Competition day
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 15
by
copier
· original author:
an188
A few hours before the Havenridge Regional Bodybuilding Championship, Danny slipped back into his apartment like a shadow—silent, massive, and utterly unconcerned with the mortal world he now towered over.
The place still bore scars from his earlier carelessness: cracked countertops, splintered furniture legs, faint silver stains on the ceiling where he’d let cum webs hang like grotesque trophies. He moved through the debris with deliberate gentleness now, sweeping broken glass into corners with super breath, nudging the fridge door back into approximate alignment (it still hung crooked), and straightening what could be straightened. “Good enough,” he muttered. “No one’s coming here anyway. They’ll be too busy worshipping me online.”
In the bathroom he reapplied a fresh, even layer of competition tan—deep, bronzed orange that made his milky skin look like burnished metal under stage lights. He worked it into every valley of his eight-pack, every striation on his delts, every thick vein snaking over his forearms. Next came his hair: he ran long golden-nailed fingers through the metallic-gold strands, coaxing them into perfect, tousled waves that caught the light like spun sunlight.
He paused at the mirror, staring at his own golden irises. “Blue to gold? That’s a harder sell than the extra foot and hundred-fifty pounds of muscle.” He chuckled, low and smug. “Better hide the evidence.”
He popped in a pair of high-quality blue contact lenses—his original shade, bright and boyish. The transformation was instant: the god receded behind the familiar pretty face everyone remembered. He flexed once, watching the contacts stay perfectly centered even as his pupils dilated with arousal. “Much better. Let them think I just had the growth spurt of the century. Eye-color change? Too many questions.”
He painted over his metallic-gold nails with a fast-drying, permanent matte-black dye—quick, flawless, hiding the otherworldly sheen. Then he took out his phone.
Selfie time.
He angled the camera to capture partial glory: one shot of his colossal shoulder and trap framing half his face, another of the shadowed undercurve of a pectoral shelf that looked carved from obsidian, a third of his Adonis belt disappearing into the waistband of tiny gold briefs. Captions poured out of him like venom:
“Back from exile. Stage is about to get ruined. Try not to cry when you see what real genetics look like. #GodReturned #UnfairAdvantage #MortalsStaySeated #SizeDoesMatter #DannyWasAlwaysBetter”
“Some of you still think hard work beats superior DNA. Adorable. Keep lifting those participation trophies. #NaturalSelection #EvolvedBeyondYou #CryInTheComments #PeakHumanityLeftTheChat”
He hit post on all platforms simultaneously. Notifications began exploding within seconds—likes, shocked emojis, thirsty DMs, hate comments he’d eviscerate later. He smirked, cock twitching at the flood of attention.
Under the loose gray hoodie and baggy sweatpants he wore a metallic-gold polyester undershirt so tight it looked painted on, plus the smallest gold posing trunks he could find. The fabric barely restrained his enormous dick; every step made it shift heavily against his thigh.
He stood before the full-length mirror one last time, flexing slowly—double biceps, side chest, most muscular. Every muscle group erupted in vascular, shredded detail under the bronze paint. His nipples hardened to diamond points against the gold fabric. He had spent the morning masturbating over and over—ten full, draining orgasms—each time forcing himself to hold the final release until the last possible second, conditioning his body not to leak on stage. Now he was empty, heavy, primed.
“Showtime,” he whispered, licking his lips.
He left the apartment in flip-flops, hoodie zipped to the chin, sweatpants sagging low on narrow hips. The walk to the convention center was deliberate—slow, casual, letting the city see him without quite seeing him.
Heads turned immediately.
People on the sidewalk did double-takes. A barista froze mid-pour. Two college guys stopped arguing about protein timing and stared openly. Women blushed, whispered, bit lips. Recognition dawned slowly: the platinum hair (now disguised under a backward cap), the sparkling blue eyes (contacts), the unmistakable jawline and boyish smirk.
“Is that… Danny Vos?”
“No way. He was hot but… holy shit, look at the size of him.”
Danny’s nipples tightened further under the hoodie. His cock thickened against the gold briefs, trapped but insistent. He savored every stunned glance, every flush creeping up female necks. “If they only knew what’s under here,” he thought, imagining ripping the clothes off right there in the street, bronze-painted godhood on full display, the screams of awe and lust. He licked his lips again, tasting bronze and arrogance.
Halfway there he passed a gaggle of valley-girl types—bleached hair, designer athleisure, the same clique he’d fucked and discarded a dozen times before the meteorite. They froze mid-selfie.
“Danny?!”
“Oh my god, is that really you?!”
“What the hell happened? You’re like… huge!”
He stopped, towering over them, hoodie hiding most of the transformation. He flashed the old boyish grin—now edged with something darker.
“Ladies. Miss me?”
They circled him like moths, hands reaching to touch his arms through the fabric. “What are you hiding under there? Show us!”
He giggled—low, smug, dangerous. “Patience, princesses. Come to the convention center tonight. Front row. You’ll see everything.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “And maybe—if you’re very good—I’ll let you touch the trophy afterward.”
They squealed, already pulling out phones to record him walking away.
The convention center loomed ahead. Danny slipped through the competitors’ entrance. Heads snapped toward him. Whispers erupted—super senses catching every word.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Vos? No way. He was 6'2".”
“Look at the shoulders even under the hoodie…”
“Has to be steroids. Or surgery. Or… something.”
Danny sauntered to registration, towering over the desk. The clerk—a nervous twenty-something—stared up at him, mouth open.
“Uh… name?”
“Danny Vos.” He slid his ID across the counter. “Check the list. I’m competing.”
The clerk fumbled, eyes wide. “You’re… you’re on here, but…”
Danny leaned forward, voice velvet menace. “Problem?”
“N-no. Welcome.”
An hour later he lounged backstage against a concrete wall, still in the baggy clothes, flip-flops dangling from one foot. Other competitors—oiled, tanned, pumped—shot him furtive glances while frantically posing, applying oil, adjusting trunks. Danny did nothing. Just watched them with lazy contempt, golden eyes (hidden behind blue contacts) glittering.
When the announcer called the open class to the stage, Danny straightened.
He walked to the curtain, gripped the hem of his hoodie—and ripped it off in one dramatic motion. The sweatpants followed, pooling at his ankles. Flip-flops kicked aside.
The room went dead silent.
Every competitor froze. Jaws dropped. Oil bottles slipped from hands.
Danny stood revealed: 7'0" of bronze-painted, vascular, shredded perfection. Shoulders like boulders, chest like tectonic plates, abs carved so deep they cast shadows, legs like tree trunks wrapped in veins. The tiny gold posing trunks barely contained him—cock outlined obscenely, balls heavy, every muscle group popping under the lights.
He flexed once—slow, deliberate—double biceps that made the room feel smaller. Veins pulsed. Bronze paint gleamed. His smile was pure, victorious arrogance.
Then he strode onto the stage like he already owned it.
1. Danny wins easily, everyone is shocked by his amazing body as Danny has to hold himself back from orgasming on stage from his inflated ego.
2. The other bodybuilders demand that Danny be disqualified, claiming that he cheated in some way.
The place still bore scars from his earlier carelessness: cracked countertops, splintered furniture legs, faint silver stains on the ceiling where he’d let cum webs hang like grotesque trophies. He moved through the debris with deliberate gentleness now, sweeping broken glass into corners with super breath, nudging the fridge door back into approximate alignment (it still hung crooked), and straightening what could be straightened. “Good enough,” he muttered. “No one’s coming here anyway. They’ll be too busy worshipping me online.”
In the bathroom he reapplied a fresh, even layer of competition tan—deep, bronzed orange that made his milky skin look like burnished metal under stage lights. He worked it into every valley of his eight-pack, every striation on his delts, every thick vein snaking over his forearms. Next came his hair: he ran long golden-nailed fingers through the metallic-gold strands, coaxing them into perfect, tousled waves that caught the light like spun sunlight.
He paused at the mirror, staring at his own golden irises. “Blue to gold? That’s a harder sell than the extra foot and hundred-fifty pounds of muscle.” He chuckled, low and smug. “Better hide the evidence.”
He popped in a pair of high-quality blue contact lenses—his original shade, bright and boyish. The transformation was instant: the god receded behind the familiar pretty face everyone remembered. He flexed once, watching the contacts stay perfectly centered even as his pupils dilated with arousal. “Much better. Let them think I just had the growth spurt of the century. Eye-color change? Too many questions.”
He painted over his metallic-gold nails with a fast-drying, permanent matte-black dye—quick, flawless, hiding the otherworldly sheen. Then he took out his phone.
Selfie time.
He angled the camera to capture partial glory: one shot of his colossal shoulder and trap framing half his face, another of the shadowed undercurve of a pectoral shelf that looked carved from obsidian, a third of his Adonis belt disappearing into the waistband of tiny gold briefs. Captions poured out of him like venom:
“Back from exile. Stage is about to get ruined. Try not to cry when you see what real genetics look like. #GodReturned #UnfairAdvantage #MortalsStaySeated #SizeDoesMatter #DannyWasAlwaysBetter”
“Some of you still think hard work beats superior DNA. Adorable. Keep lifting those participation trophies. #NaturalSelection #EvolvedBeyondYou #CryInTheComments #PeakHumanityLeftTheChat”
He hit post on all platforms simultaneously. Notifications began exploding within seconds—likes, shocked emojis, thirsty DMs, hate comments he’d eviscerate later. He smirked, cock twitching at the flood of attention.
Under the loose gray hoodie and baggy sweatpants he wore a metallic-gold polyester undershirt so tight it looked painted on, plus the smallest gold posing trunks he could find. The fabric barely restrained his enormous dick; every step made it shift heavily against his thigh.
He stood before the full-length mirror one last time, flexing slowly—double biceps, side chest, most muscular. Every muscle group erupted in vascular, shredded detail under the bronze paint. His nipples hardened to diamond points against the gold fabric. He had spent the morning masturbating over and over—ten full, draining orgasms—each time forcing himself to hold the final release until the last possible second, conditioning his body not to leak on stage. Now he was empty, heavy, primed.
“Showtime,” he whispered, licking his lips.
He left the apartment in flip-flops, hoodie zipped to the chin, sweatpants sagging low on narrow hips. The walk to the convention center was deliberate—slow, casual, letting the city see him without quite seeing him.
Heads turned immediately.
People on the sidewalk did double-takes. A barista froze mid-pour. Two college guys stopped arguing about protein timing and stared openly. Women blushed, whispered, bit lips. Recognition dawned slowly: the platinum hair (now disguised under a backward cap), the sparkling blue eyes (contacts), the unmistakable jawline and boyish smirk.
“Is that… Danny Vos?”
“No way. He was hot but… holy shit, look at the size of him.”
Danny’s nipples tightened further under the hoodie. His cock thickened against the gold briefs, trapped but insistent. He savored every stunned glance, every flush creeping up female necks. “If they only knew what’s under here,” he thought, imagining ripping the clothes off right there in the street, bronze-painted godhood on full display, the screams of awe and lust. He licked his lips again, tasting bronze and arrogance.
Halfway there he passed a gaggle of valley-girl types—bleached hair, designer athleisure, the same clique he’d fucked and discarded a dozen times before the meteorite. They froze mid-selfie.
“Danny?!”
“Oh my god, is that really you?!”
“What the hell happened? You’re like… huge!”
He stopped, towering over them, hoodie hiding most of the transformation. He flashed the old boyish grin—now edged with something darker.
“Ladies. Miss me?”
They circled him like moths, hands reaching to touch his arms through the fabric. “What are you hiding under there? Show us!”
He giggled—low, smug, dangerous. “Patience, princesses. Come to the convention center tonight. Front row. You’ll see everything.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “And maybe—if you’re very good—I’ll let you touch the trophy afterward.”
They squealed, already pulling out phones to record him walking away.
The convention center loomed ahead. Danny slipped through the competitors’ entrance. Heads snapped toward him. Whispers erupted—super senses catching every word.
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Vos? No way. He was 6'2".”
“Look at the shoulders even under the hoodie…”
“Has to be steroids. Or surgery. Or… something.”
Danny sauntered to registration, towering over the desk. The clerk—a nervous twenty-something—stared up at him, mouth open.
“Uh… name?”
“Danny Vos.” He slid his ID across the counter. “Check the list. I’m competing.”
The clerk fumbled, eyes wide. “You’re… you’re on here, but…”
Danny leaned forward, voice velvet menace. “Problem?”
“N-no. Welcome.”
An hour later he lounged backstage against a concrete wall, still in the baggy clothes, flip-flops dangling from one foot. Other competitors—oiled, tanned, pumped—shot him furtive glances while frantically posing, applying oil, adjusting trunks. Danny did nothing. Just watched them with lazy contempt, golden eyes (hidden behind blue contacts) glittering.
When the announcer called the open class to the stage, Danny straightened.
He walked to the curtain, gripped the hem of his hoodie—and ripped it off in one dramatic motion. The sweatpants followed, pooling at his ankles. Flip-flops kicked aside.
The room went dead silent.
Every competitor froze. Jaws dropped. Oil bottles slipped from hands.
Danny stood revealed: 7'0" of bronze-painted, vascular, shredded perfection. Shoulders like boulders, chest like tectonic plates, abs carved so deep they cast shadows, legs like tree trunks wrapped in veins. The tiny gold posing trunks barely contained him—cock outlined obscenely, balls heavy, every muscle group popping under the lights.
He flexed once—slow, deliberate—double biceps that made the room feel smaller. Veins pulsed. Bronze paint gleamed. His smile was pure, victorious arrogance.
Then he strode onto the stage like he already owned it.
1. Danny wins easily, everyone is shocked by his amazing body as Danny has to hold himself back from orgasming on stage from his inflated ego.
2. The other bodybuilders demand that Danny be disqualified, claiming that he cheated in some way.
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June 13
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