#strings does art

Images with handwritten text representing two speakers, with dialogue as follows: 

No.

You’re sure?

Mm-hm. Mmm-hhmm...

You’re really not going to tell me.

...nnf... no. 

What if I just… 

Ah!

...keep tickling this spot? 

Nnn–nah! ahaa...

Awfully ticklish right there, isn’t it?

...Mmf, fffah...

You wanna tell me yet?

Aheh!

How about… now?

Yah ahah! ah ah aaah... I won’t tell you! *hic* nngguuhh... please please, eee-

Oh, is this the spot? 

-eeehe! neh- no! nahaha...

Tell me, or else.

Ah! Hahaha-aah! stop stopstopstop no no no no no...

Tickle tickle...

“Yes, you, with the fancy coat.” Ed keeps the narration going while the man slips down front through the crowd. The coat does look like a period piece, nicely cut with a matching waistcoat beneath. “That is a very fine garment you’ve got there. Too fine, I think. Where’d you get it?”

The man stutters over an explanation, something about a gift– Ed largely ignores it, instead focusing on guiding the man’s momentum cleanly into the seat of the stocks. 

“Mhmm, likely story. Say, what’s your name, scallywag?”

“Scallywag?” The incredulous pitch of the scallywag’s voice nearly makes Ed snort as he lifts an unresisting ankle into the open stocks. “I’m a– a respectable gentleman!” Second ankle. “But, ah, my name is, um. Steve.”

Ed raises an eyebrow while he closes the stocks. “Steve? You sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure about my own n– oh, what… what are you doing?” He’s pretty cute when flustered, this Steve.

“Taking your shoes. You won’t need ‘em.” Ed sets each one carefully to the side. The stockinged feet left behind wiggle uncertainly. “Most folks don’t stumble when asked about their name, see. Makes me think we’re not really on the level with each other. And I’m really having a hard time believing that a jumpy fellow like yourself came by all this finery legitimate-like.”

Ed straightens, and puts on his projection voice for the crowd. “What say you? Is this man innocent, or guilty?”

A smattering of responses sprinkle in, but the girl near the front excitedly shrieks, “Guilty!”

“The people have spoken.” Ed pivots back to face the unwitting defendant, and he really can’t help the smirk. “Are you prepared to confess to your thieving crimes?”

“I haven’t stolen anything!”

“Your funeral,” Ed says with a shrug. He cracks his knuckles (the fingerless leather gloves of his costume lend to the intimidating vibe, he’s found), laces his fingers together and pushes them out in a stretch, then drops one wiggling finger onto the center of one vulnerable sole. 

“Wait, wai-haait!”

Ed keeps it going and begins his spiel on typical town square “corrective” behavior, while a verse and chorus of giggly protests pours from the seat behind him. He keeps an ear out for genuine distress, like always, but everything sounds bright and bubbly back there. 

“…even throwing rocks, but often the punishment of choice is tickling the feet. Harmless, but persuasive. Isn’t that right, Steve? Why don’t you tell me who you robbed blind for that fine outfit of yours?”

“Please, oh it tickles, you scoundrel–!”

It’s Ed’s turn for incredulity. “Scoundrel? Mate, you’ve got this sorely backwards. You’ll address me as Captain Blackbeard, Sir and you’ll speak the truth when I ask you a question.” 

It’s time for the first little ramp-up of the demonstration. One tickling finger can only entertain the crowd for so long, after all.

“Fang, would you come give me a hand, please? This deviant needs a little more convincing.”

There are eyelets installed at the top of the tall backrest, with shackles dangling from them. Not quite historically accurate ones, but what here is? (Fang’s choice of headwear is particularly egregious – but the studded pleather does give him a junkyard dog look, and since he’s the assistant muscle instead of the main presenter today, it works.) Ed abandons the foot he’s been gently tormenting and moves to crouch by well-dressed-Steve’s side as Fang lifts the man’s wrists to the shackles. The audience is starting to titter with sympathy.

“I’ll ask you again, Steve. Where did you steal this coat from?”

“I, I didn’t, I promise! It was a very nice present from, from a friend– oh god, ahah!”

Ed’s got a hand slipped inside that fancy coat, tickling now at a helpless armpit. It’s very warm up in there; the autumn hasn’t cooled quite enough to make this many layers necessary yet, and Steve’s body heat has been trapped inside. Ed bets it just feels that much more intense, so he makes sure to keep his touch lightly teasing – even though there’s an urge coiling inside him to really make this man scream.

“Only the guilty laugh when confronted with their crimes, mate.” He addresses the crowd again. “As you can see, we’ve got more than just feet to work with. Everything from legs to stomach, ribs to armpits can help extract a confession. In fact…”

Ramp-up number two. He reaches behind the backrest where his favorite theatrical aids have been hidden, and nods for Fang to do the same. 

In tandem, they both reveal large ostrich feathers with a flourish. The crowd laughs and cheers in surprise.

“Usually these are reserved for the damsels and wenches, but you look soft and sensitive enough, my friend. They’re torture for the neck and ears, I’m told. What say you? And address me respectfully, if you please.”

Ed dusts his plume at the crook of Steve’s neck. Fang mirrors on the other side, and oh it’s adorable how their victim erupts with pitchy, snorting giggles while he tries to retract his head like a turtle. His wrists swing in the shackles, fists balling, biceps straining. 

“I have nothing to confess!” the accused cries out. “Please, Captain, plee-hee-heese!”

The third and final ramp approaches. Ed guns it. 

He drops down on his good knee, keeps the feather dancing, and lobster-claws down the meat of Steve’s thigh. He spiders wickedly around the kneecap before delving beneath to the unprotected, stretched-in-midair knee pit below and, mm, there it is, the scrumptious sound of a scream-laugh. Ed pushes its pitch by continuing down Steve’s leg to his foot once again, where there’s no single-fingertip teasing this time; he rakes the open sole with scrabbling, ruthless fingers while the feather fluff-fluff-fluffs across ear and jaw.

“NO! No, no, nooo-ho! It’s the truth! Please, Ed, stah-haaahp!”

And just like that, everything stops. 

Ed creaks his way to standing – feels like it gets harder every season – and regards the sagging, panting man with resignation. 

“Maintaining your innocence even in the face the worst torture, eh? Perhaps you’re not a liar after all.” He sighs. “Welp. Disappointing, if you ask me.”

—

It’s barely four minutes after the crowd has dispersed and Ed’s plopped himself into a breakroom chair when Stede barges in to find him.

“You.”

Ed takes a glug from his water bottle, swallows it down. “Hey, Steve.”

“Steve nearly died today, I’ll have you know. Bastard.” 

Somehow it sounds like a term of endearment, even as Stede collapses dramatically into the chair next to him. Ed grins. 

“Not my fault Steve is so ticklish. Pick a different character next time. I quite liked Reed, though he seemed to have the same problem.”

Anybody else would probably flip Ed off, but Stede just waves a hand like Ed’s a buzzing fly. 

“You, just– just shut up.”

“Don’t worry, babe, I’ll make it up to you,” Ed promises. “When the last bus heads out, you and I can hang back to close the torture museum.” He leans toward Stede expectantly and waits for him to sigh and tip his head close enough for Ed to kiss it. “I promise nobody will be around to hear you beg me to tickle your tummy while you’re on the rack.”

Stede swipes the water bottle from Ed’s hand and drains it before settling back with closed eyes and a tiny, tired smile.