just going for a stroll

When you first brought Spamton home, you were surprised to find that the thing that excited him most was your old upright piano. It had been your grandmother’s, and it came with you every place you moved. She taught you how to play at a young age, and while it was more for decoration than anything nowadays, you could be heard softly plunking out old favorite songs a couple times a month. It was the first thing he walked up to upon being welcomed inside, and while gently running his fingers across the keys he asked you if it was alright if he gave it a try.

“IT’S BEEN YEARS SINCE I’VE GOTTEN THE [Now’s Your Chance] TO PLAY.” He mutters more to himself than to you as he pulls himself onto the cushioned piano bench. Splaying his fingers across the keys he rolls out a soft melody, more testing out the keys than attempting to play anything in particular. He glances down and grimaces when he realizes his foot doesn’t reach the pedal, so he hops off the bench and opts to stand instead. Careful hands craft a melancholy melody, something soft and heartfelt that sounds vaguely familiar. You pull the bench to the side to sit on it, resting your head in your hands as he plays. This funny little puppet man you pulled out of a dumpster mere hours ago entered your house, and instead of running straight to your kitchen to raid your fridge, opted to see if he still had the muscle memory “from 1997”, as he put it.

You watch him in silence, heart racing out of intrigue, and wonder what’s going through his head. He suddenly sighs and opens his mouth to sing. His voice is surprisingly tender, and lacks any of the vocal clips you’ve started to become accustomed to. When he glances over to see you staring at him, a slight blush spreads across your face and you shuffle yourself to sit up a bit straighter.

“Surprised?” He chuckles, his tone much softer than before. “I told you, I’m a man of many [Talents].” You offer a small round of applause and he turns a wonderful shade of red.

“I just want you to remember that you explicitly agreed to this.” You huff as you cross your arms, shooting a glare at the man across from you.

“YOU LEFT [Undisclosed Information] OUT OF THE INITIAL [Contract.]” Spamton hisses.

“More like you didn’t read the fine print.” You tease and he rolls his eyes. “Besides, you’re doing such a good job. Continue to be a good boy and hold still for me, will ya?”

Spamton whines as he flops back over on the table. When you had asked him to be a living canvas, he knew it would involve you painting on him. What he didn’t account for was the sensation of the paintbrush moving around his torso. He could feel each individual hair of the brush drag across him, and it was driving him absolutely insane.

“Excellent. Now, where was I?” You swirl the paintbrush in thought above him, and he twitches to the side with a giggle. “Spamton, I haven’t even touched you yet. Tsk tsk. If you can’t stay still, I’m going to have to consider other options.”

“WHAT ARE YOU [Insinuating]?” He glares at you and you offer a nonchalant shrug in reply.

“Stay still and you won’t have to find out.” You swipe the brush along his side and he lurches away with a shriek. No, this absolutely won’t do.

“Wiggling and giggling already? I’ve only just started. This little brush can’t tickle that bad.”

“IT DOESN’T [Tikka Masala].” He grunts, turning his head away from you.

“Well, whatever the case, you’ve given me no choice.” He glares at you as you continue. “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“WHERE ARE YOU [Going]?” He calls out as you exit the room, but you don’t answer. His face falls when he sees you return holding a small coil of rope in your hands.

“WHAT IS THAT FOR?” He cries out, nervously shifting his gaze from your hands to your eyes.

“For stretching out my canvas, of course.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you shush him with a finger against his mouth. “No ifs, ands, or buts, mister. You agreed to this deal, you have to hold up your end of it.” He shifts uncomfortably as you take his wrists in your hand and begin to wrap the rope around them. “This helps you too, you know.” You reassure him. “It’ll keep you in place so you won’t flail about and accidentally hurt yourself.”

“You’re [Lucky Winner] I [Tolerate] you.” He mumbles, still avoiding eye contact.

You knit your brows together as you finish tying a knot, giving the restraint a light tug. “Feel okay?” Your voice is soft, and you bring a hand to his cheek to tilt his face towards yours.

“FEELS [Fine].” He huffs.

“You sure you still wanna go through with this deal?” You trace your thumb along his jawline and he shivers.

“ANYTHING FOR YOU, [Angel].”

You hum affirmatively in reply and place a hand on his thigh. “Alright, good. Then let’s continue.” You pick up your brush and dip it in your water cup before selecting a new color. As soon as it makes contact with his stomach he wheezes, instinctively twisting in place only to discover he can’t escape. He’s a giggling mess in a matter of seconds, face flushed a deep crimson red. You pause to allow him to catch his breath, and he uncharacteristically doesn’t say anything snarky. He doesn’t say much of anything as he looks over at you, almost expectantly. You take that as your cue to continue, grabbing more paint with your brush before returning to the task at hand.

“You’re still moving an awful lot, are you sure this doesn’t tickle?” You taunt him by dragging the brush over his chest.

“NO IT’S J-JUST SO C-OH-OH-OLD.” He giggles, still desperately trying to wriggle out from under the brush’s fibers.

“Oh? Then let me see if I can help with that.” You lightly blow on the spot you just painted and his whole body jolts.

“NOT [Helping]!” He cries, laughter bubbling out of him as you continue to paint long strokes along his midsection. He squirms underneath every stroke, making it rather difficult for you to paint the smooth lines you intended to.

“Hmm, you’re still moving too much. It’s not making this easy on me.” You paint a circle around his entire torso, which leaves him in absolute hysterics. “I’m gonna have to help hold you still.”

“WAIT, [Angel] PLEASE, I’LL BE STILL!” He protests as you bring a hand to rest along his side, fingers drumming against his ribs.

“I’ve heard that one before.” You snort. “Now relax, Spammy.” You grip your hand around his side and definitely do not give him a purposeful squeeze. “We’re almost done here.”

“I SURE, AHA, H-HOPE SO.” He screws his eyes shut when he feels the brush return to paint his stomach. He has no choice but to laugh loudly and openly as you continue working on your masterpiece, the hand holding his side most certainly not playfully digging it’s fingers into his soft midsection just to see him squirm.

“This is really coming along nicely, Spam. You’re doing great, really adding a lot of movement to this piece.” You chuckle at your own joke, but he’s too busy falling apart to properly respond. “Especially when I paint right here.” You pointedly drag the brush across the lower part of his stomach and he chokes out your name. A few finishing details later and you let go of him, place the brush in the water cup and take a step back to admire your work. He slowly catches his breath and silently looks at you, seemingly waiting for you to speak.

“All finished!” He sighs in relief, and you mutter to yourself. “It looks fantastic, this is so cool. So unlike anything I’ve ever done before.” You tilt your head to the side to admire your handiwork and Spamton shifts nervously under your gaze. “Really interesting medium to work with.”

“[Angel]?” Spamton calls, breaking you out of your thoughts. You regard him with a nod, and he continues. “ARE WE [Done Here], AM I [Free Space] TO GO?”

“Almost. I want to take a couple pictures for my portfolio first.” You walk back over to him and place a hand on his cheek. He sighs as he leans against your touch, his cheek still crimson and warm. “And then, of course, I wouldn’t want to be rude.”

He raises an eyebrow. “RUDE?”

“Yes.” You ruffle a hand through his hair as he stares at you quizzically. “I can’t just leave you like this.” You gesture at the painting that encompasses his entire torso.

If there was one thing you knew about Spamton G. Spamton, it was that everything he did was intentional. Whether it was purposely leaving coupons for snacks he wanted you to pick up, or mentioning how cool he thought the newest phone was in an effort to cajole you into taking a trip to Super Cellular with him just to look at it, every action had an intended reaction.

Which is why his behavior tonight piqued your curiosity.

Being physically close wasn’t new for either of you. More often than not you found yourself decompressing after work with a certain salesman strewn across your chest, your fingers gently threading themselves through his impossibly soft hair. What was new to you was the way Spamton seemed to manipulate himself under your touch, tilting his head so that your fingers would graze against his neck and cause him to shiver. You thought he was perhaps asking for a neck massage, so you began to knead your thumb against him.

Hearing a quiet giggle was not what you were anticipating. Spamton didn’t protest, and if anything, he seemed to crane his neck against your thumb. You press your thumb into his neck again to receive the same response. Spamton lies across you unmoving, except for a slight twitch when you try again for a third time.

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you decide to pursue a particular train of thought. You rest your hand on his shoulder and give it a light squeeze before letting it glide down his arm, landing against his hip. You trace a small circle on his side with your finger and he shivers. You continue to draw tiny shapes on his hip and hear a hushed chuckle before he rotates himself so that your hand is sprawled across his stomach. Pushing your luck, you press down a single finger. He responds with a laugh and by arching his back to lean into your touch.

Everything Spamton does is intentional.

Several different thoughts coalesce into a single realization. You knead into his stomach and he wheezes with laughter as he buries his face in your chest.

“Spamton.” You’re feeling bold enough to break the silence as you drag your fingers along his side, satisfied with the glitchy giggles he emits. “Are you asking me to tickle you?” You squeeze him and he lets out a tiny squeak.

“I HAVEN’T [Asking The Big Questions] YOU ANYTHING.” Despite the pink blush spreading across his cheeks, he flashes his signature smile at you.

“Hm. You’re right, you haven’t said anything in a few minutes.” You tap your fingers in thought against his side and he squirms. “You got me there. In that case, let me rephrase my question. Would you like to ask me to tickle you?”

Spamton turns several shades of red darker, but maintains eye contact as you wait for him to respond. He scans your face for a moment before responding.

“I’D LIKE TO ASK FOR YOUR [Attention].”

You knit your eyebrows together. “This kind of attention?” You punctuate your question by digging a thumb into his hip.

“[Maybe].” He shoots you a coy smirk.

“Hm, I was looking for more of a ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” You tease him by kneading your fingers into his sides. “Try again?”

“Y<ES.” He giggles as melts under your curious fingers, leaning into your every touch.

You groan as you lean back in your desk chair, stretching your spine and grimacing when you hear several joints snap back into place. How long have I been working on this piece? You rub your eyes, knowing you should take a break but not willing to risk losing your concentration. Almost done, probably just need another 15 minutes or so and I’ll be finished. You muster up a second wind and get back to work, motivated to create a final product you’re satisfied with.

In your hyper focused haze, you fail to hear the door to your room creak open. You also fail to notice a certain salesman slink inside until you are startled by two hands suddenly pinching at your sides. You jump with a yelp and turn to see Spamton smirking beside you.

“HIYA, [Busy Bee]!” He beams up at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Hi, Spam, what’s up?” You ruffle his hair as you smile at him.

“JUST WANTED TO CHECK IN WITH MY FAVORITE [Customer] TO MAKE SURE THEY WEREN’T [Working Hard or Hardly Working] THEMSELF.”

‘“Ah.” You stretch again, hearing a couple more joints click into place. “I’m fine, probably working a little too hard, but overall fine.”

Spamton frowns and crosses his arms. “YOU ALWAYS WORK [A Little Goes A Long Way] TOO HARD.”

“Yeah, well, things have to get done so that someone can pay the bills around here.” You tease and reach out to boop his nose. He recoils in mock disgust, clutching his chest and wheezing comedically.

“YOU WOUND ME, LIGHT nER.”

“Yeah yeah, now go find something to do while I finish this. I’ll be done soon, then we can hang out.” You shoo him away playfully before turning your full attention back to your computer screen. Right. Now where was I? Luckily, you find your flow pretty quickly and start to feel really good about how your work is shaping up.

When you feel another jab at your side you nearly leap out of your chair. Looking down you find Spamton still standing next to you and you nearly scream.

“Didn’t you leave like 15 minutes ago?”

“NO.”

“So you’ve just been standing here? Watching me work?”

“YOU TOLD ME TO FIND SOMETHING TO [Pass The Time], SO I DECIDED TO [Wait Here].” He offers you his signature award-losing smile, and you sigh in defeat. I can’t be mad, I think that’s the longest he’s ever been quiet.

“Alright, weirdo. You can hang out here, just let me work in peace. Got it?”

“GOT IT.” He winks and flashes a thumbs up, and you turn your attention back to your computer. I’m in the home stretch, just need to add a couple more fine details and I’m free to take a break.

A small hand squeezes your side and you laugh while pushing it away from you.

“Spamton.” You shoot him a stern look. “I’m. Busy.”

“YEAH, AND SO AM I.”

You blink. “Busy with…what?”

He smirks in a way that makes you feel uneasy. “TRYING TO [Help] You.”

“Well you’re doing, aha, quite the opposite.” He pokes you again and you can’t stop a tiny giggle from escaping.

“NONSENSE.” You feel a slight pressure on you as he glitches in front of you, kneeling in your lap. “I’M THE [#1 Top Rated] BEST HELP [Money Can Buy]!”

You have no time to protest as he kneads his fingers across your stomach, your words instantly dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“SEE? YOU’RE [Increased Productivity] WITH THIS [One Simple Trick].” He digs his thumbs into your soft midsection and you yelp, grabbing his hands on your own. His face falls when he looks up to see a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“You know what would really help increase my productivity?” You keep one of his hands in your own and move the other to rest on his hip.

“NOW [Wait! There’s More!], HOLD ON.” He attempts to free his wrist from your hand, and you smirk as you tighten your grip.

“Spamton, now you’re just being ridiculous.” You huff and cross your arms as you look over at your incredibly grumpy friend. Spamton sits across from you, arms and legs folded tightly against him, with an absolutely scornful look on his face. You made the mistake of mentioning that you thought robots were dumb when you were younger, and Spamton took that very personally. You apologized countless times, even though you found it silly, but your friend chose to be stubborn and set in his grumpy ways.

“I don’t know what you want out of me. I can’t take back what I said literally years ago, and I’ve apologized like seventeen times.”

A curt puff of steam hisses out of the corner of his mouth and he turns his head away from you. Fine. If that’s how he wants to be.

“If you would’ve let me finish my sentence before pouting like a child, you would’ve heard that I was about to say ‘I used to think robots were dumb, but that’s just because I never met one as cool as you before.’”

He shoots you a brief, interested glance before returning to his disgruntled pose, making a point to recross his arms.

Fine. If that’s how he wants to be.

“Because, let’s be honest here,” you slowly start to approach him as he tracks your movements with a close eye, “you are a very cool looking robot.”

“YOU THINK I'M [Cool Tricks To Show Your Friends]?” He purrs as he drops his arms to his sides.

“Yeah, super cool.” You place yourself in his lap and he looks down at you, crossing his eyes slightly as he peers over his nose. “Like this design on your chest plate?” You trace around the outside of the glowing yellow triangle and he hums with a deep, metallic whir. “Or the way your midsection is segmented to allow for an extended range of motion.” You trace along a seam and Spamton squirms slightly. You smirk at him as you continue to run your fingers around the seams, occasionally digging your fingers in to hear his constant giggles escalate to clamorous laughter.

“OK, [OK], YOU’VE MADE YOUR POINT.” He holds up an oversized hand defensively. “I [Believe] YOU, I [Offer Accepted] YOUR APOLOGY.”

“Oh? That’s great news, but I haven’t told you what I think your best feature is.” You offer him a soft smile as you stand up to pat his nose.

“WELL, DON’T KEEP US [On The Line], TELL [The Audience] WHAT YOU THINK.” He grins.

“It’s definitely your wings.” You shoot your hand over his shoulder to scratch at his wings, and he completely loses his composure.

“POINT [Taken]!” He cries out as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“They’re just so fun!” You follow the patterns of the different colors as Spamton melts underneath you. “I love how they’re two different designs, the shape, the way they move.” You dig your thumbs into a particularly sensitive spot and he shrieks.

“I [Accept Terms and Conditions] AGREE.” You leave one hand to dance around his wing while the other moves to scratch under his chin. Spamton shudders and his armor clanks together violently, the metallic ringing it makes almost as loud as his laughter.

You drop your arms to your sides and he sighs, shivering slightly. “Good. Glad you let me explain myself.”

“ACTING AS IF I HAD A [Choice Is Yours].” He snickers.

“Please.” You snort. “Don’t act like you didn’t love the attention.”

“You’re absolutely too much, do you know that?” You sip at your drink, trying to soothe your own bubbling laughter as you watch your friend fall apart on the stool next to you. He had just finished reenacting a scene from one of his favorite comedies; or, more accurately put, attempted to reenact said scene. He started giggling at his own joke long before you did, which made you laugh harder than the bit would’ve anyway.

“I THINK YOU’RE [Too Much].” He retorts with a couple stray giggles. He looks up at you with wide pupils behind his tinted lenses, basking in the light of your own smiling face. It’s enough to make your heart leap into your throat, so you shove it back down by finishing your drink.

“I think this place is too much, wanna head home?” You place your glass on the bar next to you and lean closer to his face.

“[Homeward Bound] IT IS!” He follows suit and downs the rest of his drink before hopping off the bar stool, swaying a little as he lands.

“Easy now, Big Shot.” You place a hand on his shoulder as he steadies himself, feeling a lightness in your head as you stand. You figure you probably could’ve done without that last drink, and feel grateful you have a short walk home.

***

You sigh as you enter your apartment, grateful to be out of the cold winter air. Spamton has been trying to say a whole lot of something on the walk home, but could barely get more than a couple words out before bursting into a fit of giggles. He’s still softly chuckling to himself as you glance over at him trying to unzip his jacket. You had been relieved to discover that he was a bubbly, sappy drunk, as the opposition would’ve been a little tough to handle. It’s nice to see him having a good time, even if assisted by a little giggle juice.

“Do you need help with that?” You tease as you kneel down in front of him.

“I [Got It], I’M ALL [Six Piece Dining Set], [Doll].” He furrows his eyebrows as he struggles to decode the complicated mechanism that is a zipper. You decide that he does not, in fact, ‘got it’, and opt to give him a helping hand. You place a hand on his hip to keep him still while reaching the other towards the zipper, and he jumps with a yelp.

Oh. Your light head connects the dots. You both make silent eye contact for a brief moment before you address him with a smirk.

“Spamton.” You croon and he shudders. “I think you do need help.” You place a hand on either side of him and squeeze lightly as you pull him closer to you, earning more of the giddy giggles you’ve grown so fond of.

“NO [No] [Negative], I DO N<OT.” You give a couple more light squeezes and he half heartedly pushes at your hands, more for show than as a real effort to stop you.

“I dunno, seems to me like you’re having just a little bit of a tough time.” You unzip his jacket and sneak your hands inside to knead at his ribs, earning a full outbreak of laughter from the short salesman. He leans against you for support as he laughs, his head resting on your shoulder. You feel your face flush, but blame it on your own tipsiness.

“You’re lucky you have me here to help you out.” You walk your fingers up to his armpits and he lurches. “Or else you might be stuck in this jacket forever.”

“YOU [Call Now!] THIS, AHA, H-HELPING?” He loses all composure as you wiggle your fingers under his arms, laughing heartily while pressing himself against you.

“I do.” You slow your movements before actually sliding the jacket off of him. His near-deafening laughter fades into hushed chuckles. He’s still leaning against you as he gathers himself, staring up at you with the brightest look in his eyes.

“YOU’RE RIGHT.” He says suddenly, and you look down to shoot him a quizzical look. He elaborates by adding, “I AM LUCKY.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, choosing to once again blame your warm cheeks on tonight’s beverages of choice. “Lucky you’re cute.”