Back to his apartment
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 22
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The Uber door slammed shut behind Danny with a satisfying thud. He strode up the apartment steps, still chuckling at the driver's pathetic "I'm a lesbian" claim—as if orientation mattered when faced with this. His key turned with a sharp click, and he kicked the door open, already clawing at his shirt. The fabric stretched, then ripped down the middle like wet paper, exposing his bronzed, veined torso to the empty apartment.
Naked now, Danny flexed in the hallway mirror, watching his muscles coil and swell under sweat-slick skin. Clothes were a crime against perfection—every second spent trapped in fabric felt like suffocation. He stalked to the kitchen, bare feet slapping against marble tiles, only to find the fridge barren except for protein shakes. His jaw clenched. "Fuck this." He grabbed the phone, dialing with unnecessary force. "Thirty family pizzas," he barked. "All toppings. Ten cases of Coke. Now." The stammering clerk dared ask if it was for a party—Danny nearly crushed the receiver. "Just fucking bring it."
Weakness everywhere, women that don't know there place and weak men that are in reality women in disguise. Danny flopped onto the sofa, its frame groaning under his dense musculature, remote gripped tight enough to crack plastic. The screen flickered to life—some daytime talk show with a panel of women discussing "empowerment" while wearing more fabric than they deserved. His lip curled as one particularly loud-mouthed brunette gestured wildly, her blouse gaping to reveal collarbones too sharp, breasts too small. "Pathetic," he muttered, fingers absently tracing the thick vein pulsing along his inner thigh. The women on screen were like the driver—all bark until a real man showed them their knees belonged on pavement.
He changed the channel with a violent jab of his thumb, landing on a commercial where some scrawny dude peddled protein powder—probably soy-based garbage. His abs clenched involuntarily, disgust rolling through him like a seismic wave. Weakness. Everywhere. Even his reflection in the darkened TV screen seemed to mock him, those piercing blue eyes gleaming with contempt. He flexed his pectorals just to watch them ripple, the movement sending a cascade of shadows across his torso like living marble.
The apartment felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in like they couldn’t contain him. He stood abruptly, the sofa groaning in relief, and paced the length of the living room—naked, glorious, a predator caged. His bare feet left faint imprints in the plush carpet, his cock swinging heavily with each step, still half-hard from the Uber girl’s reluctant submission. The memory made his lips curl. Lesbian. Sure. Just another lie women told themselves until a real man showed them what their bodies were built for.
The doorbell chimed, sharp and insistent. Danny rolled his shoulders, flexing his pecs just because he could, and activated his X-ray vision. Through the door, he saw the pathetic spectacle: some hunched-over nerd with a greasy ponytail struggling to drag a cart piled high with pizza boxes and soda cases. The kid’s arms trembled like overcooked noodles. Danny smirked. This was going to be fun.
He didn’t bother with clothes—why cover divinity?—and swung the door open wide. The delivery boy’s jaw dropped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his gaze traveled up Danny’s towering, hairless frame, lingering for a terrified second on the thick, veiny monstrosity hanging between his thighs. "N-n-nudity is—" the kid stammered. Danny cut him off with a laugh. "Natural. Powerful. Unlike you." He leaned against the doorframe, biceps bulging. "Tell me, twig, don’t you want to be something more than a pizza mule?"
The nerd swallowed hard, fingers twitching around the cart handle. "I—I’m just here to deliver—" Danny scoffed, flexing his abs. "Pathetic. You’re built like a question mark." He snatched the pizzas, stacking them effortlessly in one arm while the kid gaped. "Weakness disgusts me. You’re practically a woman." The boy flushed, stammering something about college debt. Danny’s lip curled. "Exactly. Whining." He kicked the cart, sending it clattering into the hallway. "Now fuck off before I decide you’re useful as a footrest."
The door slammed, leaving Danny alone with his feast. He dumped the pizzas on the counter, tearing open a box with one hand—pepperoni grease smearing his perfect fingers. He devoured three slices in four bites, barely chewing. The Coke cans hissed open under his grip, fizz spraying his chest. He licked it off slowly, watching his reflection in the blackened TV screen—the way his throat worked, the ripple of his jaw. Power. Pure power.
He snatched the remote, jabbing the power button. The screen flared to life—some daytime talk show. A panel of overweight women babbled about self-love, their jowls wobbling as they laughed. Danny’s stomach turned. He changed channels: a commercial for plus-size lingerie. Change again. A balding, pot-bellied man hawking lawn equipment. His fingers clenched. Every channel was a parade of sagging flesh, weak chins, pathetic postures. His skin crawled. These weren’t people—they were cautionary tales. Mistakes.
With a snarl, he killed the TV. Silence. Better. He ripped into another pizza, the cheese stretching like tendons before snapping. He gulped Coke straight from the two-liter bottle, the sugar burning his throat. His reflection in the dark screen mocked him—flawless, godlike, surrounded by refuse. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stormed to his laptop. The keyboard lit up under his fingers, manicured nails clicking like knives on marble.
The screen offered salvation—his Instagram, a curated gallery of perfection. Endless likes, endless worship. He scrolled past fan pages dedicated to him, memes comparing him to Greek statues, DMs from trembling admirers. His jaw unclenched slightly. This was how it should be. Only the exceptional elevated. Only the worthy seen. He typed a caption for tonight’s mirror selfie: "Weakness isn’t just ugly—it’s contagious. Stay pure."
What Danny do on the internet?
1. Corresponds with his fans, enters into long correspondences about beauty, aesthetics, female inferiority, and muscles.
2. Begins to read forums and websites that deal with male superiority, nudism, female inferiority, white supremacy, and racism, begins to develop his own pseudo-philosophy.
Naked now, Danny flexed in the hallway mirror, watching his muscles coil and swell under sweat-slick skin. Clothes were a crime against perfection—every second spent trapped in fabric felt like suffocation. He stalked to the kitchen, bare feet slapping against marble tiles, only to find the fridge barren except for protein shakes. His jaw clenched. "Fuck this." He grabbed the phone, dialing with unnecessary force. "Thirty family pizzas," he barked. "All toppings. Ten cases of Coke. Now." The stammering clerk dared ask if it was for a party—Danny nearly crushed the receiver. "Just fucking bring it."
Weakness everywhere, women that don't know there place and weak men that are in reality women in disguise. Danny flopped onto the sofa, its frame groaning under his dense musculature, remote gripped tight enough to crack plastic. The screen flickered to life—some daytime talk show with a panel of women discussing "empowerment" while wearing more fabric than they deserved. His lip curled as one particularly loud-mouthed brunette gestured wildly, her blouse gaping to reveal collarbones too sharp, breasts too small. "Pathetic," he muttered, fingers absently tracing the thick vein pulsing along his inner thigh. The women on screen were like the driver—all bark until a real man showed them their knees belonged on pavement.
He changed the channel with a violent jab of his thumb, landing on a commercial where some scrawny dude peddled protein powder—probably soy-based garbage. His abs clenched involuntarily, disgust rolling through him like a seismic wave. Weakness. Everywhere. Even his reflection in the darkened TV screen seemed to mock him, those piercing blue eyes gleaming with contempt. He flexed his pectorals just to watch them ripple, the movement sending a cascade of shadows across his torso like living marble.
The apartment felt too small suddenly, the walls pressing in like they couldn’t contain him. He stood abruptly, the sofa groaning in relief, and paced the length of the living room—naked, glorious, a predator caged. His bare feet left faint imprints in the plush carpet, his cock swinging heavily with each step, still half-hard from the Uber girl’s reluctant submission. The memory made his lips curl. Lesbian. Sure. Just another lie women told themselves until a real man showed them what their bodies were built for.
The doorbell chimed, sharp and insistent. Danny rolled his shoulders, flexing his pecs just because he could, and activated his X-ray vision. Through the door, he saw the pathetic spectacle: some hunched-over nerd with a greasy ponytail struggling to drag a cart piled high with pizza boxes and soda cases. The kid’s arms trembled like overcooked noodles. Danny smirked. This was going to be fun.
He didn’t bother with clothes—why cover divinity?—and swung the door open wide. The delivery boy’s jaw dropped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his gaze traveled up Danny’s towering, hairless frame, lingering for a terrified second on the thick, veiny monstrosity hanging between his thighs. "N-n-nudity is—" the kid stammered. Danny cut him off with a laugh. "Natural. Powerful. Unlike you." He leaned against the doorframe, biceps bulging. "Tell me, twig, don’t you want to be something more than a pizza mule?"
The nerd swallowed hard, fingers twitching around the cart handle. "I—I’m just here to deliver—" Danny scoffed, flexing his abs. "Pathetic. You’re built like a question mark." He snatched the pizzas, stacking them effortlessly in one arm while the kid gaped. "Weakness disgusts me. You’re practically a woman." The boy flushed, stammering something about college debt. Danny’s lip curled. "Exactly. Whining." He kicked the cart, sending it clattering into the hallway. "Now fuck off before I decide you’re useful as a footrest."
The door slammed, leaving Danny alone with his feast. He dumped the pizzas on the counter, tearing open a box with one hand—pepperoni grease smearing his perfect fingers. He devoured three slices in four bites, barely chewing. The Coke cans hissed open under his grip, fizz spraying his chest. He licked it off slowly, watching his reflection in the blackened TV screen—the way his throat worked, the ripple of his jaw. Power. Pure power.
He snatched the remote, jabbing the power button. The screen flared to life—some daytime talk show. A panel of overweight women babbled about self-love, their jowls wobbling as they laughed. Danny’s stomach turned. He changed channels: a commercial for plus-size lingerie. Change again. A balding, pot-bellied man hawking lawn equipment. His fingers clenched. Every channel was a parade of sagging flesh, weak chins, pathetic postures. His skin crawled. These weren’t people—they were cautionary tales. Mistakes.
With a snarl, he killed the TV. Silence. Better. He ripped into another pizza, the cheese stretching like tendons before snapping. He gulped Coke straight from the two-liter bottle, the sugar burning his throat. His reflection in the dark screen mocked him—flawless, godlike, surrounded by refuse. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stormed to his laptop. The keyboard lit up under his fingers, manicured nails clicking like knives on marble.
The screen offered salvation—his Instagram, a curated gallery of perfection. Endless likes, endless worship. He scrolled past fan pages dedicated to him, memes comparing him to Greek statues, DMs from trembling admirers. His jaw unclenched slightly. This was how it should be. Only the exceptional elevated. Only the worthy seen. He typed a caption for tonight’s mirror selfie: "Weakness isn’t just ugly—it’s contagious. Stay pure."
What Danny do on the internet?
1. Corresponds with his fans, enters into long correspondences about beauty, aesthetics, female inferiority, and muscles.
2. Begins to read forums and websites that deal with male superiority, nudism, female inferiority, white supremacy, and racism, begins to develop his own pseudo-philosophy.
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June 13
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