Danny Vos
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 4
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Danny Vos woke at precisely 6:00 a.m., the soft chime of his phone alarm slicing through the silence of his luxury campus apartment. He didn’t grope for the snooze button; he never did. Instead, he lay still for a moment, eyes open, staring at the ceiling mirror he’d installed above the bed so he could admire himself first thing. The early light filtered through blackout curtains he’d cracked just enough, catching the platinum sheen of his short, messy hair and the sharp angles of his jaw. His sparkling blue eyes met his own reflection, and a slow, smug smile curved his lips. Perfect. As always.
He threw off the silk sheets and stood, completely naked. At 6'2", every inch of him was sculpted—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, legs thick with power, and a chest that looked carved from marble. The lightning bolt tattoo on his left shoulder gleamed faintly. He padded barefoot to the full-length mirror in the corner of his bedroom, the one framed in matte black steel, positioned so he could see every angle.
Danny began his morning workout naked, the way he preferred—no fabric to hide even the smallest imperfection, though there were none. He started with body weight movements: push-ups that made his pectorals swell and separate, each rep deliberate, veins rising like rivers under his milky skin. Then pull-ups on the bar mounted above the door frame, lats flaring wide as wings. He watched himself the entire time, breath steady, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and approving. “Fucking flawless.”
Sweat began to bead on his forehead, trickling down his temples, tracing paths over the ridges of his eight-pack abs. He moved to dumbbell curls, twenty-pounders in each hand, biceps peaking higher with every controlled lift. The mirror reflected every flex, every twitch of muscle fiber. He paused midway through a set, flexing his free arm into a double-bicep pose, admiring the split between the long and short heads. “Yeah,” he whispered, “this is what they all want. And none of them deserve it.”
After forty-five minutes, his skin glistened, chest heaving slightly. He stepped into the ensuite bathroom, a marble palace of chrome and glass. The shower was massive, multiple heads raining hot water. Danny stood under the stream, letting it cascade over him. He lathered slowly, deliberately—first the high-end body wash that smelled of cedar and citrus, then conditioner for his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. He shaved with a straight razor, gliding it along his jaw with practiced ease, never nicking himself. He trimmed his nails again, even though they were already perfect, then applied moisturizer, serum, and sunscreen, every step a ritual of self-worship.
Breakfast was light: egg whites scrambled with spinach, half an avocado, black coffee. He ate standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through his social media feed on his phone—last night’s gym selfie had already racked up 2,300 likes and a flood of thirsty comments. He smirked, liking a few from the prettiest girls, knowing it would keep them hooked.
Dressed in nothing but black compression shorts and running shoes, he headed out for his campus run. The morning air was crisp, Havenridge’s paths still quiet except for the occasional early riser. He set a punishing pace, long strides eating ground, muscles pumping rhythmically. Sweat soon reappeared, darkening the fabric at his waistband.
He passed a trio of sophomore girls near the quad fountain. They froze mid-conversation, eyes widening. One bit her lip; another whispered something that made her friends giggle nervously. Danny slowed to a jog, then stopped, hands on hips, chest rising and falling. He tilted his head, flashing that boyish, devastating smile.
“Hey, ladies,” he said, voice smooth as velvet. “You look like you’re enjoying the view.”
The brunette stammered, “You’re… you’re Danny Vos.”
He stepped closer, towering over them. “Guilty. And you are?”
They introduced themselves—Emma, Lily, and Sarah—voices trembling. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Emma’s face with one finger, letting it linger. “You’re cute when you blush,” he told her, then turned to Lily. “And you’ve got killer legs. Bet they look good wrapped around something strong.”
Sarah laughed nervously. Danny leaned in, voice dropping. “Tell you what. DM me your best thirst-trap pic tonight. If it’s good enough, maybe I’ll let you watch me train sometime.” He winked, flexed one bicep casually—veins popping—and jogged backward a few steps. “Don’t disappoint me.”
The girls stood speechless as he turned and sprinted away, laughing softly to himself. Power rush. Delicious.
Back in his apartment, he stripped again and moved to the home gym. The barbell was already loaded—plates clanking as he began heavy squats. His quads exploded outward, hamstrings tightening, glutes clenching with each descent. Sweat poured now, rivulets tracing the deep cuts of his abs, dripping from his nipples, sliding down the V-lines that disappeared into his groin. He racked the bar and grabbed dumbbells for shoulder presses, deltoids ballooning, traps rising to kiss his ears. Every rep was a performance for the mirror.
“This weekend,” he growled between sets, “that stage is mine. First place. Again. They’ll all see what perfection looks like.” He imagined the judges’ eyes on him, the crowd’s gasps, the other competitors shrinking in his shadow. “No one comes close. No one.”
He finished with deadlifts—back straight, lats spreading like a cobra’s hood, sweat flying with each pull. When the set ended, he dropped the bar with a thunderous clang and stepped in front of the mirror again.
He flexed—double biceps, side chest, most muscular. Every muscle popped, veins thick as cords, skin shiny with sweat. His eyes darkened with hunger. He leaned in, lips brushing the glass. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered to his reflection. One hand slid down his chest, tracing the ridges of his abs, lower still. He kissed the mirror deeply, tongue pressing against the cool surface, tasting salt and glass. His other hand wrapped around his hardening length, stroking slowly at first, then faster, eyes never leaving his own.
He watched himself—muscles tensing, abs contracting, biceps flexing involuntarily as pleasure built. “Mine,” he gasped. “All mine.” Release came hard, shuddering through him, painting the mirror. He stood there panting, satisfied, smug.
Another shower—quick this time, washing away evidence and sweat. He dressed in tight white tank and gray joggers that hugged every curve, slipped on sneakers, and headed out for the grocery store.
In the hallway, he passed a scrawny freshman carrying boxes. The kid stumbled, nearly dropping them. Danny stopped, blocking the way.
“Watch where you’re going, twig,” he sneered, voice dripping contempt. “Some of us actually have places to be.”
The kid mumbled an apology. Danny leaned in. “Louder. And maybe next time don’t take up the whole hallway with your pathetic little life.”
Further down, he spotted a girl from his econ class struggling with a heavy bag. She smiled hopefully. Danny walked past without a glance, then called over his shoulder, “You know, if you spent less time eating and more time in the gym, maybe you wouldn’t look like you’re smuggling potatoes.”
She flushed red, eyes stinging. Danny didn’t look back.
At the grocery store entrance, he bullied an older man in line who took too long at the self-checkout. “Move it, grandpa. Some of us have better things to do than waste oxygen.”
Inside, he grabbed protein, greens, and supplements, paid with a black card, and sauntered out.
Back home by early afternoon, Danny sat on his leather couch, shirtless, legs spread wide. He ate grilled chicken breast, quinoa, and broccoli—perfect macros, perfect portions. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the sweat-dried sheen on his skin. He scrolled through notifications: more likes, more DMs, more worship.
He leaned back, smiled at his reflection in the darkened TV screen, and took another bite.
Another flawless day.
How he become powerful?
He threw off the silk sheets and stood, completely naked. At 6'2", every inch of him was sculpted—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, legs thick with power, and a chest that looked carved from marble. The lightning bolt tattoo on his left shoulder gleamed faintly. He padded barefoot to the full-length mirror in the corner of his bedroom, the one framed in matte black steel, positioned so he could see every angle.
Danny began his morning workout naked, the way he preferred—no fabric to hide even the smallest imperfection, though there were none. He started with body weight movements: push-ups that made his pectorals swell and separate, each rep deliberate, veins rising like rivers under his milky skin. Then pull-ups on the bar mounted above the door frame, lats flaring wide as wings. He watched himself the entire time, breath steady, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and approving. “Fucking flawless.”
Sweat began to bead on his forehead, trickling down his temples, tracing paths over the ridges of his eight-pack abs. He moved to dumbbell curls, twenty-pounders in each hand, biceps peaking higher with every controlled lift. The mirror reflected every flex, every twitch of muscle fiber. He paused midway through a set, flexing his free arm into a double-bicep pose, admiring the split between the long and short heads. “Yeah,” he whispered, “this is what they all want. And none of them deserve it.”
After forty-five minutes, his skin glistened, chest heaving slightly. He stepped into the ensuite bathroom, a marble palace of chrome and glass. The shower was massive, multiple heads raining hot water. Danny stood under the stream, letting it cascade over him. He lathered slowly, deliberately—first the high-end body wash that smelled of cedar and citrus, then conditioner for his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. He shaved with a straight razor, gliding it along his jaw with practiced ease, never nicking himself. He trimmed his nails again, even though they were already perfect, then applied moisturizer, serum, and sunscreen, every step a ritual of self-worship.
Breakfast was light: egg whites scrambled with spinach, half an avocado, black coffee. He ate standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through his social media feed on his phone—last night’s gym selfie had already racked up 2,300 likes and a flood of thirsty comments. He smirked, liking a few from the prettiest girls, knowing it would keep them hooked.
Dressed in nothing but black compression shorts and running shoes, he headed out for his campus run. The morning air was crisp, Havenridge’s paths still quiet except for the occasional early riser. He set a punishing pace, long strides eating ground, muscles pumping rhythmically. Sweat soon reappeared, darkening the fabric at his waistband.
He passed a trio of sophomore girls near the quad fountain. They froze mid-conversation, eyes widening. One bit her lip; another whispered something that made her friends giggle nervously. Danny slowed to a jog, then stopped, hands on hips, chest rising and falling. He tilted his head, flashing that boyish, devastating smile.
“Hey, ladies,” he said, voice smooth as velvet. “You look like you’re enjoying the view.”
The brunette stammered, “You’re… you’re Danny Vos.”
He stepped closer, towering over them. “Guilty. And you are?”
They introduced themselves—Emma, Lily, and Sarah—voices trembling. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Emma’s face with one finger, letting it linger. “You’re cute when you blush,” he told her, then turned to Lily. “And you’ve got killer legs. Bet they look good wrapped around something strong.”
Sarah laughed nervously. Danny leaned in, voice dropping. “Tell you what. DM me your best thirst-trap pic tonight. If it’s good enough, maybe I’ll let you watch me train sometime.” He winked, flexed one bicep casually—veins popping—and jogged backward a few steps. “Don’t disappoint me.”
The girls stood speechless as he turned and sprinted away, laughing softly to himself. Power rush. Delicious.
Back in his apartment, he stripped again and moved to the home gym. The barbell was already loaded—plates clanking as he began heavy squats. His quads exploded outward, hamstrings tightening, glutes clenching with each descent. Sweat poured now, rivulets tracing the deep cuts of his abs, dripping from his nipples, sliding down the V-lines that disappeared into his groin. He racked the bar and grabbed dumbbells for shoulder presses, deltoids ballooning, traps rising to kiss his ears. Every rep was a performance for the mirror.
“This weekend,” he growled between sets, “that stage is mine. First place. Again. They’ll all see what perfection looks like.” He imagined the judges’ eyes on him, the crowd’s gasps, the other competitors shrinking in his shadow. “No one comes close. No one.”
He finished with deadlifts—back straight, lats spreading like a cobra’s hood, sweat flying with each pull. When the set ended, he dropped the bar with a thunderous clang and stepped in front of the mirror again.
He flexed—double biceps, side chest, most muscular. Every muscle popped, veins thick as cords, skin shiny with sweat. His eyes darkened with hunger. He leaned in, lips brushing the glass. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered to his reflection. One hand slid down his chest, tracing the ridges of his abs, lower still. He kissed the mirror deeply, tongue pressing against the cool surface, tasting salt and glass. His other hand wrapped around his hardening length, stroking slowly at first, then faster, eyes never leaving his own.
He watched himself—muscles tensing, abs contracting, biceps flexing involuntarily as pleasure built. “Mine,” he gasped. “All mine.” Release came hard, shuddering through him, painting the mirror. He stood there panting, satisfied, smug.
Another shower—quick this time, washing away evidence and sweat. He dressed in tight white tank and gray joggers that hugged every curve, slipped on sneakers, and headed out for the grocery store.
In the hallway, he passed a scrawny freshman carrying boxes. The kid stumbled, nearly dropping them. Danny stopped, blocking the way.
“Watch where you’re going, twig,” he sneered, voice dripping contempt. “Some of us actually have places to be.”
The kid mumbled an apology. Danny leaned in. “Louder. And maybe next time don’t take up the whole hallway with your pathetic little life.”
Further down, he spotted a girl from his econ class struggling with a heavy bag. She smiled hopefully. Danny walked past without a glance, then called over his shoulder, “You know, if you spent less time eating and more time in the gym, maybe you wouldn’t look like you’re smuggling potatoes.”
She flushed red, eyes stinging. Danny didn’t look back.
At the grocery store entrance, he bullied an older man in line who took too long at the self-checkout. “Move it, grandpa. Some of us have better things to do than waste oxygen.”
Inside, he grabbed protein, greens, and supplements, paid with a black card, and sauntered out.
Back home by early afternoon, Danny sat on his leather couch, shirtless, legs spread wide. He ate grilled chicken breast, quinoa, and broccoli—perfect macros, perfect portions. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the sweat-dried sheen on his skin. He scrolled through notifications: more likes, more DMs, more worship.
He leaned back, smiled at his reflection in the darkened TV screen, and took another bite.
Another flawless day.
How he become powerful?
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·
June 13
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