An old lamp
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 6
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Tucked behind a chipped ceramic unicorn and a stack of cracked vinyl records on a cluttered table: a small, tarnished copper lamp. Not some cheap thrift knock-off—this thing had weight, ornate filigree curling like smoke frozen in metal, the spout curved with old-world arrogance. It looked exactly like the lamp from every Aladdin retelling he’d ever jerked off to as a teenager. Something tugged at his gut, sharp and magnetic, like a hook behind his navel. The lamp was calling him. Not in words—more like a low, velvet purr inside his skull that said come closer, pretty thing.
The seller—a bored sophomore with blue hair—was busy haggling with two giggling girls over a tray of mismatched rings. Blitzo didn’t hesitate. Long purple nails flashed; he palmed the lamp, tucked it inside his crop top against warm skin, and melted back into the crowd. Heart hammering with petty triumph, he broke into a jog, gold chains jingling, all the way back to the dorm.
The room was blissfully empty. A neon sticky note on Moxxie’s pillow read in loopy handwriting:
Gone with Millie for the weekend. Don’t burn the place down. —Mox
Blitzo barked a laugh. “Aw, MoxMoxie Poxxie’s getting his tiny dick wet. How precious. Guess it’s just you and me, creepy lamp.” He tossed the words into the empty air like confetti made of spite.
He flung himself onto the sagging couch, legs spread wide, and pulled the lamp free. It was heavier than it looked, cool against his oiled skin. He turned it over, tracing the swirling patterns with one long nail. “If this thing grants wishes I’m asking for a thirty-inch cock and a private island full of bodybuilders who worship me,” he muttered, smirking at his own reflection in the polished copper.
On impulse he rubbed his thumb across the side.
The lamp flared violet-white.
“Fuck—!” Blitzo yelped and hurled it across the room. It hit the carpet with a dull thunk as thick, writhing black smoke poured from the spout, coiling like ink in water. The smoke thickened, darkened, took on purple-blue undertones, and then—
A deep, theatrical laugh rolled through the room like thunder wrapped in velvet.
The smoke coalesced into a towering figure—over six and a half feet of pale, ghostly muscle wrapped in arrogance. Stolas stretched languidly, massive rounded shoulders rolling, thick arms flexing, brick-like abs contracting under taut, undead-pale skin. He groaned low and filthy, the sound vibrating in Blitzo’s chest.
“Finally,” Stolas purred, voice smooth as aged brandy and twice as intoxicating. “A millennium in that dreadful little bottle does wonders for one’s posture, but it does murder the dramatics.” He rolled his neck—head swiveling a full one-eighty degrees with a soft, wet pop—then snapped it back forward, red-glowing eyes locking onto Blitzo. Gold-painted lips curled into a wide, toothy grin that showed too many pointed teeth.
He wore nothing but a scandalously low metallic-gold sarong that clung to narrow hips and did almost nothing to conceal the obscene bulge beneath. Long claw-like nails glittered gold. A ruby winked from one pierced nipple. Black-framed sunglasses perched atop silver-gray hair like a crown.
Stolas sauntered forward, looming over the stunned boy on the couch. He bent at the waist until their faces were inches apart, invading every inch of personal space with casual cruelty. One clawed hand braced on the backrest beside Blitzo’s head; the other lifted Blitzo’s chin with a single talon.
“Well, well,” Stolas drawled, British accent dripping like honey over broken glass. “What a delicious little disaster I’ve been summoned by. Hello, darling. I am Stolas the Eternal Scourge, greatest of the Efreet-Ifrit lineage, once forged in the heart of a dying star, now—temporarily—your humble servant.” He gave a mocking little bow without breaking eye contact. “For the next three wishes, at least.”
He leaned closer, breath cool and faintly metallic against Blitzo’s lips. “Anything your greedy, gorgeous heart desires. Riches. Power. Revenge. A body so hypertrophied even the gods would weep with envy.” Red slit-pupils dilated with amusement. “Or perhaps something… filthier. I do so love a mind as beautifully rotten as yours appears to be.”
Blitzo stared up at him—mouth slack, violet eyes huge, cock still traitorously hard against the vinyl. For once in his life, the king of attention had nothing to say.
He was stunned.
Blitzo...
The seller—a bored sophomore with blue hair—was busy haggling with two giggling girls over a tray of mismatched rings. Blitzo didn’t hesitate. Long purple nails flashed; he palmed the lamp, tucked it inside his crop top against warm skin, and melted back into the crowd. Heart hammering with petty triumph, he broke into a jog, gold chains jingling, all the way back to the dorm.
The room was blissfully empty. A neon sticky note on Moxxie’s pillow read in loopy handwriting:
Gone with Millie for the weekend. Don’t burn the place down. —Mox
Blitzo barked a laugh. “Aw, MoxMoxie Poxxie’s getting his tiny dick wet. How precious. Guess it’s just you and me, creepy lamp.” He tossed the words into the empty air like confetti made of spite.
He flung himself onto the sagging couch, legs spread wide, and pulled the lamp free. It was heavier than it looked, cool against his oiled skin. He turned it over, tracing the swirling patterns with one long nail. “If this thing grants wishes I’m asking for a thirty-inch cock and a private island full of bodybuilders who worship me,” he muttered, smirking at his own reflection in the polished copper.
On impulse he rubbed his thumb across the side.
The lamp flared violet-white.
“Fuck—!” Blitzo yelped and hurled it across the room. It hit the carpet with a dull thunk as thick, writhing black smoke poured from the spout, coiling like ink in water. The smoke thickened, darkened, took on purple-blue undertones, and then—
A deep, theatrical laugh rolled through the room like thunder wrapped in velvet.
The smoke coalesced into a towering figure—over six and a half feet of pale, ghostly muscle wrapped in arrogance. Stolas stretched languidly, massive rounded shoulders rolling, thick arms flexing, brick-like abs contracting under taut, undead-pale skin. He groaned low and filthy, the sound vibrating in Blitzo’s chest.
“Finally,” Stolas purred, voice smooth as aged brandy and twice as intoxicating. “A millennium in that dreadful little bottle does wonders for one’s posture, but it does murder the dramatics.” He rolled his neck—head swiveling a full one-eighty degrees with a soft, wet pop—then snapped it back forward, red-glowing eyes locking onto Blitzo. Gold-painted lips curled into a wide, toothy grin that showed too many pointed teeth.
He wore nothing but a scandalously low metallic-gold sarong that clung to narrow hips and did almost nothing to conceal the obscene bulge beneath. Long claw-like nails glittered gold. A ruby winked from one pierced nipple. Black-framed sunglasses perched atop silver-gray hair like a crown.
Stolas sauntered forward, looming over the stunned boy on the couch. He bent at the waist until their faces were inches apart, invading every inch of personal space with casual cruelty. One clawed hand braced on the backrest beside Blitzo’s head; the other lifted Blitzo’s chin with a single talon.
“Well, well,” Stolas drawled, British accent dripping like honey over broken glass. “What a delicious little disaster I’ve been summoned by. Hello, darling. I am Stolas the Eternal Scourge, greatest of the Efreet-Ifrit lineage, once forged in the heart of a dying star, now—temporarily—your humble servant.” He gave a mocking little bow without breaking eye contact. “For the next three wishes, at least.”
He leaned closer, breath cool and faintly metallic against Blitzo’s lips. “Anything your greedy, gorgeous heart desires. Riches. Power. Revenge. A body so hypertrophied even the gods would weep with envy.” Red slit-pupils dilated with amusement. “Or perhaps something… filthier. I do so love a mind as beautifully rotten as yours appears to be.”
Blitzo stared up at him—mouth slack, violet eyes huge, cock still traitorously hard against the vinyl. For once in his life, the king of attention had nothing to say.
He was stunned.
Blitzo...
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June 13
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