Qrow very seriously had to question whether or not his recent respite from drinking was having an effect on his Semblance.
These were not the musings of a weak-willed alcoholic searching for an excuse to hit the bottle, but rather the ruminations of a man with a supposed aura of bad luck, who's capture by his enemies had proceeded without so much as a single hitch.
Maybe without the presence of alcohol in his system, his Semblance had turned inward to fill the void, leaving Qrow the sole recipient of all the misfortune his presence conjured. It would certainly explain the rate at which his night had been getting progressively worse.
He'd been combing through the back alleys of Mantle in the bitter cold, on the lookout for any sign of the serial killer working to frame James. (The scant eye-witness accounts had made mention of a pale, lanky man with braided hair, giving Qrow a good guess as to who their mystery murderer was, and reminding him of the score he had to settle.)
Qrow had been foolish enough to assume the deranged Faunus was working alone, and that he had no need to look out for any kind of traps beyond what a crazed killer could come up with.
He paid for his negligence when, after forcing open the door to an abandoned warehouse that showed signs of recent entry, he was rendered unconscious by a current of electricity running through the doorknob before he could even think to engage his aura.
The process of coming to rivaled some of his most grueling hangovers, made worse by the prompt discovery that he'd been tied up while unconscious. Quite securely, too.
Blinking his eyes open, Qrow found himself strapped to some kind of chair, his arms held out and away from his body by leather cuffs at the wrists and elbows. His legs were stretched out in front of him, his ankles secured in a set of padded stocks that didn't so much as budge when he tried to jerk his foot free.
What was more, he noticed he was now missing both his shoes and socks. Qrow should've expected such tactics- anything to hinder a captive's escape- but that didn't stop him from being annoyed at the thought of needing to search for his pilfered possessions once he'd worked himself free, or else make the journey back to Atlas without them.
Waking up somewhat restrained, unsure of where he was, and missing a few articles of clothing wasn't exactly an unfamiliar experience for the Huntsman, but normally, he could've pinned the blame squarely on the fact that he'd been piss-drunk the night before.
Just his luck, he managed to get himself into a similar situation without so much as a drop of alcohol in him.
And thus, Qrow found himself pondering if his Semblance was to blame for the remarkably unfortunate turn his night had taken.
An exceedingly haughty chuckle from behind informed him the night was far from over.
"Finally awake, are we?"
Into view strolled a tall man in a very expensive looking charcoal suit, crossing over to stand before the captive Huntsman. He looked to be in his late forties, perhaps early-to-mid fifties with how his dark hair had acquired a streak of gray at his temples. His sharp green eyes (set above a substantial mustache) gleamed with cold intellect, reminding Qrow of the way a scientist might look at something they wanted to dissect.
"You're a long way from your roost, little bird." he remarked, informing Qrow that he was aware of his identity. "I would've thought Ironwood had better things to do than send his soldiers to skulk around Mantle's slums."
"You mean like prove he's not killing off his naysayers?" Qrow shot back, prompting the man to shrug.
"A necessary evil." he dismissed easily. "The General's as bullheaded as his name implies, especially when he's trying to accomplish something. He'd get far too much done if we didn't throw a few roadblocks in his way."
"'We' is it?" Qrow had presumed as much, that this man wasn't working alone, but any bit of information could prove useful. "I take it you're not the one slashing throats in alleys, then?"
"Certainly not." the man scoffed, sounding almost insulted. "I'm far more civilized than my associate, thank you very much. He's more than happy to take care of all the dirty work. You might know of him? The esteemed Tyrian Callows?"
The name alone was enough to call to mind those deranged cackles, hardly pausing even while the pair of them were fighting to kill.
"Yeah, we've met. So, Mantle's being terrorized by Tyrian Callows and...?"
"You can call me Watson." the man supplied what was surely a fake name, before moving to the array of computers situated behind him and began typing. "You know, you're lucky I found you instead of my partner. Tyrian would've made this next part quite messy."
Something about the way he said that made the hair on the back of Qrow's neck stand up.
"Because, you see, you have all the details on Ironwood's latest pet project. And I doubt you're going to make this easy on both of us and just tell me now, which means I'll need to... compel you."
"Heh, do your worst." Qrow glared at the man's back, tensing various parts of his body in their restraints. He'd grown up in a bandit tribe outside the kingdom walls, dealing with Grimm and harsh training from his elders since childhood. He'd spent more than the last two decades working as a Huntsman, and even longer as Ozpin's most loyal soldier. What did this posh, disaffected egghead think he could do to break him? "I've got enough aura to hold out until the Ace-Ops come to break down your door, so give it your best shot."
Watson didn't respond to his bravado, which was Qrow's first clue that perhaps this man actually did possess more brains than Tyrian.
That didn't bode well for him.
"Ah yes, aura. Quite handy when Grimm are trying to claw your insides out, but it's not a perfect defense." as he spoke, Watson abandoned his computers to tinker with a small hexagonal platform atop the table to the right. Qrow had spent enough time in Atlas to recognize a Hard-Light Dust projector when he saw one. "It doesn't stop one from feeling anything, after all. Merely prevents one from being substantially harmed. And I don't need to harm you to loosen your tongue, Qrow Branwen."
"Is your plan to monologue me into submission, then?" snark had always been Qrow's first line of defense, and he was becoming more on edge the longer his captor spoke. Watson sounded like he knew with complete certainty just how to get him to crack, and Qrow was starting to believe that he did. A beating- or some other kind of physical interrogation- he could deal with. The prospect of a questioning that didn't involve pain was something he didn't know how to prepare for.
"I suppose you might as well get your jokes out while you can." the projector began crafting something, but with Watson standing directly before the machine, Qrow couldn't see what it was.
"You'll be the one laughing, shortly."
Qrow felt his stomach drop when Watson turned around.
Oh Brothers, please no...
In his hand, the disgraced scientist held a wide, rectangular hairbrush.
His Semblance had gone into overdrive, was all Qrow could think. How else was it possible that Watson had selected the particular implement Qrow happened to find so very loathsome, dreadful, and absolutely terrifying beyond reason?
And how could he not? If Watson planned on using that brush the way he feared he did, it would mark the second time Qrow had felt the hellish sensation.
The first had been years ago...
Qrow Branwen was a man quite well-versed in the realm of debauchery, and proudly so. He'd had more than his fair share of wild sexual escapades in his time, many of which involved him being tied down and subjected to the wicked whims of his Master. Or Masters. Qrow had been edged to the brink of insanity, his orgasm kept just out of reach for hours until he'd gone hoarse from begging. His pecs and nipples had endured all manner of groping, pinching, and worrying between both eager teeth and cruel metal clamps. He'd been brought to tears from a round of spankings, only to then be hurled straight into hysterics by the merciless rimming that had immediately followed.
None of it could compare to that one occasion. He had been restrained quite skillfully, from the straps and cuffs keeping his wrists beside his head, to the sturdy stocks encircling his ankles, to the meticulous ties around each toe that ensured not an inch of his soles could be hidden from sight.
Oil had been applied to his feet with a light, masterful touch, with the following massage feeling absolutely heavenly. Despite Qrow's honeyed, seductive inquiries as to just what activities he could look forward to taking part in that night, he'd received no hints or clues from his Master. The anticipation had driven him delightfully up a wall.
Then, it began.
It had started as merely fingers skittering across his soles, oh so deviously dexterous. Qrow had been surprised, having never before paid much mind to the sensitivity of his feet, or how incredibly susceptible they were to tickling. He'd laughed and laughed, wiggling with the scant few inches of freedom he had to do so, the intense sensation on his feet sending all manner of signals throughout his entire nervous system.
When his Master broke out the brushes, though, things changed.
It had been unbearable. The feel of the plastic bristles raking up and down his oiled soles- just digging into the poor, sensitive undersides of his feet- had overwhelmed him in mere seconds. He'd fought desperately against the restraints, trying with all his might to get away from the terrible strokes of the brush to no avail. There was nothing he could do but take every devastating lick, every soul-crushing drag he received from that evil little tool.
Within minutes, he'd been screaming. There were full throated roars for it to end, as well as wordless cries of pure ticklish agony. He had pleaded and begged ("Stop, plehehease!" "I'll do anything, Master! Please, please-" "I cahahahan't take it!" "Nohohoho! Not there, not thehehere, I'm begging you!")
Eventually, he'd devolved to merely sobbing, wailing helplessly at the cruel treatment of his poor, sensitive soles. So mean, this is sohohoho mean, he blubbered to his Master, fat tears streaming down his face. His Master had cooed at the pathetic sight he made, before doing their level best to drag as many sobs and tortured cries from his throat as possible.
In the end, Qrow had blacked out somewhere around the third hour, and was left with the nerves on his soles practically buzzing for the rest of the following day.
Even now, years later, staring at the instrument of his ticklish demise nearly made him break out in a cold sweat.
"I quite like that fear in your eyes, Branwen." Watson purred, and Qrow's gaze jerked away from the brush to his face. "Not that I can blame you. While you were out, I ran a scan on your body to determine where you would be most susceptible to this." he waved the brush around demonstratively, and Qrow barely mastered his flinch.
"Imagine my surprise," his captor drawled as he stepped closer to the trussed up Huntsman. "when my scans revealed the greatest weak point on your body to be these lovely feet." He teasingly pinched one of his toes, and Qrow's whole leg jumped without his permission.
"Tch." Qrow could only hope he wasn't still being scanned, and that Watson was unaware of the fearful canter his heartbeat had risen to. "You'd have better luck poking my liver, smart guy. Now that's what I'd call a weak point."
Anything to dissuade... Anything to distract... Anything to spare himself the torment he remembered all too well...
"Oh, I don't know about that." Watson snapped his fingers, and tiny cords encircled his toes, pulling taut and baring the entirety of his miserably sensitive soles to the man's leering gaze. "With the way they're quivering like this, I'd say I'm right on the money." Another gesture, and Qrow could feel his feet being coated in oil from some unseen port on the stocks.
Watson held the brush mere centimeters away from his helplessly restrained sole, endlessly drawing out the moment before it would connect and begin to rip his sanity to shreds, forcing Qrow to truly register just what he was about to endure. It was going to tickle so horrifically bad, he knew from experience. Watson, the bastard, had even gone the extra mile of using his machines to learn exactly where Qrow's most ticklish spots were, and clearly planned on exploiting that knowledge ruthlessly.
He had no means of escape, no way to do anything but take however much torment Watson decided to inflict on his poor, helpless feet. If he felt like driving Qrow out of his mind with the drag of that brush on his soles, he'd be unable to stop him.
He could only endure the torture until someone arrived to rescue him. Everyone up in Atlas would grow worried when he stopped making regular check-ins, and they'd be able to trace his scroll to his current location. (He hoped against hope that Pietro meant it when he said his tracking technology was hack-proof).
Qrow weighed the terrible sensitivity of his feet against the length of time it would likely take for help to appear, and swallowed his dread down heavily.
"Oh, I almost forgot." Watson remarked, sounding darkly eager, before snapping his fingers once more. At once, Qrow found himself robbed of his sight, some kind of eye mask sliding neatly into place and restricting his vision entirely.
He opened his mouth to issue some kind of rebuke, or perhaps even attempt to desperately bargain somehow, only for his words to be swallowed by a peal of wild, uncontrollable laughter as the brush finally touched down on his defenseless sole.
To his despair, this Hard-Light facsimile felt indistinguishable from the real thing. In fact, it was possible that Watson had done something to make it tickle even more than a normal hairbrush. Or perhaps Qrow's feet had simply grown more sensitive over the years. Whatever the case, it tickled far worse than Qrow could've possibly imagined, and he could already feel his mind beginning to fray.
Up and down, back and forth, the brush dragged over his soles, the pattern predictable only in that it ensured neither foot was able to rest for long. There was brisk, brutal scrubbing against his arches that made him writhe and shriek. There were long strokes from his heel to the ball of his foot, his cries rising in pitch the higher the brush went up his foot. There were devastating circles traced over his soles that made him bawl.
The tears came much more quickly than they had last time, and while Qrow's pride was loath to display such weakness to an enemy, there was no hope of stemming the flood of overwhelmed sobs building in his chest. They mingled with his forced, helpless laughter, until he could hardly tell the sounds in his ears apart from each other.
Watson bored down on his worst spots without mercy, no matter how Qrow begged or bellowed or wept. He didn't even try to question him or speak at all, merely worked Qrow's soles over like there was no greater joy than causing him such utter misery.
Time was a hazy, incalculable thing for Qrow throughout his tickling, and he had no idea how much had passed before he was granted his first reprieve, with his feet once more needing to be oiled.
"P-Please," Qrow whimpered as Watson began to reapply the oil to his feet, this time by hand. Even those rote, efficient touches still wreaked havoc on his now sensitized soles, but nothing could be worse than more of that brush. He couldn't handle more of that brush. "I'm... I'm begging you, you gotta stop. Please, I c-can't take it anymore. I'm gonna go insane."
Watson made a cooing sound at his begging, before Qrow felt him cup his cheek in his hand. It was the first bit of physical contact all night that didn't tickle horribly, and he fought not to lean into it. "I can see why Tyrian's so taken with you. You do suffer quite beautifully." Watson breathed, thumbing at the tears that had leaked out past the blindfold. The hand trailed over his jaw before gently tilting his face upwards with a finger under his chin. There was a tiny click, and suddenly the eye mask retracted.
Able to see again, Qrow blinked past the tears clouding his vision to meet eyes with his captor. Their faces were less than a foot apart, the man leaning down to close the distance, and Qrow found himself captivated by those bright green irises.
"Have your feet had enough, pretty bird?" he questioned softly. "Enough of that dreadful old brush tickling them? Are you ready to be done?"
Qrow could only nod helplessly. Yes, he was done. He'd been tickled so much, and for so long... he desperately needed it to be over with. Any more of this, and he might never recover.
"Alright, we can be finished darling." Watson assured him, before pinching Qrow's chin between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned even closer. "Just tell me what Ironwood's planning out in the tundra, and your precious feet won't be tickled even a second more."
At this, another round of tears filled Qrow's eyes. These were tears of despair, of knowing that he couldn't divulge his allies' efforts no matter what his refusal meant for his tender soles. They dripped down his face as he turned his head away from Watson, staying silent.
The man sighed, taking his hand away and fishing a remote out of his pocket. "It seems I've been too gentle with you, Branwen. I'll have to show you just how much I can put those feet of yours through." Any attempt Watson made to feign regret was belied by his sadistic grin as he pressed one of the remote's many buttons. He was glad for the chance to torment his captive's soles further.
A panel on the floor beneath Qrow's feet slid open, out of which arose something that might as well have been pulled straight from his nightmares.
Each mounted on an adjustable robotic arm were wheels of some kind- a pair of them- their wide surfaces comprised of the finest, softest, most brutally ticklish looking bristles Qrow had ever seen. Even worse than that monstrous hairbrush.
Based on their size, Qrow knew with dreadful certainty that they'd be able to span the entirety of his foot from heel to toe. If they drew just that small bit closer to press against his defenseless feet, there'd be absolutely no escape. His every spot, every single inch of his woefully sensitive soles would bear the full attention of these new brushes.
"James is siphoning Dust from way out in the tundra." Qrow squeezed his eyes shut, speaking hurriedly. "He found a huge deposit, and he's carting it away someplace to store it. He's gathering it all to build a bomb, and he's gonna drop it on Salem's castle to wipe the whole thing out for good. Says there's no way anything could survive that."
It was a serviceable falsehood, he could only hope. Detailed enough to make Watson believe he was being truthful, with enough misdirection thrown in to not risk their real efforts. Perhaps it would even take their foe's attention off the launch site entirely if they thought it was simply an untapped Dust cache.
"That's it. That's all I know, I swear." Qrow risked a hesitant glance at his captor, and found the man stroking his mustache thoughtfully.
He had barely begun to relax slightly, thinking he'd satisfied his demands, before Watson suddenly lunged forward to rake his fingers harshly over one of his feet.
"Wait! Wait, no-" Qrow yelped, once more writhing in his bonds as Watson assaulted his foot with cruelly ticklish strokes and drags of his fingers. It wasn't like when he'd been reapplying the oil, merely touching out of necessity with no need to make him suffer. This time, it was clear Watson wanted him to suffer dearly.
"I told you! I- ahahaha! I tohohohold you-"
"It's unwise of you to insult my intelligence, Qrow Branwen." Watson's voice was as silky smooth as ever, but there was a faint note of irritation buried underneath it. "I've kept a careful eye on whatever it is the General's doing outside Mantle, and Dust has only ever been delivered to it, never carted away. I asked for the truth about Ironwood's plans, not to listen to your lies."
After a dreadful, prolonged moment, Watson withdrew his fingers, leaving Qrow to slump weakly in his chair as he adjusted the lay of his tie back to perfect neatness.
"I was planning on only giving you thirty minutes of the rollers, but since you tried to lie to me, I can see now that that's far too kind." Watson was once more fiddling with his remote, the sight- as well as his words- filling Qrow with dread.
"Liars deserve to have their feet tickled for an hour, at least. At top speed."
The last sentence didn't make sense to Qrow until Watson pushed one more button.
To his absolute horror, the brush wheels began to spin.
"Please." It was a plea made from the depths of his soul, croaked out of a fear-tight throat. "Please, no. I beg you."
"And you beg so prettily." Watson had no mercy for his captive, only eager anticipation to watch him crumble. "Let's see if you tell me what I actually want to hear after an hour or two."
With that, the instruments of Qrow's demise were brought forward to press firmly against each of his poor, sensitive feet, and Qrow knew no more.
There was nothing more. Nothing but the inescapable, neverending drag of the wheels on his precious soles.
His feet were locked in a concentric loop of ticklish madness. There was no end, no crescendo like there had been under the strokes of the brush. The brush, for all Qrow dreaded and despised it, at least couldn't go on forever. It had to stop once it reached his toes before going back down to make another tortuous pass over his soles. The brush wasn't capable of touching him everywhere at once.
The rollers had no such limitations. Their size allowed them to reach the whole of Qrow's feet with ease, heartless in the way they tended to each of his most unbearable spots all at once, without a care for how Qrow couldn't handle such excessive attention on all of his weak points simultaneously.
He was sure he screamed (or perhaps brokenly sobbed) as much, how it was far too much for him to take, how he needed a break, how he was so, so sorry for lying, but nothing seemed to satisfy Watson, and so the rollers persisted.
They persisted for so long, Qrow couldn't believe he wasn't numb by now. Surely, the feeling should be less intense by now, his nerves growing dull from all the sensation being heaped upon them without pause. The limits of human anatomy had to save him at some point, right?
It was possible his half-formed musings had slipped out alongside his pleas, for he surfaced amidst a hazy window of lucidity with Watson murmuring in his ear.
"That wasn't just any oil being rubbed over your feet. It was a compound I created myself, designed specifically to keep one's nerves alert and receptive for hours. You're going to feel every second of this, my dear. Hold out as long as you want, I'm quite enjoying the show."
Qrow barely felt the parting kiss the man left on his cheek.
Watson might have lied about his name, and no doubt about anything else he had divulged to Qrow, but he had been completely honest about the effects of his formula. Not once did the tickling grow any less intense, any less unbearable, in the hours that followed.
In the end, the remnants of Qrow's sanity were saved by the fact that Watson's tincture didn't apply to his mind, allowing him to slip into a fitful twilight full of trembling toes and hoarse laughter.
