Brandon Anderson, or as he calls himself Blitzo
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 4
by
copier
· original author:
Blitzo's eyes snapped open at the crack of dawn, not because he was a morning person, but because the world owed him its undivided attention from the moment he stirred. The 21-year-old human disaster stretched languidly in his dorm bed, his slender, bronze-tanned body twisting under the sheets like a predator uncoiling. He called himself Blitzo—the 'o' silent, as he'd remind anyone who dared mispronounce it—with a smug grin that screamed entitlement. His real name, Brandon Anderson, was a relic from a boring past he'd scorched on his way out.
He kicked off the covers, revealing his lean, toned frame, heart tattoo winking above his pierced cock. First things first: grooming. Blitzo sauntered to the bathroom mirror, admiring his reflection like it was the only god worth worshiping. He lathered his face with a lavender-scented shaving cream, dragging a razor smoothly over his sharp cheekbones and chin, erasing any hint of stubble. Next, the armpits—quick, precise strokes to keep them baby-smooth. Then, down to his groin, shaving meticulously around his thick, veined member, ensuring every inch screamed feminine allure mixed with raw provocation. "Perfect," he purred, applying a shimmering body oil that made his skin glow like cheap neon. He slathered on creams: moisturizer for his face, anti-aging serum under those huge violet eyes, and a special glitter-infused lotion for his long, manicured purple nails. Hair next—wild brown locks dyed purple, spiked with gel that defied gravity. He doused himself in perfumes: a musky vanilla base, topped with spicy citrus notes, finishing with a floral mist that clung like sin. Lipstick came last—sparkly purple, smeared wide over his too-many-teeth grin. He was a curated chaos, androgynous and irresistible.
His roommate, Moxxie, was still asleep in the bunk below, that skinny 19-year-old nerd with blond hair and freckles. Blitzo smirked, dropping down to straddle Moxxie's chest without warning. "Wakey-wakey, Moxxie Poxxie," he cooed, grinding his hips teasingly. Moxxie's blue eyes flew open in panic. "B-Blitz, get off!" he stammered, shoving weakly. Blitzo laughed, pinning his wrists with those long-nailed fingers. "Oh, Little One, you love it. Remember when I took that virgin ass of yours? Millie watched and creamed herself." He leaned in, licking Moxxie's ear. "You're my toy, Queer Boy. Now make my bed, or I'll tell the whole dorm about your tiny dick dreams." Moxxie flushed, hating him but unable to resist, scrambling up as Blitzo dominated with sheer narcissistic force.
Breakfast was stolen from Moxxie's stash—a protein shake Blitzo spiked with his own "special flavor" (a dash of spite). He dressed in skin-tight vinyl pants that hugged his ass and bulge, a mesh crop top exposing his pierced nipple and belly button, gold chains dangling like trophies. Purple polish gleamed on his nails as he strutted out to Havenridge College, ignoring dorm rules like they were suggestions.
Outside, he spotted Loona White, the goth-punk neighbor with silver hair and red eyes, smoking by the entrance. "Hey, Loonie Toony," he drawled, sauntering close, invading her space. "You look like you need a real man—or whatever I am—to spice up that apathy." He traced a nail down her arm, smirking. "Bet you'd love watching me flex. Come on, Sweet Pup, let's ditch class and fuck." Loona scowled, blowing smoke in his face. "Dream on, Blitzy. You're not worth the STD check." He laughed, undeterred, but she walked off, leaving him hungry for conquest.
In lectures, Blitzo was a spectacle—slouched in the back, interrupting the prof with snide comments. "Christ on a stick, that's boring," he'd yell, drawing laughs while doodling himself as a god. Outside classes, he bullied relentlessly. He tripped a freshman in the hall, snarling, "Watch it, loser," then stole his wallet with a sleight-of-hand pickpocket. Greed fueled him; scholarships scammed, OnlyFun paying for drugs. Later, in the bathroom, he cornered a shy guy from psych class. "On your knees," he commanded, unzipping. The man obeyed, sucking Blitzo's pierced cock as he moaned brazenly, thrusting without mercy. "Yeah, swallow it all, bitch." Finished, he zipped up and left without a word.
His dreams haunted him mid-day: becoming a bodybuilder, bulging muscles symbolizing ultimate power. He snuck to the gym locker room, peeping through cracks at ripped guys changing. Envy boiled—inhuman hatred for their superior physiques. "Fucking freaks," he muttered, jerking off quietly to the sight, imagining stealing their strength.
But not all bowed. In the quad, he bullied a burly jock, mocking his "compensating muscles." The guy resisted, punching Blitzo square in the jaw. "Fuck off, Brandon!" he roared. Blitzo spat blood, petty rage igniting. Revenge came swift: he spiked the jock's drink with laxatives from his drug stash, filming the explosive diarrhea in the dorm bathroom and anonymously posting it online. "That's for touching a god," he cackled.
More bullying: he catcalled a girl in the library, then followed her to the bathroom for round two. "Bend over, slut," he growled, fucking her against the stall, nasty and rough, pulling her hair. She moaned, but he finished and ghosted, reveling in control.
Greed never slept. He manipulated a prof into "lending" cash, promising favors he never intended. In a public toilet, he set up his phone, stripping to film himself masturbating—stroking his thick cock, moaning to the mirror. "Watch me, world," he gasped, cumming hard. Uploaded to OnlyFun, he grinned at notifications: fans paying to see his self-worship.
By lunchtime, Blitzo lounged in a cafe, sipping stolen coffee, plotting his next disaster. The world was his stage, and he was the star—hated, wanted, unstoppable.
How he become powerful?
He kicked off the covers, revealing his lean, toned frame, heart tattoo winking above his pierced cock. First things first: grooming. Blitzo sauntered to the bathroom mirror, admiring his reflection like it was the only god worth worshiping. He lathered his face with a lavender-scented shaving cream, dragging a razor smoothly over his sharp cheekbones and chin, erasing any hint of stubble. Next, the armpits—quick, precise strokes to keep them baby-smooth. Then, down to his groin, shaving meticulously around his thick, veined member, ensuring every inch screamed feminine allure mixed with raw provocation. "Perfect," he purred, applying a shimmering body oil that made his skin glow like cheap neon. He slathered on creams: moisturizer for his face, anti-aging serum under those huge violet eyes, and a special glitter-infused lotion for his long, manicured purple nails. Hair next—wild brown locks dyed purple, spiked with gel that defied gravity. He doused himself in perfumes: a musky vanilla base, topped with spicy citrus notes, finishing with a floral mist that clung like sin. Lipstick came last—sparkly purple, smeared wide over his too-many-teeth grin. He was a curated chaos, androgynous and irresistible.
His roommate, Moxxie, was still asleep in the bunk below, that skinny 19-year-old nerd with blond hair and freckles. Blitzo smirked, dropping down to straddle Moxxie's chest without warning. "Wakey-wakey, Moxxie Poxxie," he cooed, grinding his hips teasingly. Moxxie's blue eyes flew open in panic. "B-Blitz, get off!" he stammered, shoving weakly. Blitzo laughed, pinning his wrists with those long-nailed fingers. "Oh, Little One, you love it. Remember when I took that virgin ass of yours? Millie watched and creamed herself." He leaned in, licking Moxxie's ear. "You're my toy, Queer Boy. Now make my bed, or I'll tell the whole dorm about your tiny dick dreams." Moxxie flushed, hating him but unable to resist, scrambling up as Blitzo dominated with sheer narcissistic force.
Breakfast was stolen from Moxxie's stash—a protein shake Blitzo spiked with his own "special flavor" (a dash of spite). He dressed in skin-tight vinyl pants that hugged his ass and bulge, a mesh crop top exposing his pierced nipple and belly button, gold chains dangling like trophies. Purple polish gleamed on his nails as he strutted out to Havenridge College, ignoring dorm rules like they were suggestions.
Outside, he spotted Loona White, the goth-punk neighbor with silver hair and red eyes, smoking by the entrance. "Hey, Loonie Toony," he drawled, sauntering close, invading her space. "You look like you need a real man—or whatever I am—to spice up that apathy." He traced a nail down her arm, smirking. "Bet you'd love watching me flex. Come on, Sweet Pup, let's ditch class and fuck." Loona scowled, blowing smoke in his face. "Dream on, Blitzy. You're not worth the STD check." He laughed, undeterred, but she walked off, leaving him hungry for conquest.
In lectures, Blitzo was a spectacle—slouched in the back, interrupting the prof with snide comments. "Christ on a stick, that's boring," he'd yell, drawing laughs while doodling himself as a god. Outside classes, he bullied relentlessly. He tripped a freshman in the hall, snarling, "Watch it, loser," then stole his wallet with a sleight-of-hand pickpocket. Greed fueled him; scholarships scammed, OnlyFun paying for drugs. Later, in the bathroom, he cornered a shy guy from psych class. "On your knees," he commanded, unzipping. The man obeyed, sucking Blitzo's pierced cock as he moaned brazenly, thrusting without mercy. "Yeah, swallow it all, bitch." Finished, he zipped up and left without a word.
His dreams haunted him mid-day: becoming a bodybuilder, bulging muscles symbolizing ultimate power. He snuck to the gym locker room, peeping through cracks at ripped guys changing. Envy boiled—inhuman hatred for their superior physiques. "Fucking freaks," he muttered, jerking off quietly to the sight, imagining stealing their strength.
But not all bowed. In the quad, he bullied a burly jock, mocking his "compensating muscles." The guy resisted, punching Blitzo square in the jaw. "Fuck off, Brandon!" he roared. Blitzo spat blood, petty rage igniting. Revenge came swift: he spiked the jock's drink with laxatives from his drug stash, filming the explosive diarrhea in the dorm bathroom and anonymously posting it online. "That's for touching a god," he cackled.
More bullying: he catcalled a girl in the library, then followed her to the bathroom for round two. "Bend over, slut," he growled, fucking her against the stall, nasty and rough, pulling her hair. She moaned, but he finished and ghosted, reveling in control.
Greed never slept. He manipulated a prof into "lending" cash, promising favors he never intended. In a public toilet, he set up his phone, stripping to film himself masturbating—stroking his thick cock, moaning to the mirror. "Watch me, world," he gasped, cumming hard. Uploaded to OnlyFun, he grinned at notifications: fans paying to see his self-worship.
By lunchtime, Blitzo lounged in a cafe, sipping stolen coffee, plotting his next disaster. The world was his stage, and he was the star—hated, wanted, unstoppable.
How he become powerful?
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June 13
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