#but... me furious when if comes to character messing and thrashing a great show for the sake of open/bittersweet/shocking | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

poesparakeet-fics · 3 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Caduceus Clay/Caleb Widogast, Caduceus Clay & Caleb Widogast, The Poly Nein - Relationship Characters: Caleb Widogast, Caduceus Clay Additional Tags: Tickling, ler!Cad, Lee!Caleb, Punishment, Injury, Injury Recovery, Caleb Widogast Needs a Hug, Caleb Widogast is a Mess, Teasing, Queerplatonic Relationships, Pinned, Wrestling, Forced Self Love, And for once I don’t mean that in the sexy way., Safewords Series: Part 3 of The Poly Nein Summary:

Caduceus shows Caleb the consequences of dodging a healing spell around people who love you.

This one’s SFW, so please enjoy it here or on AO3!

This is what happens.

They came home battered, beaten and pissed besides. The others hung around for Jester’s prayer of healing, but Caleb slipped away, too full of old wounds and grey memories to give up his new wounds quite yet. His head ached and his side pulsed painfully while he climbed the stairs. He was nearing his door when a great, heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Here,” a warm voice hummed from behind him, “lemme get that for you.”

“Oh Herr Clay, it’s–”

Caleb’s sentence was choked out by a sudden sucking feeling accompanied by a sharp sound in his chest as Caduceus’ spell took hold.

*POP*

Caleb froze, then swayed in his tracks. Perhaps the injury had been a little worse than he thought. He turned around to thank his friend, only to see thunder in the firbolg’s eyes and freeze. He had seen Caduceus upset, annoyed and disappointed, but he wasn’t sure he’d seen him furious before. Until now, that is.

“For real?” Cad’s voice was still it’s usual low, placid cadence. He closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose.

“Wh-”

“That was a broken rib, Caleb.”

“I was just going to bed–”

“You didn’t take a lick of healing from Jester.” He paused while Caleb floundered under a wave of embarrassment, guilt and stubbornness. “Your rib would have been the first thing to heal, since it’s the most life threatening. Unless you had a dagger through your heart I didn’t know about.”

The lie that was ready on Caleb’s tongue died there.

“I… ah… I did not know it was broken.” He finished lamely.

“That is not…” Caduceus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, “That’s not the point, you… dammit, OK. OK, We’re gonna deal with this.”

His hand closed around the back of Caleb’s coat, and the now-healthy wizard yipped as he was lifted effortlessly off his feet. As easy as it was to forget Caduceus’ quiet anger, it was easier to forget his rarely-used strength.

Caduceus pulled Caleb into his quarters.

“Caduceus, what–”

“It was one thing when you were still too broken to function or believe anyone could care for you. But that’s not what’s happening here, right? You know better than this now.”

Caleb felt a panicked little chill run up his spine as Caduceus carried him like a suitcase.

“Caduceus, just— wait, I didn’t know–”

“Of course you didn’t. That big, stabbing pain in the side of your body, next to all the vital organs? I can see why you weren’t concerned.” He set Caleb on the oversized bed, and used a stern look to him in place. “Take off your shirt, I want to check your other ribs.”

“Caduceus, your spell worked fine…”

The firbolg regarded him with mild astonishment. “You really gonna fight me on this?”

Caleb swallowed, and pulled his coat off, then his holsters and shirt. He sat politely and quietly on the edge of the bed, eyes downcast. Caduceus sat next to him, tugging at his arms to manipulate his torso and peer carefully at him. Eventually he let out a breath.

“It looks like the spell healed all of the physical damage.”

Caleb was just starting to relax with slumped shoulders when one large hand caught him across his chest from behind and pulled his torso across Caduceus’ lap. That gave him a chance to catch the wicked twinkle in his friend’s eye and start fighting, but it was too late at that point. He was pinned with both wrists held over his head by Caduceus’ left hand, his torso stretched over the width of the firbolg’s lap while a heavy right elbow held his hips in place.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Caleb squeaked, legs kicking feebly against the mattress.

“Making sure you remember what happens when you dodge heals from now on. I’m gonna check every one of your ribs, I’m gonna do it until it’s done, and you’re gonna take it because if you bamf away from me, I’m just gonna have to get other people involved.”

With that Cad started to gently trace Caleb’s short rib with a pinching finger and thumb, reaching across the wizard’s body so his arm could block Caleb’s attempts to curl up in a ball.

“Wait, I– Oh, noho!”

Caleb threw his head back to laugh, every squirm just sending him deeper into Caduceus’ embrace. He could feel the firbolg’s mass shaking against his side, chuckling at his reactions.

“One. That first little one looks OK. Is it supposed to be that small? I should really learn more about human anatomy, huh? Two…” Caduceus moved up one rib, and Caleb’s laughter pitched up despite himself, “Hmm, yeah, that looks good too. So, did you think of what could have happened, if you went to bed?””

“Whahat?” Caleb gasped, unable to grasp the question under the onslaught he was suffering.

Luckily Caduceus didn’t need him to. “It could have punctured your lung. -Whoops, there’s three.- It could have killed you in your sleep. Four.”

Caduceus was a good way up his ribcage now, and the precision attacks on every solitary bone under thin skin was escalating Caleb’s desperation pretty rapidly. Being stretched out over Cad’s lap made it feel like his breath was being chased out of his chest by long downy fingers.

“Please! I’m sohohory!” He squeaked, heels drumming against the bed.

“Someone would have found you, cold and dead in the morning. Five. You know, we might have been able to bring you back, but that scar? From finding you? That’s a lot harder to heal.”

Caleb felt a sharp roll of guilt across his stomach. Not that he could express it. “Ahahaha- I-I’m sorry, pleaheeheese!”

“Hm. Are you sorry you did it or are you sorry I caught you? Six.”

“Both!” Caleb squealed, perhaps a bit too honestly.

Caduceus chuckled at him again. “Well, at least I know you’re not hiding things from me anymore. Hmm… where’s seven?”

Caduceus fingers dug around curiously, pretending he couldn’t find the rib he was currently torturing. Caleb thrashed with tears springing into his eyes, but he made no progress in escaping at all. It was like being tormented by a fuzzy mountain.

Caduceus made a frustrated sound, stopping his torment for a second. Caleb sucked in a few deep breaths.

“You made me lose count,” Caduceus explained, voice full of patently false regret, “I’m gonna have to start over.”

“Nein!” Caleb yelped

“You’d better hope you have more than nine ribs.” Caduceus teased, laughing when Caleb let out a frustrated growl.

Caduceus’ fingers returned to his lowest short-rib and started counting them out again, quicker than before. This time Caleb was crying by 3, trying desperately to stay still and expel all his ticklish agony without making Caduceus start over again.

“OK, I found seven this time. Are you ready?”

Caleb sobbed and shook his head no, but Caduceus continued anyway, ignoring his squeal.

“Pleaheeheese! Please, I’m sohohorry!”

“Eight. I do believe you, now,” the firbolg answered, “but the only way you’re getting out of this is to use that special word. And since you’re too stubborn to use that thing when Jester tortures you for fun, I’m guessing you’re not gonna use it now, when you know you deserve it. Not for little old me.”

Little old Caduceus was currently tickling a powerful mage to tears without so much as a bother, but Caleb didn’t have the breath to point it out. The first time Caduceus had seen the Nein really tickle Caleb to pieces, he had broken it up. Jester had to have a patient talk about safewords to convince him it was OK. Now he was wielding it against Caleb, and if he could, the wizard definitely would have pouted about it.

As it was his face was forced into a bright smile that he tried to hide against one bicep, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes to roll past pink cheeks and red ears. His feet kicked helplessly at the air when Cad’s fingers moved again.

“There’s nine. So I think you’re just gonna have to take this, but if you’re cooperative and not stubborn, we’ll get through it quicker, OK?”

Caleb wanted to wail that he didn’t know what that meant but settled for just wailing instead. Caduceus was quickly getting to the ticklish spots that his holsters usually protected.

“Ten. So, are you gonna do it again?”

Caleb felt a flash of panicked confusion before he remembered what had gotten him into this mess.

“Nein!” he wheezed between fits.

“Good to hear. Eleven. Why aren’t you gonna do it again?”

“Bitte! Pleheeheese I can’t” Caleb choked, breathless.

“Oh, yeah you can. Come on, why aren’t you gonna do it again?”

He switched to one finger and a lighter touch, leaving Caleb in hysterical waves of giggles while also giving him a chance to catch his breath a little.

“Because- it would- ahaha- upset theheehee others!”

“Hm. Well, I’ll take that for now. Twelve! Now, what’s gonna happen if you do it again?”

Caduceus had to realize that the shrieking wizard had no way to answer, so he answered for him.

“This is what happens, right? We have a zero tolerance policy from now on.”

Caleb sobbed and nodded in understanding, his whole body bending to try and save the one patch of ticklish skin without any success. Then Caduceus’ hand started to wriggle and prod into his armpit and his whole body jerked like he was electrified.

“AAHahahaha nahahahaha!” Caleb couldn’t get enough of a break to beg for mercy.

“Hmm. Looks like that’s it. Is twelve the right number?”

“Yahahahas!”

“Oh, well, good to know then.”

Caduceus released him, letting the teary-eyed wizard’s arms snap down to belatedly shield his ribcage, his face disappearing into his hands while his body shuddered with laughter.

“Shh,” he soothed as though he wasn’t the perpetrator of Caleb’s state, “ just breath.”

Caleb tried, rolling onto his side to breath into Caduceus’ linen shirt. Hysterical, pitchy laughter jerked out of him when the other man tried to pat his back and immediately stopped with a soft apology.

“You… just… please never do that again.”

“I think that’s up to you, based on the arrangement we just agreed to…”

“-under torture!-”

“… and I mean, it’s gonna happen again. At least one more time tonight.”

There was a moment of heavy, terrified silence.

“…What?” Caleb felt like a cup of ice water had been poured down his back. His eyes went perfectly round.

“I said I was gonna check all your ribs. I feel like if I don’t follow though I’ll set a bad precedent.”

Caleb immediately tried to scramble away from Caduceus, and he would have hit the floor if the firbolg hadn’t reached out to grab him around his middle and hoist the smaller man into his lap.

“Mist! Nein! You can’t, please!”

Caduceus started the patient, gentle work of getting a grip on the wriggling wizard in his lap. He kept his right arm looped around Caleb’s middle, his other arm working to try and grab a flailing wrist. When he wasn’t quite quick enough he made a frustrated sound in Caleb’s ear, right before planting a raspberry between the smaller man’s shoulder blades.

“Hold still!”

Caleb let out a wordless peal of squealing laughter under the onslaught of soft lips, velveteen nose and wooly beard. It bolted down his spine and made his whole upper body collapse.

One big, soft palm gripped his now-limp wrist and heaved it upward, exposing his currently un-tormented right side. Caduceus looped his right arm under Caleb’s captured one, bracing his palm on the back of the smaller man’s head. Caleb’s left arm was pinned against his chest as Caduceus’ other arm wrapped around him to keep him in his seat and hover downy fingers over Caleb’s exposed ribcage.

“Pleaheeheese you’ll kill meeeheehee!” Caleb whimpered through anticipatory laughter, eyes glued on Caduceus’ hovering hand.

“Sssh.” The firbolg soothed into the back of Caleb’s head. “I’m not gonna kill you. We’re just gonna take it really easy, OK?”

His left hand started to rub Caleb’s side in smooth circles, each one climbing higher than that last

“Nooohoohoho!” Caleb whined, eyes squeezing shut as the firbolg’s fingers found his short rib.

“One.”

“Bitte!” Caleb squealed through gritted teeth.

“I want you to repeat after me, OK?”

Caleb tried to turn and look at him, teary eyes astonished, as though Caduceus had asked him to move the moon.

“I -yeeheehee!- I can’t! Please!

“You can, I promise. We’re gonna start off really easy. How about “I deserve to live.”

“Whahahahaat? I can’t–”

“Two.”

“-Aaah! Nohoho! OK, ok, please!”

Caduceus only gave him a moment to take a breath before it spilled out “Ideservetolive!”

“Very good!” The hand holding Caleb in a half-nelson patted his head. “How about ‘I don’t deserve pain.’ for number three?”

“Ahahaa! Says the one torturing meheeheehe!”

“Ha! Are your ribs hurting? It’s a good thing I’m checking on them. Four.”

“Aaahaaa! I don’t deserve pain!”

“See, you’re doing great,” Caduceus praised, “we’ll be done in no time. I know this one’s going to be a little tough for you, are you ready? Five. I want you to say ‘I’m loved and I deserve that love.’”

For the first time that night, Caduceus’ request made Caleb’s jaw lock up.

“Nein— no, aah! I can’t!” He managed to whine through his teeth and the increasingly hysterical laughter that Caduceus was pulling out from deep in his chest.

“You have my permission not to believe all of these for now, but I want you to say every one. Six.” “AhahaHA! Nein, habt Mitleid! Mehehercy!”

Caduceus snorted. “On your ribs or on your low self-esteem? Actually, don’t waste your breath. I already know the answer. Seven.”

“Aaaaii! Please! I c- I can’t remember whahahat I’m supposed to sahahay!” Caleb sobbed, body starting to go limp with exhaustion in Caduceus’ arms.

The firbolg laughed, letting up for a moment to use his sleeve to wipe the tears off his captive’s cheeks.

“I’m loved…”

“I’m… loved…” Caleb panted, his unpinned hand holding on to Caduceus’ currently-stilled tickling hand for dear life, as if it might save him.

“And I deserve that love.

Even breathless and exhausted, Caleb winced like the sentence left a bad taste in his mouth. “I… deserve that… love.”

“Hey, good job. That was one of the hard ones.”

The sound that started to flow out of Caleb was somewhere between a panicked giggle and an exhausted sob. One of the hard ones.

“For this one I’m gonna need the whole phrase. ‘My name is Caleb Widogast, and I am a good man’ Are you ready?”

“No! Please have mercy!”

“Aw, sorry buddy. Not this time. Eight…”

“NIEN, can’t– s'too m-muhuch pleaheese–”

“Nine indeed!” Caduceus chuckled, fingers jolting upward to take advantage of the joke. “It’s not too much. I know you can do it.”

“I c-c- NO PLEASE I can’t while you– CAN’T! BITTE!"

Caduceus chuckled, fingers jumping up to tweak the next rib and yank a short little scream out of Caleb before he stopped moving his fingers and froze, still and menacing.

"That’s ten. Come on. I can’t make you believe it but I’m gonna make you say it.”

Caleb’s weight was leaning into Caduceus’ chest, his head leaning back against one solid shoulder with his eyes closed as he gulped in breaths.

“I'm… a good man.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Caleb Widogast… is a good man.”

“Aw, very good.” Caduceus praised, squeezing Caleb in a small hug. “Ready? Almost finished. Eleven.”

Caleb didn’t even plead this time, he just started to laugh again with his head still thrown back against Caduceus’ shoulder.

“Last one, I promise. I want you to say "I am going to take care of myself for the people who love me, or Caduceus is going to tickle me until I scream. Every time.”

“I CA- I CA- nohohoho! Too lohohong!”

“Twelve.”

Caleb’s back arched and his feet kicked while he shrieked, unable to get even the first part of the sentence out. Caduceus did have a little mercy, then, pausing to let Caleb suck in the breath he needed.

“I'mgoingtotakecare *pant* of myself *hic* forthepeople *hic* who love me or… *hic* this is what happens…”

“Every time.” Caduceus reminded him, tapping his fingers on Caleb’s top rib.

“Every time! Every time! Pleaheeheese!”

Finally, Caduceus let him go, angling himself so the wizard could flop over onto his bedspread. Caleb curled up on his side, face in his hands as the residual laughter started to slowly die down and the shuddering feeling in his bones faded.

“Do you wanna stay here tonight? Least I could do.”

Caleb unfurled with a heavy sigh. “Ja, please."

"Hey Caleb? What time is it?”

“Ah… *hic* probably between 10 and midnight, why?”

“Oh. No reason."

Caleb could see the firbolg’s smug little smile, but was entirely too tired to do anything about it.

Caduceus started to shrug off his outer layers and lowered the lamp while Caleb tucked himself in up against the wall.

"So just to be clear, this is what happens when you dodge a healing spell–”

“Yes! Yes *hic* you’ve made your point!”

“-But it’s going to get worse every time.”

Caleb just whimpered into the pillow.

“I mean,” Cad continued, “getting Jester involved is obviously the last resort. She is the ultimate escalation. And Molly’s not far behind. Maybe Beau first?”

“Nien!” Caleb jerked himself up in the bed in a panic. “Not Beau! She’s right under Molly. Not Beau.”

Caduceus chuckled, sliding himself into the big warm bed next to Caleb.

“So that leaves Yasha, Fjord and Veth. Wanna fill out the ranking?”

Caleb chuckled a little along with him, then whined.

“Nooo. I feel like I’m being made to dig my own grave.”

“If it makes you feel better, you’ve definitely already done that. I saw that reaction to the raspberry. That’s how I’m counting next time.”

Caleb groaned in the back of his throat. The threats felt like they were melting him.

“Mein gotten, to think I used to believe you were the nice one.”

Caduceus chuckled again. He slung one arm over the Caleb ball next to him and pulled the wizard in for a cuddle, rubbing his back soothingly when the other man tensed up.

“Hey, I’m done. For now. Seriously though, who’s most dangerous after Beau.”

Caleb gave a defeated sigh as he relaxed into Caduceus’ soft, solid embrace. The softly lit room took on a golden haze. Caduceus smelled like spices, cardamom and rosemary. Caleb hid his face in one wolly shoulder, his breathing evening out.

“Fjord because he teases, then Yasha because she bites.”

“Heh. So Veth’s the first level of escalation? Good to know. She seems more likely to keep this between us anyway… Caleb?"

The only answer was a snore.

#critickle role #tickle fic #caleb widogast #caduceus clay #tk fic

72 notes · View notes

mimzilla · 7 years

Text

Well goddamn it turns out it’s been literally 1 whole year since I uploaded the first chapters of Only the Dead Know!! Time flies when you’re finishing college

In celebration of both that and the fact that my impending graduation will give me enough time to keep working on it in earnest, here’s the opening few pages of my revision of chapter 1! :U

Dogs always ended up trailing after Ging’s heels.

Or, as the crowd around him demonstrated, dancing around and competing for his affection. A greyhound all skin and bones stuck its sharp nose between his palm and a beagle’s head, stealing the ear scratches the squat, tan dog had been melting into. The beagle whined and nipped at its bony legs, squeezing between them to nuzzle up against Ging’s side. There wasn’t much else it could do—he only had two hands and one lap, and his crossed legs were currently trapped beneath the body of a huge, shaggy beast. A sole spaniel managed to perch atop it, but everything else the chow-chow warded off with a low grumble.

“Alright, alright,” he said, curling his arm around the greyhound’s back to scratch its side. “There’s enough of me for all of you, just calm down.” Which was not, strictly speaking, true, but he could do his best to pet all of them. The tiny spaniel, a skinny little thing with matted hair, licked his face.

“You’re pretty snuggly for strays,” Ging mumbled when the spaniel’s tongue wasn’t over his mouth in its quest to bathe his whole face. “Okay, okay, that’s enough—that’s enough—”

The chow-chow sighed as he twisted his torso, fruitlessly trying to keep his face away from the enthusiastic spaniel. Ging would have attributed its docility to how animals tended to calm around Hunters, but even taking that into consideration the dogs were abnormally well-behaved. The chow-chow especially—the breed was closer to wolves than dogs, but the one in his lap was nothing less than boneless. Not unprecedented, but noteworthy considering that it clearly wasn’t getting enough to eat.

It roused his curiosity enough that when a distant whistle, two low notes followed by a wavering high, made all the dogs’ ears twitch, there was no question that he would find whoever’s dogs they were.

The chow-chow moved first, its great mass heaving itself up into a lumbering walk. The spaniel on its back scrambled to leap away, taking the opportunity to dart into the shadows of the ramshackle houses nearby. Dilapidated, patchwork constructions of wood, cardboard, and aluminum; most of them had collapsed under the intensity of Ecinev’s storms, and those that hadn’t were on the verge of it with rust and splintered wood. On the fringe of the shantytown, only people with nowhere else to go set foot. Or, in Ging’s case, people who had shady characters to find.

With a sad whine, the beagle against his side was the last to scamper off. It went in the opposite direction from the whistle, its claws clicking against the concrete of the storm drain’s outlet. Ging’s attention narrowed to the chow-chow’s retreating shape. He pushed himself up to his feet and squinted down the massive, cavernous storm drain. It was from there that the whistle had come, and he could only assume that the whistler had indicated their dogs should scatter and reconvene somewhere. Someone being chased, likely. The dogs’ sudden departure would have looked strange, but nevertheless random, if he hadn’t heard the whistle. And a normal person wouldn’t have heard the whistle.

Ging grinned and set out after the chow-chow.

Ecinev’s storm drains were the city’s main claim to fame. Twenty feet tall and thirty across, they wound around the sewer system in an intricate labyrinth of concrete and rushing water that never intersected. In the dry season, tourists were led along the walkways to goggle at the dams, meticulously placed mechanisms that could block off passageways and redirect the flow of the canals. Each juncture had one that could be independently controlled through the city government’s engineering office, a department solely dedicated to keeping track of weather patterns and determining how best to keep the relatively clean water moving to the reservoirs that plunged into the land around the city, the dirty water to the processing plants and the outskirts of the city. The contaminated water was more often than not pointed toward the most populated part of the shantytown. Those with the weakest resolve would be driven away by the scent and the sickness. One had to grant the city government that it was good at keeping vagrants on the move.

With the wet season approaching, the tunnel passageways would be left unblocked soon enough, the dams lowered to keep the torrential and near-constant rain from drowning the city. Glancing up, Ging confirmed that the street gutters running along almost every inch of the space between the road and sidewalk had been recently reinforced with stainless steel, preparing for the downpour to come.

He couldn’t help but grin, seeing such a clear demonstration of how the environment and the architecture of a city shaped the lives of those within it. Living in Ecinev was, by all accounts, driven by gathering as much money as possible during the dry season; the cultural economic divide was a massive gap between those who were capable of taking care of themselves and those who had to go crawling to the mafia for protection from nature itself.

Already, Ging’s footsteps made quiet splashes in the half-inch of water that spilled over the canal’s edge onto the walkway. He didn’t begrudge the dampness seeping into his socks, though, because the chow-chow’s heavy trot was all the more audible for the slosh of water around its legs. Its pace had remained steady, and it never paused at the tunnel’s intersections. Occasionally, it would raise its nose and snuffle, or prick up its ears, but there were no more whistles. It never spared a moment to dissuade Ging from following it, either, but that was to be expected. Ging had always found it easy to gain the trust of things desperate for affection.

A sudden shout and a rapid series of whistles, one low and two high—distant, but close enough that the echo reverberated around corners without losing the shape of words—was what spurred the dog past its easy gait. It broke into a run with a snarl and Ging followed at a distance, his excited grin widening and the sound of a commotion growing closer. With each step, the furious sound of a man shouting grew clearer, the words steadily more comprehensible through the din of splashing water and dogs’ yelping.

“If you think I’m going to let you run away again you’re dead wrong, you filthy street rat—”

The man’s voice cut off with a pained grunt. There was a series of quick splashes—likely some small dog—then a frustrated yell and a sharp yipe that bounced off the tunnel walls.

Ging rounded the corner in time to see the man, muscle-bound with fraying, too-small clothes, take a pipe to the face.

His sunglasses flew off and fell into the coursing water of the canal, disappearing down the tunnel within seconds of their hitting the current. Blood dripped down his chin from his broken nose and dispersed similarly as it fell from his skin into the water. The man doubled over and moaned in pain, his hands wavering in front of his face, torn between gripping the injury and not wanting to make it worse by touching it. As he stumbled sideways he favored his right leg; through the shredded cloth Ging saw a flash of dark blood. Running away from the injured man was a small terrier whose muzzle was matted and red. With a high-pitched growl, it scampered behind the legs of the ragged figure holding the pipe.

“You,” the man coughed, spitting blood from his split lip, “oh, you’re gonna get it!”

Whatever “it” was became irrelevant as the chow-chow plowed into him with all of its bulk and momentum and sent him careening over into the drink.

With one last furious shout he was swept away, and the last Ging saw of him was a mess of thrashing limbs fighting to keep on the surface of the water.

The chow-chow gave a gruff ‘woof’ that was as satisfied as a dog could sound, and with its tail wagging ambled over to its friend with the pipe. The rubbed its head gratefully, beginning to kneel and reach for the smaller dog.

“Nice hit,” Ging said, and they snapped back up to their feet and brought the pipe up to bear. A wave of Ren that fluctuated wildly in intensity crashed into him. It was probably meant to scare him away, but accomplished the exact opposite by feeding Ging’s already-strong curiousity. He held up his open hands and smiled. “These dogs are yours, then?”

The show of non-aggression didn’t do much to appease them. Their shoulders, hidden under a coat several sizes too big with a popped collar, clearly heaved with each rapid breath they took. It was difficult, even for Ging, to tell whether the water dripping down their face was spray or sweat. Whichever it was, it did a good job of washing some of the dirt off of their pale, drawn face. Their wide brown eyes, ceaselessly tracking every minute move he made, were underscored with shadows. In all, they looked as skeletal as their dogs—if not more.

Not likely to win any contests of strength, Ging mused, but their Ren wasn’t bad. Not exceptionally good either, but that was attributable to the fact that they clearly had no idea how to properly control it. Ging lowered his hands and casually shoved them into his pockets; the street rat tensed and shifted their grip on the pipe. On closer inspection, Ging noted that the weapon was more of a makeshift pike: there was a spike messily tied onto the end and jutting out.

“They’re well-trained,” he went on. “You should be proud.”

The street rat blinked, and confusion flitted across their face that morphed rapidly back into alarm when the chow-chow lumbered over to Ging and grumbled happily. “Hey, buddy,” Ging murmured, keeping a close eye on the pike as he slowly patted its head. It wagged its tail. The street rat gaped at him soundlessly, their Ren faltering. Ging watched it weaken and hummed thoughtfully.

“You shouldn’t ground your Ren in emotion so much,” he said. Unsurprisingly, their guard snapped back into place and they glared at him. All the same—

“See, this is what I’m talking about.” Ging gestured vaguely at the uneven mist of their aura. “Making people feel it when you’re angry is one thing, but like this you’re just an open book. You might as well just yell ‘I’m scared’. That would have pretty much the same effect.”

For a second, the only sounds were the chow-chow’s happy panting and the rush of water around all of their feet. Little by little, the street rat’s Ren dwindled to nothing. They stared down at where the chow-chow was pressing its head up into Ging’s hand, and their eyebrows—distinctly lighter in color than their nest of hair—drew down into a furrow. They pursed their lips and whistled, a drawn-out low note followed by a shorter one of the same tone. The chow-chow’s ears twitched back towards them and it immediately left Ging’s side. The terrier hovered around their ankles and sniffed the chow-chow’s head curiously. Below the immediately local noises, Ging noted quieter splashes down the surrounding tunnels. Likely the rest of the dogs he’d met.

“You have a lot of dogs, don’t you? Manipulator, right?” Ging asked, half-rhetorically. They stared at him blankly. “I mean, they aren’t conjured dogs, are they?” Ging wouldn’t have put the kid as being strong enough to maintain that for any significant amount of time. A 5% chance, maybe.

They shifted their stance, right foot sliding forward so that they were facing sideways and ready to bolt. The chow-chow, following a silent cue, stepped protectively in front of all of them so that its bulk formed a furry wall.

In a cracking, roughened voice that was barely above a whisper, the street rat asked him “What are you talking about?”

Ging couldn’t quite contain his excitement, and the kid flinched slightly as his voice came out louder than before. “Your Nen type. Manipulator? That’s how you control the dogs?”

Their disconcerted expression didn’t change. “What are you talking about?” they repeated.

Ging blinked. “Nen.”

They stared at him. “Nen?” he tried again. Their weight shifted onto their toes, readying to run. “You know what Nen is, don’t you? You just used it!”

At last, understanding dawned on their face. “The magic.”

“Basically, yeah. I mean, sort of. Not really. But yes.”

“… It’s called Nen?”

“Yup.”

They examined him again, and he could see their opinion of him changing. It took some effort for him to quell his impatience. “Can you use it?”

“I can.”

Slowly, the tip of their pike lowered until it rested on the ground. “Who are you?” they asked quietly.

“Ging,” he said. “Ging Freecss. Nice to meet you…?”

The street rat either ignored or didn’t pick up on the questioning lilt of his tone. “Ging.”

“Right,” Ging confirmed. He waited a few seconds, but the street rat said nothing. “Uh, do you have a name?”

They started and stared at him in blank shock. “… Yes.”

A few more seconds passed.

“And… what is it…?”

“Oh,” they said, blinking owlishly. For a long moment, they stood looking blankly into space with an expression of mild confusion. “… Kite,” they finally said. “My name is Kite.”

“Kite,” Ging repeated, smiling. “That’s a nice name.”

Kite shifted their weight uncertainly, easing out of their flight-ready stance. The compliment hadn’t lowered their guard as much as Ging would have liked—if anything, they looked all the more bewildered. Ging clicked his tongue without losing his smile, thinking to himself that friends were probably hard to find for weak street kids. They would probably get themselves caught up in bad company more often than they’d stumble upon a friendly face, especially in a city as rife with mobsters as Ecinev.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kite,” he said, stepping forward. As expected, Kite stiffened the moment that he did. Ging held up his empty hands again, but it didn’t reassure them enough to keep them from bringing up their pike and pointing the spike at him in warning.

“Don’t come any closer,” they said, their quiet voice cracking again, but with fear rather than disuse.

“Or what?” Ging asked, taking another step. “You’ll drown me, like you did that guy?”

What little color there was in Kite’s face drained away, and their eyes flickered to the unending rush of water behind them. “He’s not—he won’t die.”

“How do you know?”

“Not deep enough. Not fast enough.”

“Looks pretty deep and fast to me. And people with concussions don’t tend to be good swimmers.”

Kite ground their teeth together. “… It gets shallower that way. He won’t die.”

The chow-chow growled as Ging stepped closer, a deep rumble that worked its way up from the depths of its chest, and its bright, single eye trained on him. Perhaps it sensed Kite’s growing distress. The terrier danced around Ging’s ankles, snapping the air beside them but not following through. Undeterred, Ging pressed forward until his knees were nearly pressed against the chow-chow’s side and Kite had backed away to the very edge of the canal. Though their hands were shaking, their grip on the pike didn’t falter.

“Stop,” they hissed through clenched teeth, staring at him in all but absolute terror. Ging did stop, but slowly extended his hand toward them.

It was most likely a reflex, Ging thought, for Kite to snap their pike forward in an arc that aimed the rusty tip of the spike at Ging’s shoulder. Both dogs bit Ging’s ankles in the same instant, their teeth sinking through leather booths into bloody flesh—

—or they would have, had their jaws not closed on reinforced skin that might as well have been steel.

“Is that all?” Ging said, the pike’s wicked point held unmoving in his hand not an inch from where it would have severed his tendons. “I’m surprised you lasted this long.”

Kite’s harsh intake of breath was drowned out by the enraged howling of the chow-chow, which let go of Ging’s leg and began throwing itself against him. The noise echoed through the tunnel, reverberating and layering on top of itself until it was deafening. Other dogs—ten, Ging counted—came racing around the storm drain’s sharp corners to flank the four of them.

“Ah, come on. What happened to liking me?” Ging muttered, his voice inaudible even to him. The hand he proffered to the chow-chow nearly fell victim to its bared teeth. He stepped back obligingly, dragging Kite away from the water since neither of them were loosening their grip on the pike. Kite dug their feet into the concrete and tugged on it fruitlessly, their efforts redoubling as Ging fixed them with a looked of amused exasperation. There was no chance of his actually getting hurt, but fighting his way through a small mob of loud, angry dogs was not his idea of a good time.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Ging shouted over the din. It didn’t surprise him much when they clearly didn’t even consider believing him for a second. He stepped back against when the chow-chow barreled into his knees, and scowled at the lost ground. What would convince the kid to trust him without involving Ging totally backing off? He could allow the dogs to bite him, he considered, or, rather, allow the dogs to hurt him—they had already been biting him for the few seconds that had passed. If he got hurt and still wasn’t hostile, that would be fairly persuasive. The dogs’ teeth probably had some nasty germs on them, but that was nothing Ging couldn’t handle. Infection and poison had little effect on him anymore.

Though his decision was made in a single moment, before Ging could put it into practice a howl cut through the echoing clamor. The street rat’s focus shifted abruptly to the tunnel from which it had come. The dogs around their sides ceased barking, though their hackles were still raised high.

“What—?” Ging started in the sudden silence, breaking off into “Hey!” when Kite gave him one last panicked look and let go of their pike, spinning and sprinting away from the howl. The dogs followed after them in a stream, rushing down the tunnel in parallel with the water. Ging caught the falling handle of the pike and watched them go, bewildered. He was tempted to follow, but it wouldn’t be difficult to track them down again, and the question of what they were running from was just barely more interesting than where they were going.

The noises from the tunnel became clearer as the splashing of Kite’s retreat faded. Faint growling; an angry mutter; a metallic clank followed by the sound of feet hitting water. Someone getting of the ladder to the street, Ging concluded. Likely a companion of the man washed away before.

More than likely, he amended, as there was a familiar yell-yipe sequence, and around the corner of the juncture the beagle that had snuggled up to him was pulled by the current. Its little legs pumped to keep its head above the surface and move it back to the walkway, a job that that the beagle was doing much more successfully than the man who had been swept away. The pike clattered dully against the concrete as Ging dropped it and dove for the edge of the walkway, both arms outstretched to scoop the dog up.

The beagle was a wet, squirming ball of fur in his grip, and it scratched his wrists in protest before he was able to calm it down. Once the man came around into the tunnel—definitively a companion of the one before, given their almost identical suits, so probably mafia—its focus shifted to straining forward and growling. An expression of surprise came across the mobster’s face as he took in the dog wiggling in Ging’s arms and the pike lying abandoned below the surface of the water. Surprise didn’t last long in the face of anger.

“Who the hell are you? And where’s that dog brat?” he demanded.

“Ging,” Ging provided. “And why do you ask?”

“None of your business, Ging. Where is he?”

“How should I know? I’ve never met him before.”

People were really not inclined to believe him that day, Ging thought with no small irritation at time wasted; the scorn on the mobster’s face was more than enough to convey how likely he was to accept Ging’s answer. But to be fair, he was carrying two of what were likely to be Kite’s prized possessions.

“How about this,” Ging said, rubbing the beagle’s head until it subsided and snuggled up against his chest. “You take me to whoever you work for, and I’ll tell you where he went.”

The mobster responded by reaching to draw his gun.

Ging sighed in annoyance and shifted the dog to his left arm. It took less than half the time the mobster needed to aim at Ging’s head for Ging to cover the distance between them and twist his wrist enough that the gun fell from his spasming fingers.

“What the-!?” the man yelled, his eyes gone wide and his face pale with shock and pain.

Obviously not a Nen user, or even someone decently physically strong, Ging surmised. Boring. Whoever ran the Ecinev mafia might turn out to be a disappointment, then, but it was worth a shot all the same.

“I’ll rephrase,” he said, digging his fingers into the man’s wrist. “Take me to whoever you work for.”

#ficxprogress #hxh #My writing #gosh darn its been a while huh

4 notes · View notes