Magic
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 5
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Blitzo wandered the campus paths with the lazy swagger of a predator who’d already eaten half the food chain and found it bland. No more lectures, no parties lined up until tonight, and the afternoon sun was turning everything into a dull, golden yawn. His vinyl pants creaked with every step, the mesh crop top riding up to flash pierced skin and the heart tattoo that always got stares. Boredom was his enemy number one; it made him itchy, mean, and dangerously creative.
He rounded the quad and froze. A pop-up flea market had sprouted like a rash across the lawn—folding tables draped in tie-dye sheets, students hawking crystals, thrifted band tees, half-dead succulents, and questionable “vintage” jewelry. Blitzo’s lip curled. Free entertainment.
He slunk between the stalls like a fox in a henhouse.
At the first table: “Wow, these earrings look like they were designed by a colorblind raccoon on bath salts. Five bucks? I’d pay you to take them back.”
Next stall, a pile of dog-eared paperbacks: “Oh look, the collected works of people who peaked in high-school creative writing. Inspiring.”
A girl selling handmade candles shot him a dirty look. He winked. “Smells like desperation and vanilla. Very on-brand, sweetheart.”
His cock twitched in the tight vinyl, half-hard already. Boredom always slid sideways into horniness with him. He scanned the crowd for easy prey—some blushing freshman, maybe a closeted frat boy who’d fold the second Blitzo whispered filth in his ear. Or hell, the maintenance shed behind the arts building had that nice dark corner perfect for a quick jerk-off session. He could film it, post another “public worship” clip to OnlyFun, watch the tips roll in while he pictured himself oiled and bulging like the bodybuilders he both worshipped and despised.
Then he saw it.
He rounded the quad and froze. A pop-up flea market had sprouted like a rash across the lawn—folding tables draped in tie-dye sheets, students hawking crystals, thrifted band tees, half-dead succulents, and questionable “vintage” jewelry. Blitzo’s lip curled. Free entertainment.
He slunk between the stalls like a fox in a henhouse.
At the first table: “Wow, these earrings look like they were designed by a colorblind raccoon on bath salts. Five bucks? I’d pay you to take them back.”
Next stall, a pile of dog-eared paperbacks: “Oh look, the collected works of people who peaked in high-school creative writing. Inspiring.”
A girl selling handmade candles shot him a dirty look. He winked. “Smells like desperation and vanilla. Very on-brand, sweetheart.”
His cock twitched in the tight vinyl, half-hard already. Boredom always slid sideways into horniness with him. He scanned the crowd for easy prey—some blushing freshman, maybe a closeted frat boy who’d fold the second Blitzo whispered filth in his ear. Or hell, the maintenance shed behind the arts building had that nice dark corner perfect for a quick jerk-off session. He could film it, post another “public worship” clip to OnlyFun, watch the tips roll in while he pictured himself oiled and bulging like the bodybuilders he both worshipped and despised.
Then he saw it.
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·
June 13
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