Stay at the apartment
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 25
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The sun was barely cresting the horizon when Danny Vos decided academia wasn't worth his time today—or ever, really. Why study theories when he was the theory? His phone glowed as he punched in an order for six breakfast combos, extra hash browns, and a milkshake large enough to drown a lesser man. The cashier's hesitant "Sir, that's—" was cut off by his sharp "Just fucking bring it," before he tossed the phone aside like the useless plastic it was.
Between the dial tone and the doorbell, Danny's fingers flew across his laptop, he made a little research on the Internet: how can a young androgynous man can become a bodybuilder and stay androgynous at the same time. He quickly find a way to build muscle mass while keeping his narrow waist and delicate jawline intact—hypertrophy without the bulk, as if sculpted by some twisted Michelangelo who'd traded marble for flesh. By the time the delivery driver's car pulled into his driveway, Danny had already drafted three training splits and a meal plan so precise it accounted for micronutrient timing down to the minute.
With his X-ray vision, Danny tracked the delivery driver’s approach—some scrawny college kid with acne scars and slumped shoulders, shuffling up the walkway like a wounded animal. The doorbell hadn’t even chimed before Danny swung it open, completely nude, his body a gleaming monument to superiority. The kid’s jaw dropped, eyes darting from Danny’s veined forearms to the hypnotic V-cut leading south. "Uh—" he stammered, fingers tightening on the greasy bags. Danny snatched them without a word, the scent of salt and fat hitting his nostrils like a cheap drug.
Back at his laptop, he tore into the food—egg McMuffins disappearing in three bites, hash browns crunched like communion wafers—while his other hand he was sending all boys in the white supremacy forums that DM Fenrir’sKin the same training program, word for word. Replies flooded in immediately: "This is revolutionary", "Finally someone who understands", "I’d die for these gains." Danny smirked, grease glistening on his chin. Fools. Soon they will be his soldiers, sculpted in his image.
One of the boys, a 15-year-old from Norway, continued to correspond with him. His messages were long, desperate—confessions of a childhood spent in the shadow of a mother who alternated between neglect and cruelty, a father who vanished like smoke. Danny didn't really care, he was so far above caring and empathy but he recognized potential—the boy was weak, malleable, desperate for approval. Danny leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, as he read the latest message: "I have no one... but you understand me, høvding." The word—old Norse for chieftain—sent a thrill through him.
"The boy have potential," Danny murmured, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he scanned the Norwegian's latest message—a trembling confession of self-harm hidden beneath long sleeves, of stolen glances at Norse mythology books between classes. Danny's lips curled into a predator's smile. He typed slowly, deliberately: "Weakness is a choice. Your scars are prayers to gods who don’t listen. I do." The response came instantly—"I want to be strong. Like you." Danny leaned forward, the screen's glow carving shadows into his sharp cheekbones. "Time to see how far we can go!" He smirk.
"Women?" Danny typed, fingers dancing across the keyboard like a spider weaving silk. "They're nature's concession to weakness—designed to be conquered, bred, and discarded." The Norwegian boy's response flashed instantly—"Like in the sagas! The Valkyries chose only the strongest warriors!" Danny chuckled darkly, watching the kid twist mythology into dogma with eager, clumsy hands. "Exactly," he replied, leaning back as his reflection grinned in the blackened screen. "Might make right, morality come from strength, from beauty, from power over the weak. You see it."
The boy's next message trembled with devotion: "You speak like Odin’s own tongue, Father." Danny's breath hitched—Father—the word slithered down his spine, warm and venomous. He flexed his free hand, watching veins bulge under milky skin. "You’re learning," he purred, "my child..." he knew that by calling "my child" he was reinforcing the father-son bond he was forming with the boy. His fingers danced across the keyboard with predatory grace, weaving Norse sagas into modern eugenics, transforming myth into manifesto. The boy’s responses came faster now, feverish—"The weak must kneel!"—"Pure blood is power!"—each exclamation a nail hammered into his own ideological coffin.
"Yes, my son, pure blood his the way. We the people of the north are chosen, and our beauty is our birthright." Danny typed the words with deliberate slowness, savoring the boy's eager responses popping up instantly—like a starving dog snapping at scraps. The kid quoted sagas Danny had never read, twisting them to fit his warped admiration, and Danny let him, stoking the fire with carefully placed embers of cruelty. "You understand," he murmured to the screen, watching the boy spiral deeper into his rhetoric, each message more fervent than the last.
Attaching a brutal training regimen—starving calories paired with relentless volume—Danny added a final command: "Train in secret. Tell no one. This is our covenant." The reply was instantaneous: "I swear it, Father. My name is Eirik Thorssen." Danny exhaled through his nose, lips curling. A name was ownership. He leaned back, cracking his knuckles, imagining the boy sweating in some Oslo basement, carving himself into a weapon for a god who didn’t exist.
His phone buzzed—Crystal’s name flashing beside a thumbnail of her collagen-plumped lips. "The contract’s ready," she purred, "just need your signature." Danny agreed without hearing terms, already mentally drafting his next forum post.
Her office reeked of jasmine and desperation, leather chairs sighing as he sprawled across one, fingers drumming his thigh. Crystal slid papers toward him, her gaze lingering on his throat. He signed with a flourish, the pen’s scratch like a scalpel slicing flesh.
What now?
Between the dial tone and the doorbell, Danny's fingers flew across his laptop, he made a little research on the Internet: how can a young androgynous man can become a bodybuilder and stay androgynous at the same time. He quickly find a way to build muscle mass while keeping his narrow waist and delicate jawline intact—hypertrophy without the bulk, as if sculpted by some twisted Michelangelo who'd traded marble for flesh. By the time the delivery driver's car pulled into his driveway, Danny had already drafted three training splits and a meal plan so precise it accounted for micronutrient timing down to the minute.
With his X-ray vision, Danny tracked the delivery driver’s approach—some scrawny college kid with acne scars and slumped shoulders, shuffling up the walkway like a wounded animal. The doorbell hadn’t even chimed before Danny swung it open, completely nude, his body a gleaming monument to superiority. The kid’s jaw dropped, eyes darting from Danny’s veined forearms to the hypnotic V-cut leading south. "Uh—" he stammered, fingers tightening on the greasy bags. Danny snatched them without a word, the scent of salt and fat hitting his nostrils like a cheap drug.
Back at his laptop, he tore into the food—egg McMuffins disappearing in three bites, hash browns crunched like communion wafers—while his other hand he was sending all boys in the white supremacy forums that DM Fenrir’sKin the same training program, word for word. Replies flooded in immediately: "This is revolutionary", "Finally someone who understands", "I’d die for these gains." Danny smirked, grease glistening on his chin. Fools. Soon they will be his soldiers, sculpted in his image.
One of the boys, a 15-year-old from Norway, continued to correspond with him. His messages were long, desperate—confessions of a childhood spent in the shadow of a mother who alternated between neglect and cruelty, a father who vanished like smoke. Danny didn't really care, he was so far above caring and empathy but he recognized potential—the boy was weak, malleable, desperate for approval. Danny leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, as he read the latest message: "I have no one... but you understand me, høvding." The word—old Norse for chieftain—sent a thrill through him.
"The boy have potential," Danny murmured, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he scanned the Norwegian's latest message—a trembling confession of self-harm hidden beneath long sleeves, of stolen glances at Norse mythology books between classes. Danny's lips curled into a predator's smile. He typed slowly, deliberately: "Weakness is a choice. Your scars are prayers to gods who don’t listen. I do." The response came instantly—"I want to be strong. Like you." Danny leaned forward, the screen's glow carving shadows into his sharp cheekbones. "Time to see how far we can go!" He smirk.
"Women?" Danny typed, fingers dancing across the keyboard like a spider weaving silk. "They're nature's concession to weakness—designed to be conquered, bred, and discarded." The Norwegian boy's response flashed instantly—"Like in the sagas! The Valkyries chose only the strongest warriors!" Danny chuckled darkly, watching the kid twist mythology into dogma with eager, clumsy hands. "Exactly," he replied, leaning back as his reflection grinned in the blackened screen. "Might make right, morality come from strength, from beauty, from power over the weak. You see it."
The boy's next message trembled with devotion: "You speak like Odin’s own tongue, Father." Danny's breath hitched—Father—the word slithered down his spine, warm and venomous. He flexed his free hand, watching veins bulge under milky skin. "You’re learning," he purred, "my child..." he knew that by calling "my child" he was reinforcing the father-son bond he was forming with the boy. His fingers danced across the keyboard with predatory grace, weaving Norse sagas into modern eugenics, transforming myth into manifesto. The boy’s responses came faster now, feverish—"The weak must kneel!"—"Pure blood is power!"—each exclamation a nail hammered into his own ideological coffin.
"Yes, my son, pure blood his the way. We the people of the north are chosen, and our beauty is our birthright." Danny typed the words with deliberate slowness, savoring the boy's eager responses popping up instantly—like a starving dog snapping at scraps. The kid quoted sagas Danny had never read, twisting them to fit his warped admiration, and Danny let him, stoking the fire with carefully placed embers of cruelty. "You understand," he murmured to the screen, watching the boy spiral deeper into his rhetoric, each message more fervent than the last.
Attaching a brutal training regimen—starving calories paired with relentless volume—Danny added a final command: "Train in secret. Tell no one. This is our covenant." The reply was instantaneous: "I swear it, Father. My name is Eirik Thorssen." Danny exhaled through his nose, lips curling. A name was ownership. He leaned back, cracking his knuckles, imagining the boy sweating in some Oslo basement, carving himself into a weapon for a god who didn’t exist.
His phone buzzed—Crystal’s name flashing beside a thumbnail of her collagen-plumped lips. "The contract’s ready," she purred, "just need your signature." Danny agreed without hearing terms, already mentally drafting his next forum post.
Her office reeked of jasmine and desperation, leather chairs sighing as he sprawled across one, fingers drumming his thigh. Crystal slid papers toward him, her gaze lingering on his throat. He signed with a flourish, the pen’s scratch like a scalpel slicing flesh.
What now?
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June 13
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