These days, all Tim did was dream of fire.
The Forest shudders under a canopy of smoke, trees groaning as flames crawl up their trunks …
In the clearing stands Miller, head tilted back, cackling at the painted sky; his white tuxedo is no longer immaculate - it hangs in tatters, scorched and clinging, streaked with dirt and blood - his face is wrecked: lips split, teeth pink, skin blistered and peeling into ash, every breath he exhales sends another flake of himself drifting into the firelit air …
Above him, at the top of the blue stone staircase, Tim stands at the threshold of Stage Door Six; The Dome looms before him, fractured and flickering, while beyond the doorframe lies freedom: the real world, a world where everything will be known, all secrets out, footage of he and Tom tormented for points, streamed to millions across the globe … He has one foot forward, pressed into that other life.
The other foot is still planted on the stage, in the false world Miller built for him, for all of them …
The Dome is collapsing, rafters splitting, spotlights hissing as they crash into flame, let Miller never moves …
His eyes lock on Tim, wide and shining with a sick devotion, his laughter cracks into coughing, then back into manic glee, spraying blood across his teeth …
“… If you walk through that door …” he rasps, voice raw and venomous, “… If you let this world burn behind you … You’re worse than I ever was …”
The words land heavier than fire, echoing through the clearing; Miller’s body begins to stiffen, flames coiling up his legs like serpents … He doesn’t scream when the fire takes him; he only smiles, the blaze swallowing him whole until he hardens into amber, frozen mid-laugh, a grotesque relic …
The inferno rises as Tim feels the heat scorch his face …
… Whhhhhhoooooooooosssssshhh!
Tim threw himself forward, awaking with a gasp.
His chest heaves as he sits upright, damp with sweat, the echo of Miller’s words still ringing in his skull …
The bedroom is quiet.
No fire, no Dome, no Miller.
Only the faint sound of traffic thirty feet below and the hurried hush of a January storm pressing against the windows.
Beside him, Armie stirred.
He sat up slowly and placed a palm over Tim’s back, squinting as the morning grey gleamed into his eyes.
“Another nightmare?” He asked …
“This is the story Hollywood never wanted you to read - ★★★★★” - Michael Moore
“Some scandals leave Washington. Some leave Hollywood. And some, like this one, leave scars on everyone who watched.
They’re calling it Ticklegate - the night a secret fetish cult called ‘The House of White Feathers’ collapsed in front of the entire world. On Christmas Eve, families were ready to gather around the television set to watch something expected, like It’s a Wonderful Life … Instead, they got the unexpected …
Crowds gathered in Times Square. Teenagers clipped it on TikTok. Overnight, what began as a twisted game became a global spectacle.
And at the center of it - Timothée Chalamet.
Not just an high profile, Oscar nominated actor anymore, but a cultural wound. A symbol of how far we will go for entertainment. A reminder of the thin line between laughter, and cruelty.
Months later, he breaks his silence …
I’m Anderson Cooper, coming up on tonight’s show …”
Anderson: “Did you really not know that you and the others had been kept there for six months? …”
Timothée: “We had no idea. Every day felt like the next day within the week. Why does everyone find that so hard to believe?”
HYPNOTISED TO FORGET, FORCED INTO LAUGHTER!
Anderson: “The finale went out live. Families at Christmas tuned in to what was basically porn. Times Square was hijacked. There are a lot of people into this stuff that would consider that the best day of their life. Your fans, over nineteen and half million of them on Instagram alone, watched you endure something as ridiculous as tickle torment on their iPhones. What does that do to you?”
Timothée: “It breaks you, man … Can I, uh, have a minute?—”
THE QUESTION THAT DIVIDES THE WORLD - VICTIM OR COMPLICIT, PERFORMANCE OR PLEASURE?
Anderson: “Did you ever enjoy it?”
Timothée: “I survived it …”
Anderson: “That’s not what I asked …”
AFTER THE DOME’S COLLAPSE CAME THE FALLOUT …
Anderson: “What has life looked like since?”
Timothée: “I’m … Doing my best. Directors stopped picking up the phone. I get people shouting at me on the street, I get people trying to touch me in public. I don’t go out much. This past year, I dunno, man. I haven’t been a person. I’ve been a piece of meat …”
BIEBER: BLACKMAILED. HOLLAND: LURED. LERMAN: ‘NO ONE SAFE.’ NOW - CHALAMET: ‘WHY I SAID YES.’
Anderson: “In your book, you say the cult promised you everything for one week; molested, privately, alongside others. Obviously that turned into something else. Hear me out. You’re a two-time Oscar nominee, the face of Chanel. Why say yes? Did they have leverage over you?”
Timothée: Molested? Man, it just seemed like an easy option at the time. Tickled for a world of endless possibilities? The thought process at the time was more, ‘why not?’
Anderson: Is that the truth?
HAMMER NAMED IN TICKLEGATE SPECULATION - FROM CO-STAR TO CO-CONSTRUCTOR - TIMOTHÉE FIRES BACK!
Anderson: “Let’s address the speculation about Armie Hammer - that his hand was deeper in this than we’ve heard. How do you answer that?”
Timothée: “I say bullsh-”beeeeeep!
Tim sat on the edge of Armie’s cushioned sofa, his fingertips hovering over the letters of a keyboard.
A MacBook balanced on his knees, its glow reflecting faintly in the lenses of his eyes; blue jeans were bunched at his thighs, Nike Air Max trainers still planted on the rug as though he hadn’t moved for hours …
The living room was dark save for two sources of light: the muted blue glow of the television opposite, and the shifting page-wash of the laptop screen - each flicker painted his face in strokes of exhaustion, hunger, and something deeper …
Beer bottles, in their few and emptied, huddled on the low table beside two collapsed Chinese takeout boxes, their grease-stained cardboard folded like discarded evidence.
On the screen, TKLFrat.com loaded another thread. Tim’s name dominated its title line, the digital text stark and cruel in its bluntness: “Chalamet Xmas Clip - Complete Rip, 5min Download: $50,000.” …
The footage had now gone commercially viral, recut, redistributed, resold; a year-old memory, Christmas Eve, Tom screaming beside him in the restraints, now currency, fetishized and catalogued - commenters dissected it like scripture: “The greatest public tickling since Efron on SNL 2009 …”
Tim’s pupils dragged left, right, faster, skimming usernames, timestamps, the casual cruelty of strangers selling off his hysteria like bootleg DVDs. His lips parted without sound, his breath shallow, quickened, as if he were chasing the words faster than the page could scroll. His fingers clicked through tabs, forums, blogs, clips, mirrored drives, an endless rabbit hole of his ticklishness and vulnerability, once known only to himself, then he and Armie, then Miller, now the world ...
On another screen he was trending. X, the site everyone still called Twitter, pulsed with hashtags: #TimmyTickled, #TickleGate, #TicklishTom … They’d been welded to the top two spots for almost an entire year, never truly falling. Their names didn’t just trend. They lived there, a permanent shrine, a scar carved into the internet’s memory …
Armie’s living room pressed in close with silence, broken only by the droning television. Its glow bathed the room in restless light, half-painting the outline of Tim’s hunched shoulders, the silhouette of his restless hands. His eyes seemed lit from within - darting, greedy, fevered … An obsession devouring an obsession.
News at Six began with a report, the news readers voice speaking into the living room with a commanding tone …
“… New details have emerged from the ongoing investigation into the events inside The Dome. Authorities have confirmed the deaths of Miller Jones and two participating males known as Peter and John, attributing the tragedy to the cult’s elaborate and sadistic mechanisms. Officials stressed again today that the surviving participants, actor Kit Connor, singer Joshua Bassett, MCU hero Sebastian Stan, Oscar nominated Timothée Chalamet, Spider-Man’s Tom Holland, singer Ross Lynch, and actor Logan Lerman, bear no responsibility for the fatalities. According to investigators, the incident has been classified as a catastrophic accident, the result of the cult’s extreme and twisted practices …”
Tim blinked slowly and closed the MacBook with a click.
“… In related news, singer Justin Bieber has been taken into custody following an alleged assault outside his Los Angeles residence. Police reports indicate Bieber struck an intruder who had attempted to force entry into his home. The suspect, described as an obsessive fan, reportedly intended to ‘tickle’ the singer. This marks the third such intrusion in the last five months, raising new concerns over celebrity security in the wake of what the world has come to call ‘Ticklegate’ …”
The news anchor’s voice droned on, clinical, distant, threading through the low hum of the television. Tim barely registered it, his eyes were locked on the endless stream of scrolling names of the young men he had lived with for what he thought was a week, when in actuality, it had been six months …
He didn’t hear the floorboards creak. He didn’t sense the weight of another figure behind him. Without warning, the screen went black.
The sudden absence jolted Tim like a slap; his head lifted sharply, eyes blinking, mouth parting as if surfacing from underwater.
Only then did Tim notice Armie standing there, remote loose in his hand, broad shoulders set with quiet finality. Armie’s eyes didn’t leave him, steady and unflinching.
“I have something I need to show you,” Armie said.
The office door closed with a muted click, shutting out the rest of the apartment, leaving only the sound of rain slashing against the tall New York windows.
The city beyond was dim, grey, its skyline swallowed by storm clouds - a desk lamp cast a pale, amber pool across the office- its circle of light falling over nothing but chaos …
“This,” Armie said, his voice low, steady, almost hesitant, “Is … a different kind of obsession,” he paused, corrected himself, “No. Not obsession … A hunt …”
The oak office desk was littered with evidence of that hunt; polaroids and photographs, some clearly taken by Armie, others by people he had paid to dig in places he couldn’t go - mansions stood in glossy frames: sprawling estates, remote compounds, secluded castles, the kinds of places The House of White Feathers might have used to host their twisted games …
Between them, scribbled notes, half-torn receipts, envelopes stained with coffee rings - the floor was scattered with crumpled drafts, balled paper that Tim’s Nike’s now brushed through, silent echoes of Armie’s restless frustration.
On the walls, maps had been nailed, taped, pinned in layers - creases and stains crossing oceans and continents; threads looped wildly between cities: New York, Paris, Amsterdam. A thick black line stretched across the Atlantic, ending in Sweden. A heavy “?” scrawled over the country in thick marker ink, as though Armie had stabbed the map with his pen in rage.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat sentinel on the desk, its glass companion waiting beside it, catching the lamplight. Lightning flared through the window, bleaching the room white for a heartbeat before thunder cracked, deep and shaking.
“You’re not the only one who’s had something on their mind,” Armie went on, his eyes stayed on the maps, though his words were for Tim, “When Peter led Maxwell and I purposefully towards false hope, I knew something was different. I started my own hunt. I didn’t care about anything else …”
Tim’s index finger curled around a red piece of thread nailed to Sweden, where it eventually frayed, not to be pinned again.
“Eventually, they caught wind of how hard I was trying and allowed me to try and see you,” Armie continued, “They used me to trick you into thinking what you were going through was real. You might’ve only thought you saw me, or heard from me, once or twice … I’d visited you in there, threatened to be silent, dozens and dozens of times …” he stepped closer towards Tim, “… One time I snapped. I tried to tell you, I risked everything to tell you …”
Tim’s eyelashes fluttered shut as blurred replays of him, seated in The Mansion, hands bound behind his back, Armie shrieking, ‘DON’T DO THIS, TIM! WAKE THE FUCK UP!’ … How could he not remember being made to forget? How was such a block to the mind so easily put in place? Tim gulped in frustration and turned his back to Armie.
The storm rattled at the window, beads of rain dragging down the glass like claws; for a moment, Tim just stood there, small within his hoodie, hollow-eyed, broken open by the wreckage of his name across the internet …
Five years ago, he stood in this apartment with nothing but debt as COVID forced everything to a close; Armie offered financial support in exchange for a feathered caress down Tim’s throat; ten million dollars for thirty days of submission …
Then Tim became the one in charge - cinemas reopened, the pandemic ended, he no longer needed Armie or his touch, but he wanted him and it, that in itself was enough to instill power within Tim. All Armie could do was obey.
Now the tables had turned for the final time; Tim had been shamed, made infamous by the content lighting up Times Square on Christmas Eve - he was lost, ammo-less, only known as ticklish, while Armie stood with that overwhelming ability to do the one thing that started all of this, the one thing that Tim came knocking for half a decade ago: the ability to help.
Slowly, Armie stepped forward, cautious but deliberate - his size filled the room, his presence like gravity - they met toe to toe, Tim tilting his chin up just enough to press his forehead into Armie’s chest …
Tim closed his eyes, his lips barely moved as he whispered into Armie’s t-shirt, “… You found me.”
Another strike of lightning ripped across the sky, casting them both in white.
Armie’s hands lifted to Tim’s hood, peeling it back, brushing the damp curls away from his forehead, “… We found each other.”
Tim’s eyes fluttered open just as he leaned upward, pressing his mouth to Armie’s in a kiss that tasted of storm air and desperation.
Thunder rolled like a drumbeat, deep and resonant; the office, the maps, the mess of obsession, none of it mattered anymore as Armie drew Tim into his arms, the kiss deepening, desperation giving way to something surer …
The hoodie slipped from Tim’s shoulders as if it had never belonged to him at all …
And with the storm outside roaring as witness, they collapsed into a romantic embrace that pulled them from the office, step by step, until the doorway gave way to the bedroom.
Armie’s palm rested gently against the curve of Tim’s bare back as Tim pushed himself upright in the bed, chest rising and falling with the remnants of shallow panic.
The sheets clung damp to their bodies, stained by sweat and the heat of the storm that still hammered at the apartment windows.
“Another nightmare?” Armie’s voice was quiet, careful, the words more a recognition than a question.
Tim only nodded, eyes lowered, before letting his body sink back down beside Armie’s.
Their naked limbs tangled again, the cotton sheets folding around them like a loose shroud.
Silence filled the room, broken only by the hiss of rain against glass, the occasional growl of thunder.
Tim lay flat on his back, staring upward into the shadowed ceiling.
Armie remained on his side, head propped on one hand, gaze resting on Tim.
It was a conversation without words: a steady, unbroken exchange through eyes, breath, and presence …
Cautiously, Armie extended a hand.
He traced the faintest line across Tim’s stomach with his index finger, so light it might have been imagined …
Down to his hip, then up again over the bed sheet …
The touch revealed what Tim was not hiding: his arousal, thick and flushed, straining upward beneath the folds.
Armie’s brows twitched - he had watched Tim come once, twice, three times already in the past five hours, as if his body were determined to prove that it belonged to him again, not to The Dome, not to Maxwell, not to the cult, but here, now, in this bed.
For Tim, the sensation was grounding - this was no steel chamber, no sadist’s arena, no sterile tickle machine wound with wires and intent - this was Armie; human, flawed, craving - flesh on flesh, lust meeting lust, a simple acknowledgement that made all the difference.
Armie hesitated.
His hand lingered above Tim’s erection, trembling with restraint, before he pulled back …
He cleared his throat softly and buried his hand between his own thighs, as though denying himself something forbidden.
Tim’s eyes caught the movement - the gesture read like rejection, like doubt, as if Armie believed he had lost the right to touch him, as if Maxwell’s endless training, as if the trials within The Dome, his public humiliations, had robbed this intimacy of its uniqueness … Did Armie believe the cult had won after all?
Armie rolled away, his back now to Tim.
Tim couldn’t bear it.
He shifted closer, pressing his chest to Armie’s broad back, arms slipping around him.
He breathed deep against Armie’s shoulder, letting the warmth of his embrace speak.
The gesture wasn’t lust, but reassurance: this is real, this is us. No masked voyeur, no A.I tentacle, no fetishist’s conspiracy could ever cheapen it …
As the storm began to wane, thunder faded into the distance and Armie felt the quiet strength of Tim’s arms tightening around him - those arms whispered a truth without words: where else would I be?
Slowly, Armie turned to face him; his expression was heavy with guilt, his eyes confessing what his mouth would not: I started this. I led you here. To Miller. To The House. To all of it.
Tim leaned up, closing the space with a kiss.
His lips lingered afterwards, breath mingling, his erection pressing insistently into Armie’s thigh … The message was clear; Tim did not blame him. What began between them had grown into something neither could have predicted. It wasn’t corruption. It was just their reality.
But then, in a mirror of the morning’s beginning, Armie broke away.
He sat up sharply, pulling himself from Tim’s lips, from his arms, as if the weight of realisation had crushed the moment flat.
Now it was Tim who remained on his back, reaching up, placing a hand gently on Armie’s shoulder, just as Armie had comforted him minutes earlier.
The storm outside refused to budge, clouds still dark black, streaks of lightning flashing into the bedroom …
Armie looked around the familiar walls, the furniture, the bed, every object tethered to a chain of memory, memories that ran from playful beginnings to blackmail, humiliation, public shame … And the death of Miller, Peter and John.
His throat tightened, his jaw set.
Finally, he spoke, his voice heavy with resolve but edged with fragile hope.
“Do you want to disappear?”
The desert had baked the motel walls into a haze of gold and dust, Route 66 humming faintly in the distance.
Armie had already sealed the world away: cash passed to the receptionist, keys to the surrounding rooms bought out in exchange for solitude … Privacy now had to be purchased, if they really wanted to do this properly.
Tim’s rucksack hit the bed with a muted thud beside Armie’s, two lives packed into canvas, each bag carrying whatever they thought might help them restart.
They didn’t speak about the past - Italy was overrun with cameras; the villa where Call Me By Your Name had been shot was crawling with tourists eager to see where it all began - here, in the bleached heat of the Los Angeles desert, anonymity still existed.
They undressed only halfway, not out of hesitation but ritual - Armie shrugged off his blazer, shoulders loosening, while Tim pulled free of his leather jacket, skin beneath damp from the journey.
They sat together on the edge of the bed, pressed close, lips touching first in something tentative, then hungrier, deeper, until the sound of their mouths replaced the hum of the ceiling fan.
Armie’s hands moved without hurry, unzipping Tim’s rucksack and fishing through its contents until something cold and familiar glinted between his fingers: leather cuffs tied to blue rope.
The rule was simple, Armie had stated it himself.
Each pack a bag with items. Keep what is inside the bag secret.
The fact that Tim had packed restraints turned his voice to a low whisper, threaded with promise:
“I’ll help you forget.”
Tim clenched his teeth as his palm cupped Armie’s crotch, pressing against the hardness growing beneath his trousers.
He held him there, thumb shifting deliberately until Armie swelled fully in his grip.
It would take a lot to make him disregard his experience within The Dome, alongside the other young men tricked into thinking they had been there a week.
His final words were a dare, though his eyes betrayed the anticipation he always carried in these moments - that perfect mixture of fear and thrill.
“You’ll have to ruin me.”
Tim lay completely stretched out on the stripped mattress, the double bed reduced to nothing but cold frame and bare sheets beneath his back.
His slender, nude body was pinned open, pale, vulnerable skin glowing almost translucent in the afternoon light, slim arms bound high and tight above his head, wrists caught in the soft leather cuffs and blue rope that Armie had retrieved from Tim’s rucksack …
His legs were parted wide, thighs drawn taut, ankles tied to the bottom corners in the same way, leaving him utterly exposed.
He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling, as Armie stood at the edge of the bed.
The man took his time; he unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one clasp at a time, until the linen fabric slid from his shoulders and fell to the wooden floorboards.
Loafers followed, kicked aside without a sound, and then his chinos, unzipped, peeled down with deliberate care …
His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the sight pulling a sharp bite to Tim’s lower lip - they were both naked now, nothing left to hide behind.
Tim couldn’t look away, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but watch as Armie climbed onto the bed.
The weight of him pressed into the mattress, shifting against Tim’s restrained body as he straddled his waist - Tim’s own cock, stiffening in anticipation, nudged up beneath Armie, its flaccid size growing second by second …
Armie moved like a predator who already knew their prey couldn’t escape; slow, certain, savoring the moment as Tim’s breath caught in his throat, muscles taut, the restraints nipping lightly at his wrists as he flexed.
Armie leaned forward.
One hand braced on the mattress, the other extending until the pad of his index finger found Tim’s lips - not his ribs, not his underarms, not the places where memory screamed he should be touched.
Softly, the finger pressed against his mouth, silencing whatever words might come.
Armie lowered his head, his voice nothing more than a murmur - a whisper that curled hot against Tim’s jaw:
“… No safe word …”
Tim nodded quickly, the sharp movement betraying both eagerness and nerves; he understood what those three words meant - there was no turning back.
Armie lowered his hands with exquisite care, pressing both palms against Tim’s chest; his broad touch covered the slender plane of Tim’s torso, and almost immediately Tim’s nipples hardened beneath the heat of his skin.
The reaction made Armie’s mouth twitch into the faintest smile; it had been so long since he’d last touched him like this - six months lost to Tim’s silence, six months lost to Tim’s role in The Games - Armie had chosen to honor boundaries, however much it ached, and now, rather suddenly, those walls had been lowered, dismantled by Tim himself.
For a moment Armie didn’t move, he simply looked - he let his gaze linger on the pale stretch of body beneath him: the smooth, deep caverns of Tim’s hairless underarms, exposed and shaved; the sharp lines of his ribs and the soft, defenseless dip of his navel; the jut of hip bones framing the taut skin of his stomach - all of it open, all of it his.
Armie’s cock lay heavy and large against Tim’s abdomen, leaving a faint streak of warmth across his skin.
He shuffled forward, the mattress groaned, leather tightened around Tim’s limbs, and suddenly Armie’s body hovered above Tim’s face.
Tim’s lips parted instinctively just as Armie’s cock slid between them, pressing deep - the girth gagged him, Tim’s eyes widening as the intrusion stole his breath, “—Mnnph …”, but then his throat worked, swallowing, sucking, his cheeks hollowing around the weight that filled his mouth, like he had done to Armie dozens of times before the cult had torn them apart …
Armie groaned low, the sound vibrating through the stillness of the room; his hips rocked gently, just enough to watch Tim’s throat flex, just enough to feel him choke and recover, choke and recover, choke and recover ..
Tim saw the movement in the edge of his vision: Armie’s fingers curling, angling downward - he knew where they were headed, the knowledge itself was a warped form of welcoming torture, however, the resulting combination felt unbearable: the thickness stretching his lips, the taste of salt and skin on his tongue, and now the slow inevitability of those hands nearing his most vulnerable places …
Armie’s fingernails scraped delicately into the silky smooth depths of Tim’s underarms - a barely there graze that was enough to ignite the beginning of this sensory exploitation …
Tim bucked hard against the ropes, muffled grunts vibrating around Armie’s cock, “—Mnnph! Mph!—” his eyes bulged wider, his laughter stifled, smothered, forced back down his throat as his body convulsed helplessly.
Pinned by rope. Gagged by arousal. Tickled by someone he could trust …
… Armie’s fingernails dug in harder.
What began as light tracing turned into full scribbles, nails dragging tight little patterns across the hairless hollows of Tim’s underarms; he alternated between the very center - where Tim’s armpits were most sensitive - and the delicate rims at the edges, scratching back and forth with merciless rhythm …
Tim thrashed beneath him, jerking against the blue rope so hard the bed frame rattled against the plaster wall; his chest heaved, his ribs stretched, but the bindings held - he couldn’t twist away, couldn’t close his arms, couldn’t even beg, not with Armie’s cock swelling thicker inside his mouth.
Every time Armie pressed deeper, Tim felt the stretch: the blunt head nudging against the back of his throat, the heavy shaft filling his jaw until his lips strained tight around it - the taste of him flooded Tim’s mouth - flesh, musk, raw heat … Each gag sent a vibration humming along Armie’s length, a sensation that made his hips grind forwards in response.
The silence of the motel made every noise sharper; the ropes creaked where they strained against the bed frame, the bare mattress squealed faintly beneath Tim’s bucking spine, the springs inside whining under his muffled grunts, Armie’s fingernails rasped audibly across hairless, ticklish skin …
And then there was Tim’s mouth; wet, obscene sounds filled the air as saliva pooled, as his tongue slid helplessly around the thickness choking him - each thrust made him gurgle, choke, then recover, sucking desperately for air he couldn’t quite catch, his muffled laughter spilled out around the intrusion, warping into a messy chorus of gasps, gags, and giggles as both of his armpits became a home for Armie’s fingers …
Armie leaned into it all; the sight of Tim’s body reacting, the sound of nails on bare flesh, the slick pressure inside Tim’s throat - it was everything all at once, a rhythm of flesh and rope and breath, punctuated by the frantic, hysterical noises of a body being pushed past its limits …
Armie pulled back just in time.
He knew another thrust, another few seconds in that hot, pretty, suffocating mouth, and his body would give in - with a groan, he slid free, his solid cock leaving Tim’s lips slick, glistening, pink …
Tim gasped as air rushed back into his lungs - his chest rose and fell violently, strands of saliva stringing from his swollen lips down across his chin - he barely had time to recover before Armie’s nails left his underarms and carved their way down his sides - the sudden change ripped a strangled whine from Tim’s throat - his body leapt in shock, limbs yanking at the restraints, every part of his body spinning at the unexpected sensation …
Then it stopped, the contact was gone.
Armie stepped back, standing over Tim, erection jutting hard and unrelenting - the 3.pm sun spilled down the length of him, shadows casting sharp against the lines of his muscular torso, his cock glistening at the tip with Tim’s spit.
Tim stared up at him, wrists straining faintly in the black leather cuffing - his expression was pure awe: eyes wide, lips parted, flushed cheeks trembling with leftover giggles - shock and surprise tangled together, yet beneath it all was hunger, raw and unmistakable, his own cock twitching hard against his belly, leaking proof that it wasn’t too much, that it was hotter than he could ever had imagined …
“…You’re killing me …” Tim whispered, voice ragged, lips still wet, mouth swollen from Armie’s girth - the words fell out almost involuntarily, an admission of how utterly undone he felt.
Armie didn’t answer, not with words.
This time he didn’t reach for Tim’s rucksack - instead, he turned to his own bag, placed neatly at the foot of the bed.
His hand slipped inside, rifling for one of the objects he had agreed to keep hidden, waiting for the right moment.
When he pulled it free, the fabric gleamed in the beams of sunshine piercing through the gaps between the closed curtains; smooth, black satin …
… A blindfold.
He dangled it from his fingers, letting Tim see, letting him anticipate, savoring the widening of those pale green eyes.
The motel room around them seemed to dissolve the moment the satin blindfold slipped over Tim’s face - the beige wallpaper, the TV with only five channels, the musky carpet, all of it vanished, darkness swallowed everything …
Armie tied the fabric carefully, knotting it at the back of Tim’s head, making sure it was snug but comfortable; Tim blinked furiously against it, as if the sheer force of his stare could burn through the satin - behind the blindfold his eyes were fierce, determined, desperate to reclaim sight, but all he could do now was feel.
The first shock came as Armie’s hand wrapped firmly around his cock.
Tim winced, every nerve in his body flaring alive - he hadn’t anticipated the cool drizzle of massage lotion to arrive so soon, even if he had secretly packed him itself - either way, Armie had taken it from Tim’s rucksack as the next tool, spilling the contents across Tim’s shaft, allowing it to slide thick and wet over hot flesh … Armie’s other hand pumped, slow and deliberate, lathering Tim’s arousal until it gleamed - Tim moaned, hips twisting helplessly …
Armie pulled back, the bottle was set aside, a different touch arrived …
A single index finger at Tim’s taint, the sudden press ripping him apart …
Tim’s body arched off the bed, rope squealing at the frame, “—GA-HUH!—”, an unmanageable, brief yet loud laugh burst out of his throat, muffled against clenched teeth as he tried to stifle the sound, “—Mnn!—”, this was a motel after all, even if Armie had booked out a majority of the rooms, someone could hear … That thought only made it worse - every giggle he tried to swallow came out louder, sharper, unstoppable …
He thrashed, tried to close his legs, but the ropes stretched them wide; his knees trembled, barely bending, thighs locked open - the touch against one of his most sensitive points was unbearable, obscene, a torment that left him gasping, containing shrieks, shaking his head beneath the blindfold.
And then the weight came - Armie lowered himself until their stomachs pressed together, heat against heat; his mouth descended on Tim’s chest, lips closing over his nipples - he bit, nibbled, licked, pulling sharp cries from Tim’s throat, sounds that blurred between agony and pleasure …
Both hands rose at once, sliding back into Tim’s underarms - with fingers slick from oil and sweat, Armie dove mercilessly into the naked depths - he tickled deep, scribbling and clawing at the wet skin, forcing Tim into a manic frenzy - the mixture of lotion and sweat made every scrape sharper, every dig more unbearable …
Tim bucked wildly, his laughter exploding into ragged heaves, his voice cracked, but Armie didn’t relent - he wanted this to be the most intense experience Tim had ever endured, he wanted to rewrite the memories, to make this moment eclipse The Dome, The Games, The House of White Feathers - he wanted it to be The Only Torment Tim Would Remember …
Only when Tim’s laughter collapsed into desperate wheezes for air, his lungs failing to keep pace, did Armie flatten his hands … He pressed them firm against Tim’s slick sides, steadying him …
They lay there, breath to breath; Armie’s chest pinning Tim’s, his hands sliding up to cradle his face - one curled into his damp curls, tugging gently, the other brought slick fingers to Tim’s lips … Without hesitation, Armie pressed them inside.
Tim groaned, rebellious even now - he closed his teeth around them, biting playfully, punishing Armie with a sharp nip that made the man jolt back with a startled laugh …
Their chuckles tangled together, short and breathless; Armie leaned in, kissing Tim’s throat, letting his lips drag slowly down - then he pulled away, slipping from the bed in silence …
Tim felt it immediately - the loss of weight, the absence of heat - his body shimmered, eyes blindfolded, limbs bound, waiting, ears twitching as he heard the soft rasp of Armie’s hand delving into a bag - was it his own, or was it Armie’s? … He had no idea what would be taken from inside - bound tightly with his sight removed, all he could do was wait, the suspense pricking at every nerve …
The first sensation was unexpected: warmth dripping onto his skin; a heavy bead of saliva landed square on the tips of his left toes, followed by another, and then another; Tim’s left leg naturally kicked …
Armie was drooling over him deliberately, coating Tim’s toes until the saliva seeped down, thick and warm, sliding along the curve of his sole - Tim bit his upper lip and smirked, body arching at the perverse intimacy of it …
That smirk twisted into a sneer as fingers explored; strong, unrelenting digits pinched at his toes, prying them apart, infiltrating the delicate webs between - the effect was immediate, Tim’s head snapped forward as if he could stare through the blindfold, his throat bursting open in uncontained cackles - he no longer tried to smother them, he couldn’t, the laughter roared out of him, loud and unstoppable, shaking the motel room’s quiet walls - what was the point in holding back? The whole world already knew - he had been displayed, naked and collared, across Times Square’s gigantic screens; his shame, his secret, his most vulnerable truth had been broadcast - if a stranger in this rotten old motel heard him now, so be it! The days of hiding are over …
That was when the familiar came: the rasp of plastic bristles …
The hairbrush dragged hard across the ball of his left foot, then tore down the arch, scrubbing mercilessly - Tim’s body convulsed as if electrocuted, his back bowed, his chest shot into the air, the ropes at his wrists and ankles groaned against the metal frame - he shrieked into laughter so violent it seemed to split him apart - damn! he wished Armie had never packed that …
The bedframe rattled and squealed, the springs inside the mattress clanged as he bounced and writhed, every frantic twist setting off a chorus of groans from the old wood; his left foot twisted desperately, toes curling into tight knots, then splaying helplessly as the bristles scoured every crease and seam - the brush never paused, grinding into his sole, scrubbing side to side, up and down, utterly relentless …
On his right foot, Armie’s fingers were just as cruel, digging into the tender arch, clawing over the heel, scratching at the trembling pads of his toes; Tim thrashed so hard his cock slapped repeatedly against his stomach — pat! pat! pat! —, wet smacks echoing through the motel room in rhythm with his uncontrollable laughter …
And then the blindfold slipped …
His head had been bouncing violently, side to side, up and down, causing the satin to slip lower …
It slid past his eyes, over his nose, until it snagged at his mouth …
… The fabric gagged him unintentionally, muffling Tim’s screams, his eyes were wide now, blinking through tears, watching the hairbrush flash across his sole, the torment he couldn’t escape …
The sight made Armie groan low in his throat - it was as if fate itself had moved the blindfold there, binding Tim’s voice as the rest of him was bound - watching him gagged by satin, cock slapping his own belly, ticklish feet tied and scrubbed so hard all five toes stretched into a panicked flex … It was more than enough - Armie didn’t touch himself, he didn’t have to, his erection pulsed and throbbed, thick and furious, close to release just from the view alone …
Within less than five minutes, Armie had created a nuclear eruption within Tim: hyper hysterical, utterly helpless, entirely breathtaking - it was such a wonder to witness, such a moment he had starved for, that his own body gave way - with a low groan, Armie dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, surrendering to the spectacle.
He moved close, so close that Tim’s bound right foot was inches from his lips - without hesitation, he seized it - his mouth closed over the stretching toes, licking along the fleshy lengths, kissing each curling digit as if in worship …
“—MNNPHHH! MNNN, MNPPPPHHHH!—” Tim’s body rolled from side to side, his head rubbing against his biceps in an attempt to move the blindfold away from his mouth, “—MNNAAAHHNNNNNNMNNPPPHHHH!—” his attempts were too distracted by the feeling of Armie’s teeth nipping sharply, biting down on the delicate skin until Tim erupted into a furious hiss, a grunt that broke into muffled cries, “—MNNPHH! MNPPPHHH? MMNPPPHHH!—”, his face flushed deep red, veins straining in his neck, his blindfold-gag only amplifying the wild mix of anger and laughter that poured out of him …
Even as Armie’s mouth worked Tim’s toes, his other hand never let go of the brush; he dragged its plastic bristles slowly, deliberately across the sole - not the frantic scrubbing of before - this was controlled, reverent, like a painter taking his time with a canvas - the brush rasped across the arch, over the heel, then crept up towards Tim’s toes …
When the brush’s bristles reached the index toe, Tim snapped - his whole body jolted, head hurtling forward as if he could shake the blindfold-turned-gag loose, “—GRAAHAHAHAMPH! GRAAHAHAHAHAMPH! GRAHAHAHAHAMPH!—”, the sound that burst out of him was half-manic, half-groan, his protests swallowed by satin, “—GRUHHMNNPH! GRMPH! GRMMNNPH!—”, he wanted it to stop - he willed it to stop - but the rope held him open, vulnerable, a prisoner to every maddening stroke …
And still, Armie dribbled more saliva, soaking the foot until it gleamed wet under the beams of afternoon haze - the mix of spit and sweat turned every drag of the brush into something slick, obscene, unbearable; slow, hard, back and forth, each stroke sent Tim spiraling - at moments, it was pure ticklish torment, his foot flexing wildly, toes splaying and curling in desperate rhythm - at others, when the drag was just right - hard enough, deep enough - it sent an unexpected wave of pleasure through him, almost like a massage - his back bowed as if torn between laughter and moans, his hips jerking violently against the mattress.
Thick, hard, throbbing, Tim’s cock continued to slap against his stomach again and again with every twist, every bounce of the bed - wet smacks echoed through the motel room, syncing with the rasp of bristles, the wet suck of Armie’s mouth, the muffled screams behind the blindfold now caught between snarling, clenched teeth …
Just when Tim thought he might swallow the gag whole, Armie paused …
The thirty nine year old knew better than to let the frenzy consume them too quickly - his hands steadied, his breath slowed, and he set the hairbrush down on the vanity desk with deliberate care.
Tim lay slick with sweat, his chest lifting and dropping, his stomach pumping, his cock standing rigid, proof that his body not only felt utterly aroused by this total submission, but it also refused to surrender.
Armie stepped to Tim’s rucksack, rummaging through it with purpose until he pulled out …
“Oh,” Armie sounded breathlessly amused.
A cock ring …
He held it up, letting the plastic glisten in the dim spill of nighttime, or was it early morning? They had both started to lose track of time …
His eyes drifted back to Tim’s, drinking in the sight of his wide, wild gaze, the blindfold still stuck in his mouth, spit-soaked and dripping down his chin.
Armie turned to his own bag - from inside he pulled out an iconic, sleek, humming device; the electric toothbrush.
He flicked it on, the sudden buzz cutting through the silence - he leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Tim.
“… We’ve always been on the same page …”
Without hesitation, he placed the vibrating toothbrush between Tim’s thighs, letting it rest against the mattress.
The bristles spun wildly against his taint and balls, “—MNPPHH! MNPHHH!—”, Tim screamed through the blindfold caught between his teeth, body jolting violently, his laughter breaking into hysterical shrieks as he tried to wriggle away, “—MMMPPHH! MNPHHHH! MNPPPPHHH!—”
Every desperate bounce forced the toothbrush deeper, until it slipped between his buttocks, wedged snugly against tender flesh - the plastic bristles buzzed, accidentially tickling his hole with merciless yet unintentional intent, “—MNPHH! MPHH! MNNHAHAHAAAAAHAHAHAHAAMPH MNNPAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAMPH!—” Tim thrashed, screaming, his body arching so high the bedframe groaned in protest, his muffled laughter shaking the motel rooms quiet air …
Armie returned to the head of the bed; he kindly reached down, pulling the blindfold from Tim’s mouth, yanking it free of his head entirely - the fabric was soaked through, sodden with spit - he tossed it aside without care, allowing Tim to wheeze at the sudden freedom of his mouth, his lips raw, his jaw stretched open …
Armie crouched low, slipping the cock ring down Tim’s shaft, securing it snug at the base - with a click, the vibration started - a deep, thrumming pulse that locked Tim into hardness, ensuring every shudder of the tool only made his arousal worse - his cock throbbed, as if desperate for a release it would never quite find …
Armie rose - he stepped behind the framework at the head of the bed, sliding his hands between the bars until they hovered over Tim’s restrained arms - ten fingers spread wide, five in each hairless depth, all ten working in tandem, digging into the slick, sensitive flesh of Tim’s underarms once again; Armie scribbled, clawed, squeezed relentlessly, his nails gliding in the mix of sweat and oil …
Tim’s reaction was explosive; his voice cracked into curses, “—FU-HUCK! FUCK, ARMIE, FU-HUCK!—”, his fierce yells mixing into hysterical, senseless repeats of the same word which only bled into laughter, “—PLEASE! OH GOD!—”, the toothbrush buzzed unapologetically between his ass, caught by the peachiness of each cheek, the cock ring thrummed around his shaft, and now his underarms were being ravaged by every finger Armie owned …
Sweat poured from him in sheets, slicking his pale body until the mattress beneath him grew wet, “—ARHAHAHAHAHAH! ARHAHAHAHAHAHAH! ARHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAMIE! FFFF, FUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHACK!—”, his laughter turned hoarse, ragged, broken, his throat raw from screaming, “—AGHHHAAAAHAHAHAHAH! AGAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA! FUHUHAHAHAHAHAH, FUAHAHAHAAAAAAGHAHAHAHAHAHK!—”, he bucked and leapt against the bed, muscles straining until the blue rope creaked dangerously against the metal railing …
Armie swung himself over the ironwork of the headboard, his body moving with predatory ease until he settled cross-legged behind Tim - it was a position he favored - intimate, dominant, inescapable … Tim’s head dropped back into Armie’s lap, bouncing with every convulsion, every ragged laugh - the crown of curls pressed into Armie’s groin, the weight landing against his rigid cock - far from pain, the friction stoked him, the thickness of his erection nudging hot against the back of Tim’s neck …
Below, the electric toothbrush still whirred, wedged snug between Tim’s buttocks, bristles buzzing mercilessly against his hole - his hips bucked helplessly, the vibration radiating up through his gut and into his cock, the cock ring ensuring every pulse left him thick, veined and throbbing …
Armie’s hands descended, fingers skating down Tim’s sweat-slick torso; they clawed at his ribs, scribbled across his abs, pinched into his sides - each movement wrung fresh hysteria out of Tim’s throat, his laughter splintering into wild, panicked shrieks - he twisted violently, his body spiraling on the mattress, bound limbs tugging against the rope until his wrists burned.
Then Armie’s hand came for his face …
The palm slammed down over Tim’s mouth, muffling his cries in a rough, fleshy gag - the scent of Armie’s skin filled his nose, his protests swallowed against the man’s palm, and then the fingers pressed harder, prying past his lips, sliding deep.
Tim gagged, eyes wide, his throat filled with the invasion as Armie’s fingers curled against his tongue, forcing him to choke, to swallow around them; the humiliation was unbearable, the intimacy scorching - his teeth closed around the intruders - once, twice, three times, four - sharp bites of rebellion, but Armie only clenched his jaw, a feral smile pulling at his lips - he didn’t retreat, he persisted, pressing deeper, until his knuckles brushed Tim’s teeth and his fingertips stroked the trembling walls of his throat.
Tim gagged and choked, muffled laughter and furious groans vibrating against Armie’s hand - his face was crimson, his neck slick with saliva, his body twisting like a live wire in Armie’s lap - every bite, every thrash only made Armie’s arousal spike higher - he was in complete control, watching his masterpiece break down in his arms …
Armie’s hands shot back to Tim’s underarms for a fourth time, but now there was no restraint, no careful teasing - he went full force; ten fingers digging deep into the slick depths, five in each pit; he clawed into every corner, not letting an inch of flesh escape …
Tim’s reaction was catastrophic; his spine bowed once again, his entire body bouncing on the mattress, his head slamming against Armie’s lap, his laughter shattered into something almost unnatural - it was more than hysteria - it was lunacy, pure and endless, laughter so consuming it seemed to come from his bones …
“—YAAHAAAAHAAAGRRAAAAHHUHHAAAHAHAAAAHAAAAA-OHAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAAANOOAAAHAAAA-AAAHHAAAHAAAAAHAHAAAAAAHAHAAA-NOAAAHHAHAHAAAAAA! OHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAH! DAAAAAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAAMN! DAAAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAAAMN!—”
Inside his head there were no thoughts left, nothing coherent remained - the sensation was too vast, too consuming, every time his mind tried to form a plea, to beg for mercy, the fingers pressed deeper and the thought exploded into white noise; his brain was blank, a static buzz of desperation and ecstasy - there was no language, no logic, just the relentless truth of touch.
His body was no longer his own - his ribs felt like they might crack, his chest heaved so violently he thought his lungs would burst; sweat poured off him, drenching his skin, soaking the mattress until it squelched beneath him - he was delirious, a creature controlled by craziness.
Armie slid out from under Tim’s head, crawling with an obsessive slowness down his body …
Tim felt him move, felt the hot drag of Armie’s thick, large cock as it traced across his face, smeared down his throat, slid over his chest slick with sweat; the size pressed against his sternum, his navel, then along the taut skin of his belly - Armie’s hands never stopped, fingers clawing at his sides, pinching his waist, scribbling into the tender space between his thighs as he moved lower …
By the time Armie reached his legs, Tim was bucking, bouncing - Armie sprawled over his right leg, wrapping his arms tight around the ankle and leather restraint, hugging it as though it were a prize - his face pressed against Tim’s foot, lips closing over his index toe - he sucked it into his mouth, biting down lightly, his tongue lashing the sensitive pad …
Tim’s face was a picture of insanity; red, boiling, veins sharp at his temples - his mouth gaped wide, spit stringing from his lips, his laughter tumbling out like a flood he could no longer dam - his eyes, squeezed shut, were wet at the corners, tears of laughter streaking down glowing cheeks - his brows were knotted tight, fury etched into every line of his expression - and yet, beneath the rage, there was a twisted, fierce joy - his features melted with contradiction, half a snarl, half a grin - the ecstasy of being ruined, the joy of surrendering to something he could never resist …
Armie’s mouth latched onto Tim’s big toe, sucking it like a lollipop, tongue swirling, while his fingernails scraped and scribbled up and down his sole, gradually giving his heel some much needed attention …
Tim’s slim body leapt and bounce, leapt and bounced, leapt and bounced, his howls into the darkness a force themselves to be reckoned with - the cock ring’s pulse kept his shaft iron-hard, jutting helplessly into the air, while the electric toothbrush whirred between his cheeks with a fierce buzz that felt constant, even if Tim did relentlessly try to throw his ass upward and away from the bristles, again and again and again …
On his front, with his stomach stretched along Tim’s right leg, Armie’s own cock dragged against Tim’s skin with every squirm and kick, each rub pushing him closer and closer - the taste of Tim’s toes, the frantic squirming of his foot inside Armie’s mouth, the sheer involuntary aliveness of it - all of it drove him wild …
Tim screamed, screamed with a pitch that suggested he simply could not take this, all of this at once, especially when Armie’s fingernails increased with their scribble over his heel - five years ago, they would both care if someone came knocking, if a motel guest expressed their concern at the noise, if the L.A.P.D were called - now? Now, they didn’t give a fucking shit …
Just when the edge of orgasm curled at his spine, Armie ripped himself away - he snatched the electric toothbrush from Tim’s behind, switched it off and stumbled away, now standing, staring …
Tim lay there in ruins - his chest heaved like it was trying to drag the whole room into his lungs, his skin gleamed with perspiration; his nipples were stiff; his underarms glowing pink - the cock ring still hummed, his cock rigid, his toes clenched in their dribble coated state - his mouth hung open, searching for air …
His eyes - wide, unblinking - locked on Armie …
It was awe again, until it wasn’t, not anymore - there was a fear there, yes, but sharpened by something heavier: the realisation that everything he’d endured in The Games - the AI infused tentacles, the impossible hypnosis, the walls of steel and wired toe-ties, the bottle spinning on top of that table - none of it compared to this.
This wasn’t spectacle, this wasn’t a show, this was one man, naked and fuelled by desire and infatuation, with no other intention but his need to blow Tim’s mind - somehow it was more powerful than every contraption and every nightmare The Games had ever produced …
… And, once again, Armie pounced.
Tim could barely lift his head.
His body lay wrecked from the hours of torment - every muscle aching, lungs tight from laughter that tore through him until it left nothing but wheezes and panting …
When Armie finally unbuckled his ankles, the absence of restraint felt unreal, a mercy Tim thought would never arrive - he was too tired to fight, too tired to even pull away - his legs simply fell open, pliant, pliable, his body waiting …
Armie arranged Tim carefully until Tim’s feet rested on each of Armie’s broad shoulders, his wrists still strapped to the top of the bed, his armpits still open, still exposed.
Tim could feel how close Armie was - the press of heat against him, the weight leaning in, the quiet nearness was overwhelming after the endless frenzy of tickling, after being reduced to nothing but deafening sound and frantic movement
Tim’s cock ring still pulsed mercilessly at the base of his shaft, keeping him exceptionally hard despite his exhaustion - a droplet of orgasm leaked steadily from the swollen tip of his erection, wetting his stomach and the sweat drenched across his abs - he was already on the edge, not from pleasure alone, but from the accumulation of everything: the restraint, the laughter, the humiliation, the intimacy … The reward was becoming indistinguishable from the torture.
When Armie pressed forward, Tim’s head fell back onto the mattress, his lips parting in a sharp, intense hiss …
Pinned to the bed, arms stretched above, feet resting high, his body trembled with surrender - this was no longer about endurance, no longer about resistance - this was about being taken past every threshold until there was nothing left but release.
Armie takes Tim’s left foot tenderly into his hand - a slow peck of lips against damp skin.
His tongue traces across the ball of the foot, his mouth closes over all five toes, engulfing them one by one …
He nibbles at the heel, teeth grazing just enough to make Tim’s foot jolt, then he blows warmly into the slick arch, watching it retract like a flame leaving a candles wick …
Tim thrashes against the sensations - he is already overwhelmed; cock ring buzzing, body split open, every nerve worn out from hours of torment - and now his feet, still soaked from their ordeal, are worshipped with unbearable tenderness - the contrast is maddening, his long spine arches high, a struggled sound caught between a moan and a sob - Armie’s free hand closes around his shaft, stroking steadily, dragging him closer to the edge with merciless control …
The motel room feels smaller than it is, walls pressed in by heat and sweat, sheets twisted into damp knots; the desert air is heavy, dense, carrying only the sound of Tim’s gasps and the slick, obscene wetness of skin against skin.
Desperate, Tim lashes out with his free foot, smacking it clumsily against Armie’s mouth, but Armie only laughs low in his throat, catches the ankle mid-kick, and brings that foot to his lips instead …
He devours it the same way, sucking hard at the toes, biting lightly at the heel, tongue circling the arch - every new sensation drags another moan from Tim, his body twisting violently under Armie’s weight, unable to escape the double assault.
Pinned, fucked, stroked, worshipped …
… The words loop through Tim’s mind like a mantra, and then they break him in two.
“—Nu-AGH!—”
It hits all at once, as quick as lightning - his body seizes, the cock ring pulsing tight around the base of him, holding him at the height of unbearable pressure …
Tim’s orgasm possesses him from head to toe, taking every muscle, every fibre of skin, pouring out in rapid gushes that leave him writhing beneath Armie …
His feet scrunch violently, toes curling deep into Armie’s mouth, trapped there, clenching as they’re kissed and sucked through the climax.
“—Mnn! MNN!—”
Tim tries to reach forward, to hold, to anchor himself - but the leather cuffs bite down at his wrists, keeping his arms stretched and useless above his head - he is bound even in release, unable to touch, unable to stop the flood …
His eyes are now wide, unblinking, vision blurred into white sparks - the motel room dissolves around him, walls gone, ceiling gone, only sensation remaining - a tear slides from the corner of his eye, warm against his flushed cheek - not from pain, but from joy, pure and overwhelming agony, unlike his body has never known before.
For a few seconds only, there is stillness.
Tim wide eyes deflate, the green of his orbs glistening, heels still hooked over Armie’s shoulders, chest rising and falling as he mentally and physically copes with the drop - Armie remains inside of him, weight pressing close, their bodies joined and shining in the heavy air.
Then, Armie moves …
His hands slide away from Tim’s feet and up his ribs, settling in the wet depths of his underarms.
Tim’s eyes squeeze shut - everything is silent, until Armie starts to scribble and Tim begins to laugh - wild, manic, unstoppable - he thrashes beneath the weight pinning him down, hips bucking, chest heaving, heels driving hard into Armie’s chest in desperate kicks, but Armie doesn’t stop him - he wants the kicking, he welcomes it - each spasm only grinds Tim down harder onto him, the friction of his tight hole intensifying with every writhing movement around Armie’s erection.
Tim is incoherent, roaring with laughter, body trying to twist free but instead only working himself against the length buried inside him - the more he squirms, the more unstoppable the rhythm becomes, sweat-slick bodies colliding, every movement taking Armie closer to the edge …
Armie’s grip clamps hard under Tim’s arms as his own climax rips through him, every muscle taut, every nerve a volcanic eruption of pleasure; the kicks, the squirming, the explosive laughter vibrating through Tim’s chest - it’s too much - Armie buries himself deep, his orgasm taking him in unapologetically, drawn out by the writhing mayhem beneath him.
Every spasm of Armie above Tim pours through, reverberating inside, filling him in a way that pins him beyond movement; the sensation is heavy, hot, undeniable, spreading through his core with each throbbing beat - it makes his back arch again, wrists straining helplessly against the cuffs, heels digging hard into Armie’s shoulders as if to anchor himself to the flood.
Tim’s lips parted in silent shock, vision blurred white at the edges - his own orgasm still lingers in his cock, wringing faint, trembling spurts from him, but what undoes him now is the echo - the weight, the warmth, the intimate proof of Armie’s release pulsing in his hole.
For the first time since this session began, Armie is still.
His hair chest lifts with the effort of his climax, perspiration running in droplets down his ribs, muscles flexing in the aftermath.
Inside his head, it is chaos and calm at once - the orgasm had been pulled out of him with such violence, such inevitability, that he feels emptied and yet somehow heavier.
He withdraws slowly, his thick length sliding out from inside of Tim, the helm soaked with cum - with steady hands, Armie reaches for the cock ring, snapping it free from Tim’s swollen shaft - the band slips away, leaving Tim’s erection to fall against his stomach, still hard, still aching, still a little purple …
He then takes Tim’s ankles, lifts them high, and puts the framework of the metal headboard into use …
Tim becomes part of something completely unwritten, another level of sensory invasion - the rules are broken, in fact, the rules do not exist …
New straps cinch tight around each of Tim’s ankle, binding his legs wide apart, stretching him open - the position leaves Tim fully displayed - flat on his back, arms still tethered above, legs spread and locked in place above his head - his stomach is squashed, each restraint is snug, leather biting faintly, keeping him helpless even in stillness.
Armie takes his final tool from inside of his own bag - a single feather …
It looks almost innocent in his hand, yet in the silence of the room it carries a symbolic weight heavier than any tool of torment he’s used before.
Tim’s throat bobs into a tight gulp as Armie approaches slowly and the feather descends.
It hovers, creating a shadow over his taint, and then it brushes - light, deliberate - along the tight skin above a hole just fucked.
Tim arches off the mattress, a fierce, “—NO!—”, bursting from his throat, explosive laughter colliding with a cry - his body can barely twist, ankles tugging against the restraints, legs splayed in the air, thighs twisting furiously above his head.
The feather drags again, circling, teasing - it doesn’t need pressure - the faintest stroke sends Tim into maddening, breathless giggles, wheezes of eye watering hysterics, half-delirious, half-pleading, “—pleasepleasepleasestop—”, his stomach knots, thighs clamp as far as they’re able, but every movement only spreads him wider, keeps him helpless to the white feathers touch …
Armie watches, entranced as the feather moves in tiny, merciless strokes, coaxing every reaction, every spasm - Tim’s laughter is endless, coated with exhaustion, yet also threaded with something else - a natural pulse, a push - Armie is tickling his own orgasm out of Tim …
… The struggles only make him more vulnerable, more open, each frantic twist dragging out the last remnants of sensation - with every flutter of the white feather, something is drawn forth - traces of Armie linger inside him, nudged free by Tim’s own spasms, seeping into the mattress in slow, glistening streaks - the wetness spreads into the sheets, staining them, soaking into the once-bright white feather until its purity is blurred by use.
It is no longer just a tool, it is a symbol of new beginnings.
The House of White Feathers had owned them both - body, mind, laughter, every toenail and eyelash.
But here, with Armie holding the white feather, its meaning changes …
It becomes an extension of just him, his mark, the proof that Tim belongs not to the masks that made up the walls of The House, but to him.
The night drags on, feather brushing, laughter spilling, sweat cooling and rising again - Armie’s cum is fully out of Tim’s hole, the white feather has made that possible.
They have both been reclaimed.
The cuffs, the blue rope, the restraints - all unstrapped, all undone - still hang from the frame of the bed like the memory of a storm that has passed.
Morning pours in through the now open windows, the same windows that had been concealed by curtains through the afternoon and evening - the breeze now drifts across their bare skin, cool against sweat-warmed bodies.
Tim is wrapped around Armie, spooning him tightly, holding as if he could anchor them both to this moment - he presses small kisses to the back of Armie’s neck - how could they both be so hard again, after the events of the late evening and early morning?
Only a few days ago, at this same hour, Tim woke screaming in the darkness of Armie’s New York apartment, haunted by visions of The Dome, of Miller burning alive.
Grey skies pressed against the windows, rain streaked the glass …
Now, their surroundings are golden, the morning is quiet, they are both smiling.
That broken TV switches on automatically.
The news plays …
“… Pop icon Britney Spears made headlines again today after stumbling off a private jet in Los Angeles. Sources say Spears appeared visibly unsteady as she exited the aircraft, sparking concern from onlookers and paparazzi stationed nearby. Witnesses reported she seemed intoxicated, clinging to an assistant for balance before being ushered quickly into a waiting SUV …”
With a click of a finger, Times Square was old news.
As a sense of normality began to resume, Armie could not allow the ordinary to return so quickly, without addressing the elephant in the motel room …
A question that has been coiled inside him for over three months, a question that refuses to stay buried.
He turns to face Tim, their eyes locking as the news now waffles on about a heat wave and Los Angeles traffic …
“In that final game,” he says carefully, “Miller asked you something. He told you if you lied, you’d lose. He asked … If you loved me.”
Tim’s breath stills - he listens, their faces are inches apart.
“You said ‘yes’ …” Armie continues, “… And I know … You wanted to lie. To lose. To make Tom win, to set everyone free. I get it. But you didn’t. Because you couldn’t … You told the truth. You didn’t even mean to. But you did. And that’s why you won.”
The engine of a passing truck that drove down the highway filled the motel room with a faint shudder.
Armie’s voice is steady, but softer now, “The man I was before … I would’ve forced you to confess that last night. I would’ve dragged it from you through torment, through laughter you couldn’t endure. But not now. Now, I’m only asking …”
Armie’s hands slithered down past the bedsheets.
They curled around Tim’s erection.
They held it tight, Tim’s shaft throbbing within his palms.
“Is it true?” Armie asked.
Tim’s teeth hooked over his lower lip.
He looked at Armie’s mouth, as if he wanted to take it for himself.
He chose to.
He kissed Armie slowly, wet lips brushing in a fierce smash of desire - his tongue almost reached the pit of Armie’s throat.
The kiss parts, Tim’s mouth is now up against Armie’s cheek.
Tim says it with a growl …
“… I love you.”
Armie closes his eyes at the words.
Tim grins, this time it’s Armie pushing his tongue into Tim’s mouth.
“I love you …” Tim repeats, the words smeared by devotion, “… I love you, I love you, I love you …” he repeats as the kissing continues …
Armie’s hands let Tim go.
He slips from the bed, standing naked, leaving Tim alone on the mattress, sitting up.
“Armie?”
Armie picks up the white feather from the floor, holding it delicately between his index finger and thumb.
It no longer symbolises the cult, no longer carries its weight.
Now it belongs only to them.
Tim speaks as if its urgent.
“There was one last tool in my bag,” he says, rising to a naked stand, “One you didn’t lose.”
Armie glances down at Tim’s rucksack and reaches inside: a cigarette lighter, small and ordinary in his palm.
Together, they step onto the motel balcony, side by side, looking out over the more or less empty car park and the open highway.
Armie flicks the flame to life as Tim watches, the feather catching fire.
The white plume darkens, curls, and dissolves in sparks - they stay still until it fizzles into ash and drifts away in the breeze.
Armie’s hands come to rest on Tim’s hips - he kisses the crown of his head.
“Maybe there’s a universe out there where this isn’t our reality,” he murmurs, “We’re doing different things. Maybe we’re not even together.”
Tim turns, eyes shining in the sun, “Then I’m glad this is our universe …"
As the last threads of white feathered ash spirals away into the L.A desert, a figure lowers a small camcorder from the window ledge of the motel room opposite.
The red recording light clicks off.
Boop.
No applause, no voice, no signal that they have been seen - only the faint sound of the cassette winding back into silence.
Armie and Tim remain unaware, wrapped in each other, gazing over desert and orange sky.
The camcorder drops into a suitcase, and the paid nobody who had recorded everything leaves in silence.
The cell door rattles as a small, slim package is slid beneath it.
The occupant of the cell scrambles in his wheelchair, bandaged hands fumbling for the gift.
His deformed face is hidden beneath layers of plasters and sterile wrappings, dark sunglasses rest where eyes once burned.
A robe hangs loose over his frame, the fabric brushing the scarred edges of his wrists.
He tears the package open clumsily.
A CD is gripped by fingers showcasing no fingernails.
His laptop, dented and smudged, hums as he feeds the disc into the tray.
The screen glows, the footage begins …
A L.A motel room, filmed afar from an opposite window, lens zoomed in to Armie’s hands pinning Tim …
Tim’s laughter is loud, so much so that those stubby fingers tap at the volume button in an attempt to turn it down …
He leans forward, his ruined hands clawing with hunger - he goes to touch whatever is left of himself—
—but the laptop slams shut with a violent snap.
A nurse stands over him, her jaw set - she is ordinary, not the kind of person he deserves to be controlled by.
He reaches for the laptop, bandaged hands grabbing uselessly, but she’s already taken the device and tucked it under her arm.
At the end of the corridor, she opens a metal bin and drops both inside.
The lid closes with a clang.
The nurse returns, swinging the heavy cell door shut.
The lock clicks.
The plate on the door reads:
MILLER JONES.
Like his master John before him, Miller is confined - broken body strapped to a wheelchair, however his face is bound forever in a mask made of bandages.
His throat is too damaged to speak. His eyes too ravaged by flames to see. He can only hear.
He had waited so long to hear Tim’s laughter once again …
The House of White Feathers is over.
His kingdom of feathers reduced to ash.
And now, for the first time in his life, he has been told the only word he cannot twist into submission:
No.
Click here for The House of White Feathers end credits scene.