Qrow had long since lost track of how long he'd been held in the care of his new Masters. The days and nights blurred together, helped by how rarely he caught a glimpse out the window, until he could only distinguish the passage of time by means of when he'd last been fed.
In his opinion, he could do with that happening a little more frequently. He wasn't being starved, of course not. But with how often his Masters played with him, for hours at a time each day, he ought to be eating more to keep his energy topped up in order to take part.
Then again, their games didn't really require much from him in terms of active participation. For the most part, his role was to sit there- his slutty, wanton feet on prominent display- and revel in the attention his Masters showered him with, producing reactions to their individual liking.
It had taken Qrow some time to learn, but his Masters were nothing if not generous with their time in teaching him just what they wanted to see.
Master Watts enjoyed it when Qrow begged. He'd switch between the various toys at his disposal, until he found the one Qrow absolutely couldn't stand, which he'd then use exclusively, with Qrow stammering out pathetic little pleas and entreaties for mercy, well aware each time that he wasn't going to get any. (And why should he? Tender soles like Qrow's, his Masters explained to him, had no purpose other than to be tickled mercilessly all hours of the day. They deserved it after all for being so sensitive, so debauched and enticing. They were all but begging for the treatment his Masters so graciously provided them.)
Master Tyrian, he liked it when Qrow cried. One of his favorite things to do was lick all over Qrow's sweet soles, until his sobs got nice and hysterical, before moving to lap the tears off his face. Other times, he'd relentlessly scrub his feet with a brush in each hand, angling his wrists every which way to make Qrow produce all manner of wails and cries as his various weak spots were assaulted in countless directions, like a maestro conducting an orchestra.
When his Masters really felt like catching him off guard, Qrow would be awoken in the morning (at least, he assumed it was morning) with the rollers being forced harshly against his soles, to be removed only once he managed to recite his daily line without pausing to laugh or whimper or sob.
"Thank you, Masters, for giving your tickle toy the treatment he deserves."
He was rewarded for his obedience, for his performance as a proper tickle slave. Obedience had gotten him his own room, complete with a bed (that he rarely fell asleep in, mostly just woke up in after dozing off in his special chair) and numerous books to occupy himself with, seperate from the playroom and the rooms where his Masters (mostly Watts) did their work.
Qrow wasn't sure what he did in there- he'd been warned not to concern himself with things beyond his capacity to understand- only that his Master often returned afterwards looking both accomplished and in need of some serious stress-relief, which just so happened to be the very service that Qrow was there to provide.
His Masters rarely went easy on him in their playtime, but Watts tended to be especially... aggressive when it came to his wind-down from work. One might even say vindictive, in the way he worked Qrow's soles over with a single minded determination to drive him absolutely insane.
Qrow believed that this round, he just might succeed.
He'd already known he was in for one hell of a session when Watts had burst out of his office, eyes alight with a sadistic gleam that meant he was eager to make his tickle toy suffer.
Once he had been stripped and properly arranged in his special chair (limbs cuffed, legs raised, and toes tied), his feet gleaming with a fresh coat of oil, Watts wasted no time getting right into his devious de-stress routine. Qrow was first visited by his old foe, the brush, helpless to stifle his shrieks and guffaws as it raked its way across his tender soles.
Amidst those myriad sounds being forced out of him, Qrow caught snatches of his Master's angry muttering. Something about "childsplay compared to what I could've-" and "never appreciated my genius-". The spiteful fury in his voice was mirrored in his brutal strokes with the brush, like he was taking all of his frustrations out on Qrow's poor, helpless soles.
Let it never be said that Watts couldn't be quite a mean Master at times.
Mean really was the only way to describe it, the treatment Qrow's feet were receiving. His worst spots were scrubbed without mercy, no matter how it made him writhe and scream. When the brush left one foot in favor of raining hell down on the other, Watts' fingers were quick to take its place, ensuring neither foot was granted a reprieve from their tickling.
The reaction that followed was hardly unexpected.
"Tears?" his Master scoffed when Qrow gazed at him pitifully, eyes overflowing from such ruthless ministrations to his sensitive soles. "Did you mistake me for Tyrian? I don't want to hear you bawl, pretty bird." he leaned closer, somehow ramping up the speed of his scrubbing, and grinned at Qrow's subsequent wail. "I want to hear you beg."
At that, part of Qrow wanted to sob harder. Watts did enjoy listening to him plead and beg for mercy, he knew. For someone with such a superior intellect, hearing his slave try and stumble over his words to string together a half-coherent plea that he not be tickled had to be quite amusing.
He also knew that, second to hearing those desperate requests for a break, for it to end, Watts' favorite thing to do was deny them.
But what choice did Qrow really have in the matter? His tongue, his words- like the rest of him- was there to be used for the satisfaction of his Masters. If Watts wanted to hear him stutter out some pathetic little invocation for relief, only to ignore it wholeheartedly... he'd be within his rights to do so.
That didn't stop Qrow from hoping that perhaps this time, he'd grant his request.
"P-please, Master," he began shakily, wrestling with the laughter being forced out his throat. "can my b-big, dumb feet please have a break?"
Watts smirked, reducing his movements to long, slow drags across sensitive skin as he questioned, "And why should they get one, my pet?"
"Because-" Qrow threw his head back, flexing every muscle he possessed as he felt the brush dig into his poor, defenseless feet. "'cause you're usin' the brush! You know I can't hahahandle the brush!" It seemed Qrow was becoming redundant in the throes of his torment, the way he was pointlessly reasserting well-established facts. Both he and his Master were aware of just how susceptible he was to a mean, hard brushing; how the feel of all those nasty little bristles raking firmly across his soles was nothing short of unbearable.
It was the reason both his Masters favored it so.
"Please," Qrow was beyond desperate, throwing out whatever he thought his Master might want to hear that could get him a respite from the brush. "my feet are really- ahahahah!- really tired of the brush! Can't you teach them their place with something else?!"
It was a risky venture, attempting to make any sort of suggestion when it had already been made abundantly clear that Qrow had no say in how these sessions proceeded. He'd been informed more than once that it wasn't his place to determine at what point he'd endured 'enough' tickling, or how severe a punishment his feet deserved for their wanton sensitivity and seductiveness.
The last time he had dared to 'whine like an impudent little tart' according to Tyrian, he had earned himself what felt like an eternity of the rollers being wedged tightly against his bound soles, wailing and laughing his heart out to an unsympathetic audience of two (it had initially just been Tyrian watching him suffer eagerly, but Watts had joined him not much later, lured over by the siren song that was their toy's cries of misery).
The memory alone made dread pool in Qrow's stomach, but it was outweighed by the sheer devastation Watts was currently wreaking on his soles with that godawful brush, and he could only hope his Master might for once take his words into account.
To Qrow's complete and utter astonishment, he did.
The excruciating, dreadful scrubbing on his tender soles vanished, leaving him with only the barest caress of cool air against heated flesh as Watts withdrew the brush.
"Something else, you say?" his Master repeated softly, not looking at him as he placed the brush on a nearby table. "You'd like me to use something other than the brush?"
"I-If it pleases you, sir." Qrow scrambled for his manners, lest he be accused of impertinence. "It's just, y-you've used the brush so much, and I'm sure you have other t-tickle tools to try."
Watts gave a quiet chuckle at that, before turning to look at him.
(There was a game Tyrian liked to play with Qrow. He'd bring up one of his old Huntsman missions- selected from the countless reports Watts had hacked for the Faunus- and casually inquire about certain details. Which Kingdom the job had taken place in. What kind of reward had been offered. How many Grimm he'd killed in the process.
It would've been a difficult, but manageable test for Qrow, were it not for the additional challenge Tyrian liked to include. Within one of the questions he posed, there would be an error, an inaccuracy of some kind that wasn't true to the events of the mission.
Qrow lost their game if he failed to spot the inconsistency.
'It says here you vanquished twenty Grimm on this expedition in Vacuo eight years ago, for a twelve hundred lien bounty. What kind were they, dearest?'
'They were... they were Beowolves, I remember. A pack of twenty.'
A sharp, theatrical hiss of dismay from the Faunus.
'No no! Wait! Wait it was-'
'Forty Beowolves, that day in the desert! Quite impressive for a lone Huntsman. Compared to that, I'm sure you can handle, say... forty minutes of lapping on those sweet soles of yours?'
'Please, no! I'm begging you, sir, please don't lick them! Give me another chance!'
'Crying already? Qrow you are just too delectable! How do you expect me to resist?'
'Not the licking, not the licking, I'll do anythAHAHAHAHA-')
Meeting eyes with Watts, Qrow experienced a similar feeling to having missed Tyrian's sly subterfuge.
Like his fate had been sealed, and he'd just babbled his way into a hell of his own making.
"Wouldn't you know, it just so happens that I do have another toy to test out." Watts informed him silkily. "It's quite a special little tool, something I've been working on for some time now, just for you."
That same dread from before began to creep back in, its presence all the more notable without the ceaseless tickling to distract from it. His Master reserved this voice for when he planned to be particularly cruel.
"You see, I wanted something more... dexterous." Watts began a leisurely lap around his chair, like a Sabyr circling its prey. "These brushes and rollers and talons, they're serviceable, but they don't quite move the way I want them to. I want to be able to follow every curve and contour your feet possess, reach all those lovely little spots that make you sing so sweetly for me. Something with an intuitive design."
He gave the ever present rings- tiny controllers through which he could manipulate all manner of tech- on his fingers a flourish.
"I'm almost embarrassed to admit how long it took me to realize I had already established the model to base it off of. It's been a while since someone's made me too aroused to think, you should know." he paid no heed to Qrow's rising flush, instead giving him his back as he delved inside his chest of toys. "I developed these rings to work in accordance with my gestures, allowing me to achieve far greater results than by merely typing away at a keyboard. This new toy employs the same concept. You could say it lets me take matters into my own hands."
Turning back around, he presented Qrow with his hands clad in a pair of gloves.
Only, they were unlike any gloves Qrow had ever seen.
They were so, so much worse.
Crafted from a thick black material, the gloves were secured by wide velcro straps around his wrists, and their surface was covered in what looked like spikes, with larger, bulkier ones on the palms, while the fingers' protrusions were finer and more numerous.
As if they had been made for tickling, Qrow thought fearfully, before he realized such was actually the case considering their creator. They emulated the worst part of the brush with all those devious little points, and the straps holding the gloves in place meant Watts could rub and stroke as viciously as he desired without fear of them becoming dislodged.
With the tool now no bigger than his finger, Watts could easily reach all the spots the brush hadn't been able to get to. His toes- the devastatingly sensitive areas in between- were now at the mercy of those delicate finger prongs, just like the defenseless expanse of his soles were to the wide, unforgiving spikes that covered the palms.
"I wasn't sure when to introduce you to them, in truth." Watts told him glibly, tugging his new weapons on more securely. "Based on all the tests I ran, these are going to tickle on a whole other level than what you've experienced thus far, so much that I was planning on saving them for when you'd behaved especially badly. But here you are, asking me to try out something new."
He should've known, Qrow cursed himself bitterly as he felt more oil flow over his feet in preparation for his coming torment. He should've know Watts would manage to devise a worse version of the brush, that he'd only ever grant his request for a change if it meant he could bring in something even more torturous.
It was obvious Watts was in a vindictive mood, why had he ever thought to ask him to use something else? Why hadn't he just taken his brushing in stride, instead of opening his mouth and trying to make suggestions? Tickle slaves didn't make suggestions. They accepted whatever sort of tickling they were given (even if it was with the brush, and it was incredibly unfair because they'd had the brush used on them for hours yesterday when each Master had picked a foot and competed to see who could make him scream the loudest, and it wasn't his fault that his Master was in a bad mood, but his feet were being punished like he was to blame, even though he'd been so good and well behaved and said his line just right and hadn't done anything to deserve such meanness towards his soles, they were so incredibly sensitive didn't Master know it would be too much he couldn't handle those gloves please don't use those gloves they looked so awful he was terrified-)
"And I'm nothing if not an indulgent Master to my darling slave." Watts cooed. He paused for a moment, and it was in the same soft, mockingly innocent voice that he questioned, "Crying again? And after getting what you asked for, too? I'm sure I'll love the excuse you give this time."
Was he crying? Qrow hadn't realized.
In truth, he hadn't been all too aware of his outward expression for the past few moments, so consumed with his horrified spiraling from within. Perhaps his body had just reacted on its own, instinctually aware of the only proper response to the fate that awaited him.
Jolted back to the present somewhat by his Master's question, he could feel it now, the tracks of wetness rolling down his cheeks. (Much like before, it was far from an unexpected response.)
Watts wanted to know why?
"It's gonna tickle." Qrow certainly sounded like he was crying, with the way his voice came out in a hoarse, unsteady whisper. Such was the bitter sadness that came hand in hand with misery.
There was abject terror present, too, all but dripping from each word. Bone-deep fear for his soles (his poor, sensitive, defenseless soles), for his sanity (slowly being stripped away with every one of these kinds of sessions), for the future of both of his precious commodities once Watts realized just how entirely this toy would no doubt destroy him.
Perhaps it was that fear that caused his responses to be so threadbare and stuttering.
"It's gonna t-tickle so m-much. I won't b-be able to t-take it." he croaked helplessly, unable to tear his eyes away from the gloves on his Master's hands. His feet were already tingling, and the things hadn't even touched him yet. Qrow had no doubt it would do a lot more than tingle when all those bristles made contact, each individual spine and prong specifically designed to tickle its victim beyond any hope of recovery.
"Y-You were right, Master. Before, with the b-brush. You know just what my dumb, slutty feet need, and I shouldn't've complained. I deserve to have them brushed, r-really hard all over, for t-trying to question you. You should use two of 'em, actually! I'm sure it'll make me scream- or!- or pass out like that one time! You don't hafta use th-those."
It wasn't working. Qrow was trembling, crying, too much to put forth an adequate stream of supplication. This wasn't the caliber of begging that would cause Watts, after untold hours of systematic torment on Qrow's helpless soles, to declare he'd had enough fun for the day, his appetite for his slave's suffering sated.
This paltry, insufficient type of pleading only served to make him hungrier.
"The fact that you're reacting so strongly suggests that I do." Watts informed him smoothly, squashing any hope Qrow might've had for anything less than an unspeakbly ticklish time for his soles, shortly.
It was really happening. Those gloves, the end result of highly exacting engineering by a scientist who's favorite pastime was tormenting his slave's feet, were about to be used on him. There was nothing he could do to protect his soles from his Master's fiendish fondling, no way to spare them from the approaching ticklish disaster.
"Maybe next time," Watts' had the tone of someone eager to administer a person's just desserts, the sadism just barely kept at bay. He raised his gloved hand above it's target, the vulnerable expanse of Qrow's left sole, ready to descend upon it with the most torturous weapon in his arsenal.
Qrow could only squeeze his eyes shut in preparation for the assault.
"you'll think twice before trying to question your intellectual superior."
The glove made its first drag across the length of his sole, a decidedly firm swipe from heel to toe, and Qrow shattered.
Watts' new tool hardly encountered any friction on its path across his sole, owing to the liberal coating of oil that'd been applied, which meant every one of its wicked spikes and points and barbs were free to glide across the skin beneath them with ease, bringing unrelenting, ticklish agony with every inch of sole they traversed.
("NOOOHOHOHOOOO!")
There was no unwieldy, rigid firmness behind the touches like there had been with the brush. No, these were caresses shaped by his Master's own hand, conforming to his every movement as he worked to trawl his way across the entirety of Qrow's foot.
("Fuck! Please- PLEHEHEASE-")
With Qrow whimpering and whinging all the while, Watts slotted the fingers of one hand in between his toes, making certain they weren't spared a second of rubbing by all the tiny bristles dotting his digits, before pulling them back to better expose the wide plane of his sole.
("Waitwaitwait- Master, you're not gonna- you can't-")
He proceeded to rub his slave's sole with the palm of his other glove so vigorously, his hand was little more than a blur.
(The sound this engendered from Qrow was quite something; starting off as a shrill, piercing shriek, before eventually dwindling to a low, miserable moan interspersed with fraught laughter.)
Eventually, both gloves settled into place against their respective soles, where they adopted a torturous rythm to their movements. At times, they'd make their way up and down the tender skin available to them as one, motions nice and slow and exacting. Other times, they'd trade off, completing the agonizing seesaw on one side first before the other would follow suit.
(The mockery of a break was lost on Qrow, who was caught between fighting to endure the awful sensation on one foot and simultaneously dreading when it would be the next one's turn to suffer.)
"I'm sorry, Master." was his constant refrain, croaked out past hoarse giggles and quavering sobs. The overwhelming, unbearable tickling had served to quiet his mind, reducing it to nothing but the tenets he'd been taught to live by as a tickle slave.
When his Masters gave his lascivious, unchaste feet an especially intense treatment after he'd so rudely disrespected one of them, his only option was repentance. He would not whine, or complain, or dare to suggest such a punishment was anything less than he deserved. He would only profess his remorse.
"You're right to tickle my soles as harshly as you can. It's kinder than they deserve after my impertinence."
He wouldn't be enduring such severe tickling if he'd kept his mouth shut. Every soul-rending drag from those gloves, every devastating stroke across far-too-sensitive-soles, was well earned.
"I promise I'll do better to be worthy of your attention." And he would, Brothers as his witness. The next time Master Watts wanted a convenient, sufficiently tender target to vent his frustrations over whatever work he got up to, Qrow wouldn't even think of complaining about his soles being the chosen recipient of his ire. He'd accept his brushing, or scrubbing, or stroking without protest; would offer the most humble, eloquent pleas for mercy his Master had ever heard. And when Watts simply tickled him harder in response, determined to make his soles suffer beyond what he could possibly hope to withstand... Qrow would deal with it.
Watts, predictably, wasn't all that moved by Qrow's declaration of newfound resolve. He still spent a good hour, perhaps longer, familiarizing himself with the myriad of moves and motions he could perform with his new gloves, and the various degrees to which they tickled Qrow down to his very core. His soles were a bright, overworked red by the time he drew things to a close, giving each of Qrow's big toes an affectionate pinch before moving to strip off his gloves.
"Whew," the scientist huffed, flexing his hands and fingers to work out any residual stiffness or tension. "That was quite an undertaking, I'd say. Suppose I lost track of the time in all the fun." with a vague handwave, he unlocked the restraints binding Qrow to the chair, and popped the latch on the stocks. He made no move to help him out of it, they both knew it would be some time before Qrow had full command of his limbs, and even longer before his feet could abide the short walk to his room.
"You were lovely as always, darling." Qrow, in his hazy, listless state, felt him lay a hand on the side of his face, and quietly relished the contact. "I trust you learned your lesson about speaking out of turn, yes? You know I'll always give you a correction when you need it, but Tyrian will start complaining that I'm hoarding all your tears for myself."
Qrow managed a dazed nod, words sufficiently beyond him at the moment. He'd learned his lesson, provided the widening sieve of his mind permitted him to retain this knowledge. (With how dearly tender his soles would no doubt be the following day, he was confident he'd remember this.)
"Excellent. I'll let you see yourself to your room at your discretion. Until tomorrow, pretty bird."
Briefly, Qrow thought that the affectionate sweep of his thumb against his cheek would be the last he'd feel of his Master's touch until the next session.
It was to be expected that, as he moved to exit the room, Watts would spare the time to give one last, cruel rake of his fingers over Qrow's weary soles, chuckling at the helpless wail it incurred.
Qrow had said he would strive to be a good tickle slave.
Watts never claimed he would be any less of a mean Master.