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...Those flashing signs give you a headache sometimes. Whoever came up with that marketing tactic should be hunted down for sport.
Unfortunately, they also made up the bulk of colours in Cyber City. More out of sheer quantity than drab surroundings, but still - hideous. As always, you do your best to ignore them as you trot down the somewhat busy street, avoiding collisions with other passers-by mainly via the instinct that comes with adjusting to urban life. Darkner’s eyes occasionally snap to you like you’re an attention grabber on par with the neon flashing above your heads, before inevitably sliding away again before you can so much as form any opinion on the stare.
It’s something you’ve accustomed to as well, being a lightner. Sure, you’re a monster, and on a surface level you aren’t all that different looking - but there’s always something that makes it feel obvious, even if you couldn’t name it. Or maybe you just don’t look like an animated plushie. Either way, if nobody says anything rude, you’re more than content to let an initial awkward stare go.
Years ago, you would never have considered yourself much of a city person, but weird things can happen, or rent prices can make weird things happen. And Cyber City was fun. In a bizarre kind of way. In a dreamlike, “this might as well happen” way.
But even in a bizarro world you have to go to work. Your feet take you there like they’re pre-programmed themselves, and you’ve already braced yourself for the main danger of the day.
That goddamn Addison.
He’s still just... waiting there, to dart towards anyone who dares to catch his eye like a shark smelling blood. The pink menace guards Cyber Shoes better than any dog could, and he’s on the only path to the store you work in, separated by a mere alley, so close yet so far. The fact that you pass him nearly every day means nothing to this customer hunter. Yes, you’ve been in the store a few times, and yes, you liked what you bought, however that really wasn’t an invitation to bombard you with what hot sales are going on in there today. Or any day ever.
And so, with eyes locked straight ahead like you’re in a trance, you powerwalk like your life depends on it. You see him approaching from the corner of your eye. You sidestep the attempt to engage. Perfect form. Perfect execution. Sales pitch: Dodged.
“Don’t you fancy some matching heels to go with your last purchase at incredible savings [Y/N]?” The salesman singsongs behind you, ever determined.
“Not today, pink,” You call back before you can think better of it.
“I have a name, you know!”
“And I want to keep my money!” Usually you don’t bother entertaining his sales pitches with any acknowledgement whatsoever, but apparently you were feeling cheeky today. And it’s not like you actually know his name anyway. You kinda just assumed all the Addisons were one big family, which was also their name. It’d be kind of embarrassing to find out your guess was wrong.
Altogether you make it to work in one piece. Your store is a little smaller than average, and not as flashy. It was sort of fitting, seeing as it was a jewellery shop, and having garish flashing lights plastered all over it might put people off - not that you really got that many people interested to begin with. A surprising amount of Darkners didn’t really have the appropriate anatomy for most of the stock, which often made you wonder why you even sold it at all.
However, one of the perks of working for a small, non-chain store was very relaxed uniform requirements, and you were allowed to wear whatever was deemed reasonable. All you really have to do is slap a nametag on your chest, and boom, ready to work. After readying everything and flipping the sign to say OPEN, you settle into the day’s work.
...The day’s work turns out to be a whole lot of nothing.
You give everything a cursory once-over for blemishes or scratches, of which there are none. A little dusting here, sweeping there. At one point a Virovirokun came in excitedly, only to seemingly realise, upon inspection, that they could not in fact wear any of the rings. You’re not sure how they never came to that conclusion before, but their miserable cries only set off their chronic sneezing and coughing, and you spent a long time afterwards disinfecting the displays.
At least you did sell something, but it was obviously more of a last minute ‘I don’t know what to get you, so uhhhh-’ cheap necklace with a piece of obvious coloured rock. Over and done with instantly. You groan quietly, leaning forwards on the counter. It’s not always so dead here, and sure, it beats retail hell, but some days you do feel like your time is wasted here. It’s a shame, too - there really are some beautiful pieces here, some of which you’ve even treated yourself to on special occasions. One of those necklaces is perched on your chest right now, genuine silver and gemstone glittering very flatteringly in the light. It’s probably one of the fanciest things you dare to wear to work. Nothing like promoting the store you’re already standing in.
Honestly, the pay to work ratio in this job is the best part. Plus it sounds sophisticated when your career comes up in conversation.
CHIIIME~
The dainty trill of the bell on the door going off wakes you up slightly, signalling you actually have someone else coming in to browse. By the time you look up, bizarrely, there’s nobody there. Did they change their mind before even stepping in?
“EXCUSE ME! EX-CUUUUSE ME!”
The sudden cry makes you jolt, staring around in confusion. What the hell?
“ER, DOWN HERE.”
Oh, down-? You lean across the counter a bit, and are taken aback by what you see in front of it. Or rather, who you see. A living ventriloquist dummy, by the looks of it, though he has some funky pink and yellow tinted glasses perched on his comically long nose, and a big ‘ol grin. You can’t quite see his pupils through the glasses, but by the angle of his head you can tell he’s returning your stare with equal wonder. Once he realises you’ve met his eyes he practically jumps on the spot with glee.
“YOU! YES, YOU! ARE YOU BY CHANCE… LIGHtNER??”
“Huh? Oh, uh. That’s right, can I help you with anything?” Despite the lack of hostility in his voice, you can’t help but feel defensive about the question, slipping into customer service mode a little too quickly. When your Lightner-ness was pointed out in the past, it was never followed up with anything good.
“AHA! YOU SURE CAN, YOU [[Amazing offer]],” In some places, his voice changes weirdly, as if somebody spliced in an ad into his words. It’s hard to tell if he’s doing it on purpose or not. “LET ME TELL ‘YA, I’VE GOT A DEAL THAT IS MADE FOR A DISCERNING CUSTOMER LIKE YOU," he hesitates for a split second before noticing your name tag. “[Y/N!]”
You’re getting a little tired of leaning over the counter just to look at him, so despite your growing weariness to the second sales pitch of the day, you manoeuvre around to stand just slightly in front of it instead, giving you a good look at the little guy.
He’s roughly the height of your mid-thigh, and you easily dwarf him even though you’re not too tall yourself. The black suit covering his body looks like it was once high quality and now worn ragged by time, and you catch a peek of a pristine white turtleneck beneath it. Hair slicked back. His legs are notably the least proportional part of him - and with muted apprehension you realise you can’t tell if he’s wearing pants or not, since it matches the colour of his face perfectly. At least you don't see anything inappropriate.
That's good. You really weren’t ready for a ‘guy comes into the store with his dick out and tries to sell you something’ day.
If he notices the inspection, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead he takes the approach as permission to keep going, grin getting even bigger. “[This sponsorship is brought to you by Square—]SPAMTON G. SPAMTON. THE ONLY GODDAMN SALESMAN YOU’LL EVER NEED, [[Dollface]],” he moves around over-animatedly as he talks, as if you’ll stop looking if he doesn’t.
Spamton… The name vaguely tickles at your memory in a way that you can’t place. Maybe you heard it online somewhere. Regardless, you don’t let the feeling bother you. You’re more bothered by the irony of him calling you dollface to butter you up as if he’s not a literal puppet himself.
“Okay,” You intone slowly, and such miniscule approval still has Spamton vibrating with delight. “So, what exactly am I buying here…?”
Not that you are going to buy anything, but you figure it’s polite to at least hear him out before you give him your patented Addison defense maneuver. First chances, and all that.
“THAT’S THE [Real steal], YOU DON’T HAVE TO BUY ANYTHING! NOTHING! ZERO KROMER REQUIRED!” He declares it with such gusto that you think he truly believes you ought to gasp in surprise any second now. Unfortunately all you give him is a raised eyebrow.
“You don’t want me to buy something?”
“MONEY, NO. YOU’VE GOT SOMETHING MORE [[Specil]] THAN THAT TO OFFER - ALL I NEED FROM YOU IS [Guts]! [Initiative]! GRAB YOUR [$1.99] LIFE BY THE [Horns]!”
...Yeah, it’s just a pyramid scheme. Figures only those types of people would advertise to a store clerk. You try not to let the disappointment show on your face, but don’t exactly succeed, which makes Spamton look suddenly tense. The internal scream is damn near audible.
“NOW NOW, [That’s not all folks], YOU CAN TRUST ME! YOUR PAL SPAMTON IS [Honesty] 1NCARNATE,” the frantic gesturing is back with a vengeance, and now he’s pacing back and forth. For a while his spiel is so roundabout and ad-ridden that it’s completely going in one ear and out the other, making you ponder briefly if he even knows what he’s selling. But he has a determined look about him, like this is personally important to him. That is the only thing stopping you from politely yet firmly asking him to leave, and you wager he knows the clock’s ticking on that too.
He’s getting himself worryingly worked up by this point. A plea to be careful rests on the tip of your tongue as you watch him rant away, seemingly starting to forget where he is.
“YOU AND I, WE JUST NEED SOME [Freedom] IN OUR LIVES, I CAN TELL! I USED TO DREAM BIG, I- I STILL DO, [Y/N], AND YOU’D LOVE IT. BEING A REAL BEING A REAL [[BIG SHOT]]!!” At that final declaration he gets especially excited, so much so that he actually starts to glitch out a little, which you had assumed at first was something only his voice could do. And good god is it unnerving to witness. His glasses seem to forget what colour they’re supposed to be and flash rapidly, just as fast as the edges around his body and face visually glitching - which you never expected to see so plainly in front of you.
As suddenly as it begins, it ends, with Spamton literally jolting out of the sensation and practically hurling himself sideways into the legs of a display stand, knocking the breath from his body. Before either of you can process that though, a tiny noise makes you both freeze.
Snnnnap.
The sound of wood splintering apart. The stand trembles weakly for a moment - looks like that leg was already weakened.
You see it happening so clearly it might as well be slow motion, however your brain hadn’t caught up yet, so you end up merely standing there in some kind of horrified awe as the entire display buckles unevenly and tips over with a terrifyingly loud SMASH of glass and wood. The noise has you flinching away with closed eyes as though it would block the sound, and it takes you a second to realise it’s somehow gotten even louder -
Oh, right. An ear-splitting alarm had started up, jolting you back to reality.
Instantly you make a mad u-turn and nearly topple over the counter yourself in your haste to find whatever button hidden behind the desk is supposed to turn it off, incredibly clumsy with a mixture of disorientation and shock, fingers finding purchase on a conspicuous red button after a frankly mortifying amount of time filled with ringing. The empty silence that follows feels nearly as bad.
‘Maybe we should do emergency drills or something,’ you think to yourself numbly, hand still clenched against the button like the noise will start again if you let go.
The faint noise of glass clinking against the floor catches your attention, and with yet another stab of shock you remember that little salesman PROBABLY JUST GOT A FACE FULL OF GLASS! After an awkward scramble to stand upright, turning around reveals quite the mess. Firstly, you note with some relief that he wasn’t crushed under the wood, though his current position of cowering face down showered in glass and loose rings wasn’t all that much better. He had mostly covered his head with his arms, which were still trembling slightly. Glass crunches under your shoes as you carefully step closer, and for a second you could see the shivering abruptly stop in response to the sound.
“Uh, s… Sir, are you-?”
The question chokes on itself when Spamton suddenly springs up with the speed of a jack-in-the-box, his grin firmly back in place and arms raised as if to say ta-dah, the effect slightly ruined by the pieces of glass still falling off his head and shoulders.
“WOWZA, I’VE CAUSED QUITE THE [Cleanup on aisle 1],” Spamton’s sheer volume nearly has you reeling away, though something makes you firmly stay put. “I ALWAYS WANTED [Showering in cash], NOT [[Glass]]!”
Then he tries to get up as if it was just a little trip. Keyword being tries. His grin twists into a pained grimace instantly, probably standing on more than a few pieces, although despite the pain it’s clear he intends to walk away like this. Before you can think twice you dart forward and grab him under his arms, hoisting him into the air with ease, surprising both you and him. Tiny legs flail wildly for a moment before he admits defeat.
“A- AH, [Handle with care] VALUED CUST0MeR,” He yelps, probably embarrassed by how effortlessly you caught him. You’re not without shame yourself, cheeks burning at your own boldness of manhandling a customer like this, but you tell yourself it’s just the simplest way to stop him from hurting himself. A moment later you’ve popped him down on the counter with his legs dangling over the edge, leaving an extremely nonplussed look on his porcelain face. Apparently it was your turn to weird him out beyond words, but you weren’t quite done with him yet. With deliberate care, you start to brush the glittering shards away, first on his shoulders - the most sensible place to begin, of course! - then after smoothing them clean your hand finds its way into his hair.
It feels a lot like the nylon-y hair a barbie doll might have, which is a welcome discovery as you were half expecting it to be a solid block of hairspray that keeps it in shape, and feels quite nice if you ignore all the glass that could stab you at any moment. Spamton makes a strange noise at this development, a drawn out wheeze that sounds like the squeal of a fax machine, but his hands stay firmly on his legs and he makes no complaints, so. Guess you have to continue.
Judging his expression is difficult, what with the coloured glasses and puppet smile, though he isn’t as stoic as he probably wants to be. Your hands gently comb through the swept back hair, careful to pluck out any easily missable shards in there, although thankfully there aren’t that many (and yet for some reason you continue). His head is tilted down slightly, probably staring down at his hands to avoid your eyes while the red blush on his cheeks slowly spreads across the rest of his face. Just how long can you justify doing this, even if the motions are super relaxing?
“Nearly done, just getting this bit…” The mumbled apology leaving your lips trails off quickly, and receives no response. Finally your hand moves down, behind his head, to brush off the little… mullet part? Whatever it is.
However, as soon as your fingers start to part through the fluffy hair at the base, Spamton jerks awkwardly, arching into the touch one moment, then grabbing your arm with both hands, immediately making you pause.
“MY DEAR— DEAR, I’M VERY [Customer satisfaction guaranteed] W-W-WITH YOUR H3LP,” He stumbles over the words, and you can’t blame him - his face is so pink he might very well start steaming soon. But he’s right, you maaaybe did overstep a boundary or two, an obvious revelation that nonetheless has you hurriedly apologising. Spamton talks right over it, volume easily drowning you out. “I HAVEN’T BEEN [Pampered] LIKE THIS SINCE [1997], EHAHEAHAH!”
That was probably supposed to be an attempt at humor, but his laugh is too nervous and bitcrushed to really sell it. By now you’ve had the sense to draw your arm back, take a whole step back in fact, to give the guy some room to breathe. You can’t help but feel ashamed - in your desperate attempt to help, you’ve clearly just made him uncomfortable; which, given everything you’ve seen of him and his mannerisms so far, is probably not an easy feat.
Briefly, Spamton looks like he has no idea what to do with himself, however soon enough he’s beginning his journey down from the counter and back to solid ground. It’s uncomfortable watching him figure out how to not fall flat on his face again while you stand by, but you refrain from accosting someone for the third time in the last few minutes. Even if it would totally make things easier. The guy definitely needs to save his pride somehow.
As soon as he’s safely on the floor he’s babbling away again, hands gesturing rapidly.
“WELL WELL WELL WELL [Well], THIS HAS BEEN A [Wonderful] VISIT, BUT MY OWN STOREFRONT AWAITS! I HATE TO [Love ‘em and leave ‘em] LIKE THIS, BUT! BUT!” Spamton appears at your side so fast he might have teleported, or glitched again. He pats your thigh like it’s a new car he’s showing off, which brings a stunned huff of what is hopefully laughter out of you. “REMEMBER MY DEAL, [Y/N]! DON’T LET THAT [Beautiful light] GATHER DUST - SHOW IT OFF!”
With that, he’s speeding out the door, leaving only the cheery jingle of the bell in his wake. For such a tiny guy, he sure does move fast.
Well. That certainly just happened. At least you can’t say today was boring now.
Your gaze eventually turns to the massive mess of glass and expensive rings scattered all over the middle of the store. Urgh. You’ll have to explain this to your manager soon, but for now, it’s back to cleaning time. It’s as you’re wandering towards the back room to go find something to clean it up that you spot a card on the countertop. Weird, you swear it was left clear before…?
Picking it up, a close inspection reveals it to be a business card, a messy one at that. All the words look like they’ve glitched across the matte black surface somehow, leaving it mostly illegible. When you flip it over, however, a more direct sight meets your eyes, etched on a pleasant off-white background.
-SPAMTON G. SPAMTON-
NUMBER ONE RATED SALESMAN SINCE 1997
…and below that is a neatly printed phone number. Huh. Seems that even in such a flustered state, a salesman never misses an opportunity to advertise. You slip the card into your pocket without much thought.
Still, you really have to get the place cleared up now, before anyone else comes in. You keep on going, mind miles away, to go get a broom…
Even late at night, the city never sleeps. There will always be people wandering around like they have someplace to be, neon lights always shining in an attempt to draw them closer like moths to a flame. Those lights shine so brightly that even part of the alleyway next to your shop is partly illuminated. Which is perfect, if you were to live there.
Like Spamton did.
Well, technically this is just one of many homes for him, but a strange thing had happened that drew him to this one in particular tonight. A deal that wasn’t immediately struck down, a business card that was hopefully held onto… a strangely kind Lightner. Usually he got chased away with a broom before he even got to fully explain his pitch.
A true salesman never rests, but after a long day of surviving out in the city he’s willing to make an exception. Which is why he’s made himself comfortable in a dumpster, the best sleeping spot someone like himself could procure, and even an intact pillow to rest on. It’s not great, but luckily his mind isn’t on his surroundings right now.
No, his mind is on you.
The events at that store had been playing on a loop in his head all day, like a broken record, embarrassing as it had been. That had been a terrible feeling, causing such chaos, but after that… He felt his mouth go dry just thinking about it.
Expecting to be hauled up by the scruff of his neck - you were about to ask if he was okay, weren’t you? Picked him up with those hands, those strong, yet soft hands. So carefully, like he might break, like you wanted to make him feel better.
The hair petting--
It’s just too much to remember. He should be trying to sleep, but the ghost of fingers running through his hair is making him squirm, and not in an unpleasant way.
It really has been a long time since he’s been… touched, like that.
He lay still for exactly four seconds before giving into the thoughts running wild. ‘IT’S NOT WRONG OF ME,’ he thought to himself firmly, like somebody was going to judge his filthy thoughts. ‘JUST BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T MEAN IT THAT WAY… DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T LIKE IT.’
That’s what Spamton keeps silently repeating to himself even as he tugs his blazer up and shoves his pants down, exposing himself to the cool night air. He has no shame - nobody’s going to walk by anyway. The only person who has to know is himself.
His body’s already reacting to his frustrations, and Spamton allows himself to relax fully into the pillow as he slowly wraps his hand around the very tip of his slick black appendage. It’s fully out, and curling slightly against the contact with a mind of its own, albeit a simple one. Such a light touch still has him shuddering pleasantly. Perhaps he shouldn’t neglect himself for so long…
As he starts to tease himself, he lets his mind slip back into fantasy, this time more indulgent. If only it was your hand thumbing the tip of his dick like this - ah, just imagining it drags a whine out of his chest. What would you do, how would you work him up? Would you feel it deliberately slow - his hand copies the motion, grip slightly too loose to satisfy - drinking in the way it makes him huff and sigh?
If only this could’ve happened years ago, when he was still a big shot. He would’ve cut right to the chase and asked you out, with all the bravery that money and fame bring - he could return the favour, and then some.
“MNNGH… DON’T TE-EASE ME,” he drawls slowly, hardly caring if he says it aloud. Hearing himself say the needy words just helps his imagination along anyway. Not his fault that imaginary you likes to see him squirm.
With the initial teasing out of the way, and definitely not just him losing patience, the pace picks up. Almost immediately he’s rewarded with a generous amount of precum, which makes a decent substitute for lube and making his hands motions smoother. Of course, now he has to squeeze a little harder to make up for the loss of friction, though it’s not a bad thing at all. The sensation has him hissing out breath from behind clenched teeth. His head pressed back fully against the pillow now, free hand pushing his glasses up as he squeezes his eyes shut to ground himself.
It’s getting hard to focus, but the fantasy keeps going whether he’s ready or not. You’re the one speeding up, watching him writhe and pant under your touch, steadily getting closer to the edge after so little time. Spamton can’t help himself - in between huffs and gasps he’s slipping in unusually quiet breathless pleas of “Don’t stop,” and “So good” fully lost to the feeling. So close…
Quite suddenly he forces himself to stop. He nearly groans, but it’s a sweet sort of frustration, and it’ll be worth it. Shivers are still going through his hips, and for a moment he pretends you’re pinning them down to stay still, free hand mirroring the action.
This is all well and good, however he’s one greedy salesman through and through; he wonders if you’d give him even more than just your hand…?
It’s not his own hand creeping up rub at the tip, no. Something much warmer, and slicker, is teasing it, taunting him. He’s so ready for it, why aren’t you giving him what he wants? Secretly he already knows the answer.
“pleEAASE, [Y/N],” Spamton nearly whines, volume creeping back up. “PLEASE PLEASE, I— OH [$!?#],” a glitchy censor noise covers his curse and most of his groan as he finally drags his hand back down, gripping hard . His mind works overtime trying to picture how it must feel inside you, though he knows it can’t possibly hold a candle to reality. Now he’s not giving himself any time to adjust.
He can see you now, bouncing on his dick like that--
No, it’s too much, the thought makes him moan far too loud, hand fisting his cock desperately. He doesn’t have the presence of mind to close his mouth, and every harsh pump draws out more noise - and more of that thick, dark precum, which only makes the sounds of his feverish self pleasure more obscene. Some of it drips from his hand to his exposed stomach, narrowly avoiding staining his shirt.
Edging is out of the question now; he couldn’t possibly stop himself again, not when it feels this good. And he’s already far too close. Desperately he tries to imagine what you would sound like, riding him mercilessly like that. Would you try to stay quiet, are you loud and shameless like him?
Would you scream his name when you cum-?
That final thought pushes him over the edge. For a second he goes completely silent, breathless with how hot and overwhelming it is - then it passes, and he’s unconsciously arching his back, hips jerking awkwardly as his hand tries to draw out the feeling for just a little longer. Eventually it gets too sensitive to keep going, so he lets himself go with one final gasp, hand completely slick with release. It falls to his side.
As his breathing slowly eases out, clarity returns. Did he really just…
God, post nut guilt sucks.
He lays there bonelessly, sluggishly sorting through his thoughts. If they end up following up on his deal, it’d be best if he just. Didn’t hit on them. Even if they are cute, and so, so good to him, he’ll just drive away his best chance at freedom. For once in his life he needs to have some self control. Lightners are not into puppets that smell like garbage.
Yes, if he can just get you to help him back into the mansion, everything will be fine. It’ll be more than fine.
He’ll be a big shot again. In a sense, anyway.
For now, he just has to ease you into this. Spamton was a charming face back then, and he sure as hell can find that charm again. And if he tells you that you’re cute too - well, that’s just a funny coincidence! All part of the plan.
Spamton pushes his glasses back into place, closing his eyes once more.
Yeah, right.