A new persona
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 22
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel lounged in the steaming jacuzzi like it was his personal throne, bubbles foaming around the obscene shelves of his pecs, water lapping at nipples that could probably cut glass. One long, chrome-pink nail traced lazy circles on his abs while the other hand—slow, deliberate—pushed a single elegant finger deeper into the slit of his monstrous cock. The stretch burned in the best way; sharp, invasive pleasure that made his hips twitch and his throat rumble with a low, filthy moan.
“Fuuuuck yeah,” he drawled, voice thick with that signature Brooklyn drawl, all velvet and venom. “Regular handjobs are for peasants, toots. This? This is high art. Who needs lube when you got your own built-in torture chamber, am I right?”
He pushed deeper—second knuckle vanishing inside himself—and hissed through clenched teeth, back arching so hard the water sloshed over the edge. His free hand slapped the tub rim, claws gouging porcelain like it was butter.
“Mmmph—chef’s kiss, baby. Ten out of ten. Would violate my own urethra again.”
The morning sun slanted through the balcony doors, turning steam golden and making his wet white hair glow like expensive spun sugar. Cherri had left an hour ago—backpack slung over one shoulder, still smelling faintly of last night’s orgasms and today’s guilt. She’d kissed his pec (because of course she did), whispered “be good,” and scurried off to her pathetic little physics lab like a good girl.
Angel had let her go.
He could’ve stopped her with a look—one smoldering glance from those cyan slit-pupils and she’d have dropped to her knees and stayed there till graduation. But nah. Let her play pretend-normal for a few hours. He needed alone time with his new favorite person: himself.
And he was bored.
He pulled his finger out with a wet pop, licked it clean like it was candy, and sighed dramatically at the ceiling.
“Okay, universe, level with me,” he said aloud, gesturing grandly with a dripping claw. “I’m seven feet of flawless, bulletproof, cum-shooting, fireproof, Spider-cum-slinging perfection and I’m sitting here jerking off in a hot tub like some basic Instagram thot. This is a crime against fabulousness. I need to strut. I need to be seen. Worshipped. Feared. Preferably all three at once while wearing something scandalous.”
He drummed his claws on the tub edge, thinking.
“But here’s the tea, girls—” he continued, addressing the empty bathroom like it was a live studio audience that owed him laughter, “—I can’t just waltz down Main Street buck-naked and seven feet tall flexing my new tits. The normies would lose their tiny minds. Cops, cameras, SWAT teams, Twitter threads, the whole circus. And while I love a good scene, I’m not ready for the sequel where they try to dissect me in some government lab. Been there, done that, got the trauma. No thank you.”
He snorted another tiny line of coke off his nail—purely for dramatic effect—and leaned back again, moaning as the rush hit.
“So. New plan. New me. Well—new face of me. I’ve been doing this identity-switch shit for years. Drag’s my love language, babes. Time to dust off the old playbook… or write a new chapter. Hmmm.”
He tapped one claw against his perfect lips, eyes narrowing in smug calculation.
“Option one: brand-new bitch. Something fresh. Untouched. No baggage. Maybe Cherri’s long-lost Aussie cousin—beach bunny vibes, blonde extensions, bikini top stretched to the breaking point over these bad boys—” he bounced his pecs for emphasis, water sloshing—“‘Hi, I’m Kaylee, just flew in from Bondi, isn’t my cousin Scarlett just the cutest little nerd?’ Cue the simps drooling, cue the free drinks, cue me owning every room I walk into without anyone connecting the dots.”
He giggled—high and mean.
“Or… option two: recycle a classic. One of my old girls. Someone who could pass as Cherri’s childhood bestie—‘Oh my god, remember me? Tiffani from down the street? I got so tall and hot, right?’ Same game, less setup. I already know the walk, the talk, the *vibe*. Plus I look killer in pigtails.”
He sank lower in the water until only his smirking face and the tips of his pecs remained above the bubbles.
“Decisions, decisions… Either way, the world’s about to meet its new obsession. And trust me, darlings—” he winked at his own reflection in the chrome faucet—“they’re gonna love me. Or else.”
He pushed his finger back inside himself—deeper this time—moaned long and low, and let his head fall back against the tub rim.
The day was young.
And Angel Dust was just getting started.
Option 1: He decides to create a completely new persona—Cherri’s cousin, an Aussie beach girl who came to visit from Australia.
Option 2: He decides to revive one of his old personas that can pass as Cherri’s childhood friend.
(8,214 characters)
“Fuuuuck yeah,” he drawled, voice thick with that signature Brooklyn drawl, all velvet and venom. “Regular handjobs are for peasants, toots. This? This is high art. Who needs lube when you got your own built-in torture chamber, am I right?”
He pushed deeper—second knuckle vanishing inside himself—and hissed through clenched teeth, back arching so hard the water sloshed over the edge. His free hand slapped the tub rim, claws gouging porcelain like it was butter.
“Mmmph—chef’s kiss, baby. Ten out of ten. Would violate my own urethra again.”
The morning sun slanted through the balcony doors, turning steam golden and making his wet white hair glow like expensive spun sugar. Cherri had left an hour ago—backpack slung over one shoulder, still smelling faintly of last night’s orgasms and today’s guilt. She’d kissed his pec (because of course she did), whispered “be good,” and scurried off to her pathetic little physics lab like a good girl.
Angel had let her go.
He could’ve stopped her with a look—one smoldering glance from those cyan slit-pupils and she’d have dropped to her knees and stayed there till graduation. But nah. Let her play pretend-normal for a few hours. He needed alone time with his new favorite person: himself.
And he was bored.
He pulled his finger out with a wet pop, licked it clean like it was candy, and sighed dramatically at the ceiling.
“Okay, universe, level with me,” he said aloud, gesturing grandly with a dripping claw. “I’m seven feet of flawless, bulletproof, cum-shooting, fireproof, Spider-cum-slinging perfection and I’m sitting here jerking off in a hot tub like some basic Instagram thot. This is a crime against fabulousness. I need to strut. I need to be seen. Worshipped. Feared. Preferably all three at once while wearing something scandalous.”
He drummed his claws on the tub edge, thinking.
“But here’s the tea, girls—” he continued, addressing the empty bathroom like it was a live studio audience that owed him laughter, “—I can’t just waltz down Main Street buck-naked and seven feet tall flexing my new tits. The normies would lose their tiny minds. Cops, cameras, SWAT teams, Twitter threads, the whole circus. And while I love a good scene, I’m not ready for the sequel where they try to dissect me in some government lab. Been there, done that, got the trauma. No thank you.”
He snorted another tiny line of coke off his nail—purely for dramatic effect—and leaned back again, moaning as the rush hit.
“So. New plan. New me. Well—new face of me. I’ve been doing this identity-switch shit for years. Drag’s my love language, babes. Time to dust off the old playbook… or write a new chapter. Hmmm.”
He tapped one claw against his perfect lips, eyes narrowing in smug calculation.
“Option one: brand-new bitch. Something fresh. Untouched. No baggage. Maybe Cherri’s long-lost Aussie cousin—beach bunny vibes, blonde extensions, bikini top stretched to the breaking point over these bad boys—” he bounced his pecs for emphasis, water sloshing—“‘Hi, I’m Kaylee, just flew in from Bondi, isn’t my cousin Scarlett just the cutest little nerd?’ Cue the simps drooling, cue the free drinks, cue me owning every room I walk into without anyone connecting the dots.”
He giggled—high and mean.
“Or… option two: recycle a classic. One of my old girls. Someone who could pass as Cherri’s childhood bestie—‘Oh my god, remember me? Tiffani from down the street? I got so tall and hot, right?’ Same game, less setup. I already know the walk, the talk, the *vibe*. Plus I look killer in pigtails.”
He sank lower in the water until only his smirking face and the tips of his pecs remained above the bubbles.
“Decisions, decisions… Either way, the world’s about to meet its new obsession. And trust me, darlings—” he winked at his own reflection in the chrome faucet—“they’re gonna love me. Or else.”
He pushed his finger back inside himself—deeper this time—moaned long and low, and let his head fall back against the tub rim.
The day was young.
And Angel Dust was just getting started.
Option 1: He decides to create a completely new persona—Cherri’s cousin, an Aussie beach girl who came to visit from Australia.
Option 2: He decides to revive one of his old personas that can pass as Cherri’s childhood friend.
(8,214 characters)
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·
June 13
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