Wells’ Winter Ascent
The morning bit hard, steel-gray skies, frost on every breath. Downtown Toronto hadn’t even blinked awake yet, but Wells was already lacing up his golden trainers at the base of the CN Tower. January cold meant nothing to legs like his. Quads like cabled steel, glutes carved from marble. He didn’t shiver. He flexed.
"Charity climb, huh?" he muttered, cinching the weighted vest over his golden compression tee. "Guess I’ll have to carry the whole damn event… with these legs."
The CN Tower loomed above, a needle into the clouds, 1,776 steps of vertical dominance. But Wells didn’t flinch. He was grinning, cocky, cheeky, fully in alpha-jock mode. Each step was a chance to make his ass even more irresistible, more powerful, more famous.
"Hope they reinforced the stairs. These glutes hit like freight trains."
The starting horn blared. Civilians surged forward, bundled in fleece and anxiety. But Wells? He took the first few steps slow, deliberate—each quad flex a statement, each calf pump a broadcast: these legs are sculpting something divine.
"Every step is another rep," he smirked, cheeks flushed from effort or ego, hard to tell. “By the time I reach the top, they'll need to rename this place the Wells Tower. Observation deck? More like admiration deck.”
Weighted vest pressing tight against his upper body, he leaned into the incline. The cold air burned through his nose, but it just made him hungrier. Sweat clung under golden fabric as he powered up past the 1600th step. Behind him, other climbers were gasping, wheezing. Wells barely broke rhythm.
“Leg day? Nah. This is legend day.”
Every muscle in his lower half was churning with functional intent. Glutes firing like pistons. Quads tightening into swollen geometry. Calves popping harder than a champagne cork at a frat party. This wasn’t a workout. It was a stairway to Olympus, and Wells was becoming a golden god with every floor.
"Let’s face it," he panted between cocky grins, “these cheeks were already world-class. This climb? Just polishing the trophies."
Snow started to fall outside the glass of the observation windows as he neared the top. Other climbers had slowed, collapsed on landings, or peeled off to rest. But Wells had entered his trance, cocky, focused, dripping with golden intensity. The cold couldn’t reach him now. He was a furnace of hypertrophy. An avatar of grind.
By step 1700, the vest felt like an afterthought. The real weight was the bulk of his ego and the mass of his golden glutes stretching tight against the compression shorts.
Only 76 steps, left.
He powered into the final landing like it owed him rent. Bursting through the last stairwell, Wells stomped into the observation deck with steam rising off his frame. Hands on hips. Chest heaving. Legs trembling, not from fatigue, but from explosive growth.
Tourists turned. Volunteers stared. One whispered, “Is that—?”
“Damn right,” Wells grinned. “Just did the CN Tower weighted. These legs? Certified skyscraper certified.”
“Doing the charity CN Tower stair climb wasn’t just for a good cause, it was a brutal leg day that’s gonna pay off big time for the upcoming matches. Nothing like 1,776 steps of burn to prep these golden glutes for domination on the field.”
As he stood framed against the winter skyline, snow swirling behind him, Wells tugged up the hem of his shirt just enough to flash abs, then stretched casually, letting the weighted vest ride high and those glutes claim full glory.
“Next charity event better be uphill both ways. Gotta keep these buns baked.”
Wells flexed one leg experimentally. The quad bulged in reply, calf snapping to attention like a salute. Somewhere behind, a camera clicked.
“Charity climb complete,” he announced to no one in particular. “And Toronto just got a little more golden.”
Back in the gym. Post-climb. Post-conquest. Steam still rising from his golden frame, Wells stood before the mirror, compression tights still clinging to glutes swollen from the 1,776-step war, towel over his shoulder. One hand on hip, the other tugging his waistband just enough to admire the aftermath. Legs pumped. Cheeks defiant. Ego, heavier than the vest was. He grinned at his reflection and muttered, “Conquer steel... grow buns of steel.”
Then he flexed. For himself. And the mirror flexed back.
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