free like it owned the night. Rain drummed on the pavement, but the alley was empty, silent, perfect. He struck a pose, one hand on his hip, the other flipping his wet white hair back with theatrical flair.
“Oh, darling,” he purred to no one, voice dripping smug venom, “look at me. Seven feet of flawless, fuckable perfection, and the world still hasn’t sent flowers. Rude.”
He sauntered toward the building, hips rolling like he was walking a runway in Milan. His eyes flicked upward to the rickety fire-escape ladder. “Cute. Very ‘slum chic.’ But Mommy needs an express lane.”
He casually pulled his monstrous cock free from the torn rubber suit, aimed, and fired a thick, sticky rope of cum straight up. It splattered against the ladder with a wet splat, hardening instantly like industrial glue. One light tug—the entire ladder groaned, snapped free from its bolts, and clattered down right at his feet.
Angel giggled—high, wicked, theatrical. “Oopsie! Did I break your little toy? How clumsy of me.” He tucked himself back in with a flourish, then climbed—feline, silent, smooth as silk. Each step barely whispered against the metal rungs; his stilettos clicked like designer heels on a catwalk. No one below heard a thing.
Floor by floor he rose, peeking through rain-streaked windows like a glamorous peeping tom. Most apartments were empty—tenants out chasing their sad little lives. Angel licked his lips, smile sharpening. “Perfect. No audience means no one ruins my grand entrance. Chazzy’s all mine tonight.”
He reached the third floor, pressed against the brick, and peered in. There he was—Chazwick Thurman, slumped in a ratty armchair in nothing but stained boxers, one hand lazily stroking his mediocre dick while a cheap porn flick blared on the TV. The orgy scene was building to its pathetic climax.
Angel’s super senses caught every detail: the wet slapping sounds, the fake moans, Chaz’s heavy breathing. He waited, timing it perfectly, smug grin widening. Right… about… now.
The on-screen moans peaked.
Angel burst through the brick wall like it was wet tissue paper—bricks exploding outward in a dramatic cloud of dust and debris. He struck a pose in the wreckage: one hand on his hip, the other flipping his hair, chest thrust forward so his exposed pecs bounced dramatically.
“Surprise, Herpes the Clown!” he announced in full theatrical glory, voice dripping contempt and amused malice. “Miss me, toots?”
Chazwick screamed like a little girl who’d just seen her credit card bill—high-pitched, terrified, flailing backward off the couch. He hit the floor rolling, scrambling toward the door on all fours. “What the fuck?! Who the hell are you?!”
Angel fired a thick glob of cum from his cock—it splattered across the door handle, sealing it shut with a wet squelch. “Aw, running already? That’s adorable. But honey, the only exit tonight is through me.”
Chazwick changed direction, lunging for the window. Angel shot another sticky rope—thicker, meaner—slamming into the man’s chest and pinning him to the floor like a bug on a card.
With feline grace, Angel stepped forward, stiletto heel pressing down on Chazwick’s heel. One tiny, super-strong push—*crack*. The kneecap shattered. Chazwick howled in agony.
Angel did the same to the other knee—crack—then stepped back, admiring his work. “There! Now try running away from me, sweetie. I dare you. Should be hilarious.”
On the TV, the porn orgy reached its fake, over-the-top climax—moans, cum shots, the works. Angel glanced at the screen, one eyebrow arched in professional disdain.
“Ugh, amateur hour. That lighting is tragic. And the pacing? Honey, I’ve seen better rhythm in a drunk walrus. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
Chazwick sobbed on the floor, snot and tears mixing. “Please… I’ll give you anything… money, drugs, whatever you want… just don’t—”
Angel laughed—bright, cruel, theatrical—and flexed. His entire body swelled: pecs ballooning, abs carving deeper, biceps peaking into mountains, veins throbbing like blue lightning. He towered over the broken man, radiating pure narcissistic power.
“Crouch lower, Herpes. Lower. Kiss the floor like the pathetic little worm you are.”
Chazwick whimpered, curling into a fetal ball, piss soaking his boxers as terror took over.
Angel’s voice turned silky, smug, unbearably snobbish. “Oh, Chazzy. Sweet, stupid Chazzy. Still bragging about that sad little cocktail weenie? Still telling everyone you’re ‘irresistible’? Darling, you couldn’t satisfy a blow-up doll with a power outlet. Remember when you tried to spread those nasty little rumors about me? ‘Angel’s dick is tiny,’ you said. ‘Angel’s got the clap,’ you said. Me? The star? The legend? How dare you.”
He ripped Chazwick’s boxers away with one claw, grabbed the man’s pathetic cock between two long nails, and began to massage—slow, cruel, precise. Chazwick whimpered, then moaned against his will as unwanted pleasure built.
“See? Even now you’re cumming for me. Pathetic. You’re nothing. A footnote. A joke with a missing tooth and a scar collection. And me? I’m everything.”
With a final, theatrical flourish he revealed himself—voice dropping to its full, glorious Angel Dust register:
“Surprise, Herpes the Clown… it’s me. Angel Dust. In the flesh. Or should I say… in the god flesh.”
Chazwick’s eyes widened in pure horror. “N-no… impossible… you’re… you’re—”
Angel flexed again, muscles bulging obscenely. “Boring old human was so last season. Decided to upgrade. Like the new me, toots?”
He tortured Chazwick with casual sadism—flicking a finger to send the man flying into walls, stepping on fingers until they snapped, squeezing just enough to bruise without killing. Every scream fed his ego like applause.
Option 1:Angel kill Chazwick slowly, enjoying the show.
Option 2: Angel decides death is too quick. Instead he makes Chazwick his personal, broken sex slave—collared, humiliated, and kept alive to worship him forever.
“Oh, darling,” he purred to no one, voice dripping smug venom, “look at me. Seven feet of flawless, fuckable perfection, and the world still hasn’t sent flowers. Rude.”
He sauntered toward the building, hips rolling like he was walking a runway in Milan. His eyes flicked upward to the rickety fire-escape ladder. “Cute. Very ‘slum chic.’ But Mommy needs an express lane.”
He casually pulled his monstrous cock free from the torn rubber suit, aimed, and fired a thick, sticky rope of cum straight up. It splattered against the ladder with a wet splat, hardening instantly like industrial glue. One light tug—the entire ladder groaned, snapped free from its bolts, and clattered down right at his feet.
Angel giggled—high, wicked, theatrical. “Oopsie! Did I break your little toy? How clumsy of me.” He tucked himself back in with a flourish, then climbed—feline, silent, smooth as silk. Each step barely whispered against the metal rungs; his stilettos clicked like designer heels on a catwalk. No one below heard a thing.
Floor by floor he rose, peeking through rain-streaked windows like a glamorous peeping tom. Most apartments were empty—tenants out chasing their sad little lives. Angel licked his lips, smile sharpening. “Perfect. No audience means no one ruins my grand entrance. Chazzy’s all mine tonight.”
He reached the third floor, pressed against the brick, and peered in. There he was—Chazwick Thurman, slumped in a ratty armchair in nothing but stained boxers, one hand lazily stroking his mediocre dick while a cheap porn flick blared on the TV. The orgy scene was building to its pathetic climax.
Angel’s super senses caught every detail: the wet slapping sounds, the fake moans, Chaz’s heavy breathing. He waited, timing it perfectly, smug grin widening. Right… about… now.
The on-screen moans peaked.
Angel burst through the brick wall like it was wet tissue paper—bricks exploding outward in a dramatic cloud of dust and debris. He struck a pose in the wreckage: one hand on his hip, the other flipping his hair, chest thrust forward so his exposed pecs bounced dramatically.
“Surprise, Herpes the Clown!” he announced in full theatrical glory, voice dripping contempt and amused malice. “Miss me, toots?”
Chazwick screamed like a little girl who’d just seen her credit card bill—high-pitched, terrified, flailing backward off the couch. He hit the floor rolling, scrambling toward the door on all fours. “What the fuck?! Who the hell are you?!”
Angel fired a thick glob of cum from his cock—it splattered across the door handle, sealing it shut with a wet squelch. “Aw, running already? That’s adorable. But honey, the only exit tonight is through me.”
Chazwick changed direction, lunging for the window. Angel shot another sticky rope—thicker, meaner—slamming into the man’s chest and pinning him to the floor like a bug on a card.
With feline grace, Angel stepped forward, stiletto heel pressing down on Chazwick’s heel. One tiny, super-strong push—*crack*. The kneecap shattered. Chazwick howled in agony.
Angel did the same to the other knee—crack—then stepped back, admiring his work. “There! Now try running away from me, sweetie. I dare you. Should be hilarious.”
On the TV, the porn orgy reached its fake, over-the-top climax—moans, cum shots, the works. Angel glanced at the screen, one eyebrow arched in professional disdain.
“Ugh, amateur hour. That lighting is tragic. And the pacing? Honey, I’ve seen better rhythm in a drunk walrus. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
Chazwick sobbed on the floor, snot and tears mixing. “Please… I’ll give you anything… money, drugs, whatever you want… just don’t—”
Angel laughed—bright, cruel, theatrical—and flexed. His entire body swelled: pecs ballooning, abs carving deeper, biceps peaking into mountains, veins throbbing like blue lightning. He towered over the broken man, radiating pure narcissistic power.
“Crouch lower, Herpes. Lower. Kiss the floor like the pathetic little worm you are.”
Chazwick whimpered, curling into a fetal ball, piss soaking his boxers as terror took over.
Angel’s voice turned silky, smug, unbearably snobbish. “Oh, Chazzy. Sweet, stupid Chazzy. Still bragging about that sad little cocktail weenie? Still telling everyone you’re ‘irresistible’? Darling, you couldn’t satisfy a blow-up doll with a power outlet. Remember when you tried to spread those nasty little rumors about me? ‘Angel’s dick is tiny,’ you said. ‘Angel’s got the clap,’ you said. Me? The star? The legend? How dare you.”
He ripped Chazwick’s boxers away with one claw, grabbed the man’s pathetic cock between two long nails, and began to massage—slow, cruel, precise. Chazwick whimpered, then moaned against his will as unwanted pleasure built.
“See? Even now you’re cumming for me. Pathetic. You’re nothing. A footnote. A joke with a missing tooth and a scar collection. And me? I’m everything.”
With a final, theatrical flourish he revealed himself—voice dropping to its full, glorious Angel Dust register:
“Surprise, Herpes the Clown… it’s me. Angel Dust. In the flesh. Or should I say… in the god flesh.”
Chazwick’s eyes widened in pure horror. “N-no… impossible… you’re… you’re—”
Angel flexed again, muscles bulging obscenely. “Boring old human was so last season. Decided to upgrade. Like the new me, toots?”
He tortured Chazwick with casual sadism—flicking a finger to send the man flying into walls, stepping on fingers until they snapped, squeezing just enough to bruise without killing. Every scream fed his ego like applause.
Option 1:Angel kill Chazwick slowly, enjoying the show.
Option 2: Angel decides death is too quick. Instead he makes Chazwick his personal, broken sex slave—collared, humiliated, and kept alive to worship him forever.
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June 13
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