🍻 Chapter 3: The Tavern Takedown (D.O. & Procy)
The day after the train incident, Dog Operator found himself safely tucked inside Procy's Tavern. Since it was a holiday, the bar was closed, leaving the two of them alone. D.O. was nursing a cold, non-alcoholic cider while Procy, wearing his usual apron and goggles pushed up on his forehead, efficiently cleaned glasses behind the counter.
The rain from the night before had cleared, and the quiet atmosphere of the empty tavern was deeply comforting.
"Honestly, I don't know why I get so wrapped up in the paperwork," D.O. admitted, taking a sip of his drink. "I had Yohack and Mokdai practically force me to relax this week. I think my sides are still sensitive from last night's ambush."
Procy snorted, polishing a glass until it squeaked. "It's because you're wound tighter than a cheap watch, Operator. Relaxing is a skill, and you’re failing the course. You need a maintenance check, little man."
D.O. chuckled, enjoying the gruff banter. "Well, at least I’m not—" He stopped dead. His eyes went wide as he instantly regretted the next word that tumbled out. "—at least I’m not short enough to have to stand on a stool to reach the glasses."
The squeak of the glass Procy was polishing stopped abruptly. The air in the tavern seemed to chill instantly.
D.O. stammered, pulling his feet up onto the barstool. "P-Procy! I—I didn't mean it like that! It was just a joke, I swear, I was thinking about..."
Procy slowly put the glass down, a dangerously quiet smirk spreading across his muzzle.
"A joke, huh, Operator?" Procy drawled, folding his arms. "Funny. I haven't had a proper laugh all week, thanks to the sheer stress of managing this place." He cracked his knuckles dramatically. He’s secretly having the time of his life. "Guess I'll just have to force you to provide the entertainment."
Even though Procy hadn't moved, D.O. was already starting to laugh. The combination of stress, the previous day's tickle sessions, and the sheer anticipation of Procy's impending Ler-mood takedown made his belly jump.
"N-no, Procy, wait! Ehehe!" D.O. stammered, sliding off the stool, his voice already pitching high. "I'm sorry! I'll buy you a new set of goggles! Don't—pffft—don't you dare!"
With the speed and efficiency of a veteran hero—20 years of hero experience and knows how to tactical tickle interrogate—Procy rounded the bar and grabbed D.O., hauling him effortlessly across the room. D.O. was a dead weight of exhausted anticipation and fear, giggling hysterically before a finger was even laid on him.
"You're already laughin'? Good," Procy grumbled, pinning D.O. firmly against the smooth, cool back wall of the tavern. He secured D.O.’s wrists on either side of his head with surprising, solid strength.
"N-NOHOHOHOHO! I'm already s-sorry! I'm too ticklish! I'll spill all your secrets, I s-swear! Eheehee!" D.O. gasped, his whole body tense and bouncing against the wall.
Procy’s smirk widened, showing a flash of tooth. "Too late for apologies, little man. I need payment for that jab, and I'll collect in giggles."
He went straight for one of D.O.'s worst spots: the sides. Procy’s technique wasn't fast and fluffy like Yohack's or circular like Mokdai's; it was quick, calculated, and sharp. He used his thumbs and forefingers to dig lightly into the exposed ribs under the oversized shirt, applying focused pressure that felt instantly devastating.
D.O. let out a huge, shocked "AAA-YIP!"—a sound far more desperate than his earlier, bubbly laughter. His tail lashed frantically against the wall.
"N-no! That spot! Wheeze! Procy, STOP! I'm wea-KCK! I'm weak! I'm a good worker, I swear! Hahaha!" He tried to pull his arms free, but Procy’s grip was like a vice, leaving him utterly helpless.
"A good worker doesn't insult the owner," Procy said, his tone flat, even though the corners of his mouth were twitching. He increased the pressure slightly, moving his grip to the sensitive hip bones and lower sides.
D.O. nearly buckled, his legs kicking wildly as his laughter became tiny, panicked, wheezing snorts.
Procy leaned in close, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "You wanna pay your tab, Operator, or do I have to collect more giggles?"
"I'LL PAY! I'LL PAY! PFFT! I'LL DO YOUR INVENTORY! ANYTHING! J-JUST! SNRK! STOP! P-Procy, please! I'm gonna cry!" D.O. begged, trying to tuck his chin down to protect his neck.
Procy knew exactly when to quit. He was ruthless, but he wasn't cruel. After a final, quick, and devastating assault to D.O.'s exposed underarms that earned a loud, frantic squeal, Procy abruptly released his hands and stepped back.
D.O. instantly collapsed, sliding down the wall and scrunching into a shaking, laughing pile on the floor. He covered his face with his arms, trying to catch his breath between rapid, wheezing gasps.
Procy stood over him, arms crossed, feigning indifference. He's secretly having the time of his life.
D.O. eventually managed to sit up, rubbing his sides furiously. "You're... huff... you're a menace, Procy. A tactical, awful menace."
Procy knelt down and ruffled the damp fur on D.O.'s head. "You earned that. Good job, kid." He then stood up and walked back toward the bar. "Now, get up. I’ll make you a hot drink. On the house."
As Procy returned to cleaning glasses, D.O. watched him. He was still trembling lightly from the laughter, but the deep, gnawing tension he’d carried all week was completely gone, replaced by a satisfying ache in his tummy. He managed a sincere, slightly giggly smile.
