Learn to control himself
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 13
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Danny Vos spent the week in the isolated cabin like a god playing with a dollhouse he could crush at any moment.
The first days were pure slapstick catastrophe.
He tried heat vision on a pine cone twenty feet away; the twin golden beams lanced out too wide and set half an acre of dry underbrush ablaze. He panicked for half a second—then remembered he was invulnerable—and simply strolled through the inferno, laughing as flames licked harmlessly over his milky skin. “Amateur hour,” he muttered, eventually snuffing the fire with a casual puff of super breath that froze the last embers into brittle black sculptures.
Super speed was worse. He dashed to the kitchen for a beer and accidentally circled the entire mountain ridge three times before he could stop, carving a new dirt racetrack through the forest and leaving a sonic boom that cracked windows in distant vacation homes he never saw. When he finally skidded to a halt in the living room, the hardwood floor peeled up in long curling strips behind him like banana skins. “Note to self,” he drawled, “brakes are a mortal concept.”
Super strength turned doorknobs into metal confetti and chair legs into toothpicks. He once tried to gently lift the coffee table; it disintegrated into sawdust between his fingers. “Elegance is overrated anyway,” he said, flicking the powder off his golden nails.
But gods learn fast.
By day three he had it: pinpoint control. Heat vision became surgical—now he warmed his coffee to exactly 68°C by staring at the mug for 1.3 seconds, golden beams narrowing to needle-thin lines of molten light. Super speed let him cross the room in a heartbeat to grab the remote without spilling a drop from the cup he was already holding. Super breath nudged furniture aside like an invisible butler; he once rearranged the entire living room without ever touching a single piece.
Then came the truly degenerate innovations.
He discovered his ejaculate was multifunctional.
Sticky silver ropes pinned a fallen log exactly where he wanted it for firewood stacking—no chopping required. Expanding blobs encased leaky roof shingles in airtight silver cocoons until he could be bothered to fix them properly. Acidic streams dissolved a rusted chainsaw he found in the shed, turning it into a puddle of slag when he decided he no longer needed tools at all.
Laziness settled over him like a warm, heavy blanket.
Why walk to the fridge when you can super-speed there and back before the door even finishes opening? Why chop wood when heat vision turns logs into instant charcoal briquettes? Why clean when super breath blasts dust out the open windows in one arctic gust?
He stopped producing waste entirely—no more bathroom visits. His body metabolized everything perfectly; the only thing it expelled was that thick, rubbery sweat when he exerted himself (or pleasured himself). Even that had uses: he once smeared it on window frames to create an unbreakable seal against drafts.
He no longer gained weight, no matter how much junk he devoured. No exercise required to maintain the hypertrophied, shredded perfection of his 450-pound frame. Entire days once devoted to training evaporated.
At first the sudden emptiness unnerved him. He paced the cabin like a caged panther, golden eyes darting, unsure what to do with so much unstructured time.
Then he sank—willingly, gleefully—into hedonism.
Mornings became brunches of fast-food delivery ordered under fake accounts: towers of burgers, buckets of fried chicken, liters of sugary soda, entire cheesecakes consumed in single sittings. He sprawled on the ruined sectional (now reinforced with steel beams he’d torn from an abandoned shed), grease shining on his massive pecs, belly distended for an hour before his metabolism flattened it again.
Afternoons bled into evenings of marathon masturbation sessions.
He’d stroke himself for hours—slow, luxurious, edging until golden eyes rolled back—fantasizing about the day he’d descend on Havenridge like a golden apocalypse. Cities kneeling. Armies melting under acidic cum barrages. World leaders begging at his feet while sticky ropes bound them in place. Each climax produced sacks—literal sacks—of thick, metallic-silver semen that he casually webbed to the ceiling beams like grotesque chandeliers, letting them drip slowly throughout the night.
His social media presence metastasized.
Every day he posted new shots: partial flexes that revealed only tantalizing slices of his new proportions—half a bicep that looked bigger than most men’s torsos, the shadowed undercurve of a pectoral shelf that could eclipse the sun, the razor-cut Adonis belt disappearing into tiny gold briefs. Captions dripped venomous narcissism:
“Some of you still think hard work builds bodies like this. Cute delusion. Keep coping in the comments. #GodAmongInsects #NaturalPerfection #YouWillNever #BowOrBreak #DannyWasAlwaysBetterThanYou”
“New lighting? Nah. New me. You’re welcome for the view, mortals. #Evolved #Unattainable #CryAboutIt #WorshipFromAfar #PeakExistence”
He teased the transformation without confirming it—cropped shots that made his shoulders look impossibly wider, angles that hinted at impossible height, never showing his full 7'0" frame or face clearly. The comments sections became bloodbaths; he shredded doubters with wittier, crueler, surgically precise replies. His IQ, now doubled, turned every clapback into intellectual evisceration. He humiliated keyboard warriors until they deleted accounts or went silent.
The conquest fantasy gnawed at him.
He paced the ridge at night, naked under starlight, golden hair whipping in the wind, plotting. Super strength, speed, flight, heat vision, invulnerability, X-ray, super senses, weaponized cum—enough to level nations. But the math was brutal: one man—even a god—against seven billion coordinated humans, satellites, missiles, bioweapons labs, propaganda machines. Years. Decades maybe. Attrition. Guerrilla godhood.
He snarled at the moon. “I won’t wait forever.”
But he wouldn’t rush blindly either. The bodybuilding competition was six days away. First step: re-enter society as the “miraculous” new Danny Vos, collect fame and money, build influence. Then… escalation.
He smirked, flexing both arms until veins popped like cables. “Soon.”
1. Towards the end of the week he spots a bunch of drug dealers deep in the woods and decides to have fun with them.
2. The day of the competition has arrived and Danny starts to prepare.
The first days were pure slapstick catastrophe.
He tried heat vision on a pine cone twenty feet away; the twin golden beams lanced out too wide and set half an acre of dry underbrush ablaze. He panicked for half a second—then remembered he was invulnerable—and simply strolled through the inferno, laughing as flames licked harmlessly over his milky skin. “Amateur hour,” he muttered, eventually snuffing the fire with a casual puff of super breath that froze the last embers into brittle black sculptures.
Super speed was worse. He dashed to the kitchen for a beer and accidentally circled the entire mountain ridge three times before he could stop, carving a new dirt racetrack through the forest and leaving a sonic boom that cracked windows in distant vacation homes he never saw. When he finally skidded to a halt in the living room, the hardwood floor peeled up in long curling strips behind him like banana skins. “Note to self,” he drawled, “brakes are a mortal concept.”
Super strength turned doorknobs into metal confetti and chair legs into toothpicks. He once tried to gently lift the coffee table; it disintegrated into sawdust between his fingers. “Elegance is overrated anyway,” he said, flicking the powder off his golden nails.
But gods learn fast.
By day three he had it: pinpoint control. Heat vision became surgical—now he warmed his coffee to exactly 68°C by staring at the mug for 1.3 seconds, golden beams narrowing to needle-thin lines of molten light. Super speed let him cross the room in a heartbeat to grab the remote without spilling a drop from the cup he was already holding. Super breath nudged furniture aside like an invisible butler; he once rearranged the entire living room without ever touching a single piece.
Then came the truly degenerate innovations.
He discovered his ejaculate was multifunctional.
Sticky silver ropes pinned a fallen log exactly where he wanted it for firewood stacking—no chopping required. Expanding blobs encased leaky roof shingles in airtight silver cocoons until he could be bothered to fix them properly. Acidic streams dissolved a rusted chainsaw he found in the shed, turning it into a puddle of slag when he decided he no longer needed tools at all.
Laziness settled over him like a warm, heavy blanket.
Why walk to the fridge when you can super-speed there and back before the door even finishes opening? Why chop wood when heat vision turns logs into instant charcoal briquettes? Why clean when super breath blasts dust out the open windows in one arctic gust?
He stopped producing waste entirely—no more bathroom visits. His body metabolized everything perfectly; the only thing it expelled was that thick, rubbery sweat when he exerted himself (or pleasured himself). Even that had uses: he once smeared it on window frames to create an unbreakable seal against drafts.
He no longer gained weight, no matter how much junk he devoured. No exercise required to maintain the hypertrophied, shredded perfection of his 450-pound frame. Entire days once devoted to training evaporated.
At first the sudden emptiness unnerved him. He paced the cabin like a caged panther, golden eyes darting, unsure what to do with so much unstructured time.
Then he sank—willingly, gleefully—into hedonism.
Mornings became brunches of fast-food delivery ordered under fake accounts: towers of burgers, buckets of fried chicken, liters of sugary soda, entire cheesecakes consumed in single sittings. He sprawled on the ruined sectional (now reinforced with steel beams he’d torn from an abandoned shed), grease shining on his massive pecs, belly distended for an hour before his metabolism flattened it again.
Afternoons bled into evenings of marathon masturbation sessions.
He’d stroke himself for hours—slow, luxurious, edging until golden eyes rolled back—fantasizing about the day he’d descend on Havenridge like a golden apocalypse. Cities kneeling. Armies melting under acidic cum barrages. World leaders begging at his feet while sticky ropes bound them in place. Each climax produced sacks—literal sacks—of thick, metallic-silver semen that he casually webbed to the ceiling beams like grotesque chandeliers, letting them drip slowly throughout the night.
His social media presence metastasized.
Every day he posted new shots: partial flexes that revealed only tantalizing slices of his new proportions—half a bicep that looked bigger than most men’s torsos, the shadowed undercurve of a pectoral shelf that could eclipse the sun, the razor-cut Adonis belt disappearing into tiny gold briefs. Captions dripped venomous narcissism:
“Some of you still think hard work builds bodies like this. Cute delusion. Keep coping in the comments. #GodAmongInsects #NaturalPerfection #YouWillNever #BowOrBreak #DannyWasAlwaysBetterThanYou”
“New lighting? Nah. New me. You’re welcome for the view, mortals. #Evolved #Unattainable #CryAboutIt #WorshipFromAfar #PeakExistence”
He teased the transformation without confirming it—cropped shots that made his shoulders look impossibly wider, angles that hinted at impossible height, never showing his full 7'0" frame or face clearly. The comments sections became bloodbaths; he shredded doubters with wittier, crueler, surgically precise replies. His IQ, now doubled, turned every clapback into intellectual evisceration. He humiliated keyboard warriors until they deleted accounts or went silent.
The conquest fantasy gnawed at him.
He paced the ridge at night, naked under starlight, golden hair whipping in the wind, plotting. Super strength, speed, flight, heat vision, invulnerability, X-ray, super senses, weaponized cum—enough to level nations. But the math was brutal: one man—even a god—against seven billion coordinated humans, satellites, missiles, bioweapons labs, propaganda machines. Years. Decades maybe. Attrition. Guerrilla godhood.
He snarled at the moon. “I won’t wait forever.”
But he wouldn’t rush blindly either. The bodybuilding competition was six days away. First step: re-enter society as the “miraculous” new Danny Vos, collect fame and money, build influence. Then… escalation.
He smirked, flexing both arms until veins popped like cables. “Soon.”
1. Towards the end of the week he spots a bunch of drug dealers deep in the woods and decides to have fun with them.
2. The day of the competition has arrived and Danny starts to prepare.
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June 13
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