John looked down the barrel of the gun as Miller aimed it at his face, his hand trembling …
Tim sat bound to The Throne, The Winner’s Mask covering his face, his head twisting from left to right as he looked at Miller, then Maxwell, then back to Miller, the heat from the spotlight causing his armpits to glisten …
From the side of the stage, Andrew and Justin stood frozen in place, caught between spectacle and disbelief; Jake and Tobey still held dart guns to The Masked Henchmen’s necks, every eye in the masked audience looked on Miller as everyone fidgeted in their seats, breath heavy through the oval mouths of their disguises …
Maxwell’s voice cut through the silence as he knew there was no need to remind Miller of his predicament, but he chose to do so anyway, “So, brother … What will it be?”
Lining The Event Hall, the tickle chairs creaked beneath the chandeliers as Logan, Sebastian, Kit, and Ross stretched forwards within their bonds, tuxedos clinging to their sweat-slicked bodies, ball-gags choking their muffled pleas; their wide, frightened eyes bore witness to everything …
Joshua, drool trailing from his mouth, sagged weakly against his own restraints, head lifted in a panic gaze that glared sharp and unblinking on Peter, who yanked away his Founders mask and threw it to the side …
Joshua expected salvation, he expected Peter to stand for him, for someone, to speak for them all …
Instead, Peter’s voice rang out like a whip crack, “—What are you fucking doing! Are you crazy!—”
A ripple tore through The Event Hall; gasps, whimpers, shouts … Miller clenched his teeth so hard the veins in his temples throbbed, sweat rolled down his jaw, stinging his lips …
“You’re the reason all of this exists …” Miller whispered, dribble seeping from his lower lip, “… Th, this is your dream, your madness, your empire …”
Miller shot a glare filled with vexation at Maxwell, “If I don’t pull the trigger, you’re going to take us. You’ll have the upper hand …” he giggled manically, “… Juuuuuuuust like when we were kids …”
“—Stop this!” An ordinary man from the audience rose to his feet, mask trembling in his hands, “Someone stop this!”
A woman, voice sharp with panic, stood and pointed, mask still strapped to her face, “—No one asked for murder!—”
Peter stormed the stage - he seized the handles of John’s wheelchair and thrust it back, pulling the old man away, rolling him a foot or so away from the muzzle of Miller’s gun, “—You don’t wanna do this, Miller! This, this ISN’T you!—”
Maxwell’s grin widened, serpent-slick - he leaned into the moment, his words dripping with venom, “Everyone gets to see what it takes to keep your little kingdom going. Go on, brother … Pull the trigger …”
Miller shook, his hands quivered, the barrel of the gun bouncing as his eyes darted from face to face; John, Peter, Maxwell, Tim, the masked audience, his captives …
“I’m sorry, John …” Miller grinned, then his lips dropped, then he grinned again, this time harder, tighter, “… I’m sorry. I hope it’s wonderful on the other side …” he stepped forwards, “… I h, hope over there, you’re young again …”
The world closed in on him …
His chest heaved …
His finger tightened on the trigger …
Click.
Silence.
The sound was louder than a gunshot.
The Event Hall froze, every mask turned to stone.
The gun had never been loaded … It was never meant to be.
Now they all knew.
They saw what Miller was willing to do, what he was capable of, to keep this house of feathers aloft.
One by one, the audience began to stir …
Chairs scraped back, masks lifted, faces revealed, ordinary men and women, horrified, disillusioned, keen to delete their membership and subscription effective immediately …
Some wept. Some screamed. Others surged for the doors …
… “—Get us out!—”, “—Please! Help us!—”, “—He’s got a gun!—” …
John, silent until now, began to cough …
Then snigger …
Then cackle, his laugh raw and dry …
The last fragments of life escaping in hysteria …
He raised a trembling hand and smacked the useless gun from Miller’s grip - SMACK! -, the weapon clattered to the floorboards, it lay there empty and physically useless, yet it symbolised so much …
John’s laughter filled The Event Hall, deranged, sick, triumphant, exhausted, the sound of a man who had spent his existence building laughter into empire, and now, spent his last breath laughing at its ruin …
The Masked Henchmen were done - dart guns dropped, clanging to the ground - some threw their masks away, revealing faces stricken with shame, horror, disbelief - a cult without followers was no cult at all …
The Event Hall erupted into chaos; shouts for mercy, shrieks to be released - women clawed at the doors, men fought to tear away their masks … Jake heaved the great double doors open, the tide surged …
Miller stood in the eye of the storm, “… N, no …” his voice breaking, hoarse, “… No, NO! Stop, sss, STOP!—” he screamed, arms outstretched, ordering them back, ordering them to remain, but no one listened …
… His kingdom was dissolving before his eyes.
Maxwell, calm as ever, simply watched, he watched as his brother lost everything, his reign ending before his very eyes …
And then …
… The lights went out.
Five minutes earlier…
Tom stumbled through the bowels of The Mansion, the steel collar biting against his neck, his bare skin glistening with sweat in the dim light …
His breath echoed down the narrow corridor … Left … Or was it right? Bloody hell …
He spun in circles, disoriented, overwhelmed by everything he had learned, until a shaft of light caught on a set of industrial metal stairs spiraling downward …
Relief snapped into terror; a figure stepped from the shadows, a singular Masked Henchman, black leather clinging to his body, a dart gun raised in his hand - the sight arrived within a second, the trigger snapped - BANG!
—Tom’s reflexes, sharpened by desperation, caught The Masked Henchman’s wrist mid-fire — pfft! —, the dart flew past his face and impaled the wall - thuck! -, Tom slammed The Masked Henchman’s arm aside, but their bodies surged together in a brutal slam.
The Masked Henchman drove a fist into Tom’s stomach, folding him in half, “—UFF!—”, Tom heaved, spit flecking his lips, knees buckling, but he didn’t drop, his hands clawing for The Masked Henchman’s mask, fingers scraping against slick leather …
The Masked Henchman kicked him off balance by swooping his booted feet at Tom’s ankles - Tom fell onto his back, his feet grabbed by leather gloves, The Masked Henchman now dragging him across the rough carpet, “—Grr-AGH!—” burn seared up Tom’s back and thighs, he roared in pain and fury, twisting free, lashing upward with a kick — SMACK!—, his bare heel cracked against the man’s groin.
The Masked Henchman groaned, stumbling as Tom put his Spider-Man stunt training into action and flipped to his feet, launching a punch to The Masked Henchman’s jaw, knuckles splitting against bone — CRACK! —, the mask cracked sideways, Tom grabbed it, ripping it free - beneath, just a man, pale, sweating, wide-eyed, an ordinary 40-something …
The revelation gave Tom no pause - he straddled The Henchman, fists hammering down, but The Henchman bucked his hips, flipping Tom off and sending him crashing to the floor — THUD! —, Tom rolled, wind knocked from him, but his hand brushed against cold metal … The dart gun.
He seized it, spun, The Henchman lunged—
—Thuck.
The dart buried into The Henchman’s chest, his momentum carried him forward, collapsing onto Tom, heavy, suffocating, silencing into an unconscious slump.
Tom lay on his back with The Henchmen draped over him, only the sound of his own breathless wheezes filling the carpeted corridor of The Mansion as Tom stared at the ceiling …
Tom shoved The Henchman off with a grunt, chest heaving, arms trembling - he staggered to his feet, every muscle screaming …
He ran to the metal staircase, feet clanging against steel, heart pounding like a war drum - The Mansion’s basement opened into a cavernous chamber of humming machinery … At its center stood the power switch board.
Tom reached it, fingers shaking as he pried the panel open; wires glowed faintly, switches aligned like teeth … He had only seconds.
Then—a hiss …
Above him, an air vent cover clattered open …
A metallic claw shot out and clamped around his wrist, — CLANK! —
Tom roared as the cold steel yanked his arm skyward, “—NO-AAAHH!—”, a coil unwound from the vent, gleaming silver, curling around his torso like a serpent … It tightened, crushing breath from his ribs, lifting him from the ground …
“—T.K!—” Tom wheezed, his body writhed, muscles straining, “—T.K, STOP!—”
T.K hurled him forward, Tom’s naked chest and face slamming against the concrete wall — SLAM! —, Tom became dizzy and perplexed from the impact, stars bursting across his vision, his legs kicking wildly …
Another coil shot out, clamping around his left ankle and dragging it wide - the coil pulled, forcing his left leg apart from his right, pinning him flush to the wall …
“—NO!—” Tom growled, teeth bared, sweat dripping from his brow, “—T.K!—” he cried, “—You’re supposed to be on my side!—” Tom now lay flat against the wall, one arm pinned high above, one leg pinned out to the side, a free arm and a free leg kicking or punching out …
A third and final coil with a snapping steel talon presented itself from the open air vent - it slid through the air, slowly, carefully, hovering …
The claw traced along the curve of Tom’s exposed ass, circling, observing, almost breathing … It took in the sight of Tom’s twitching ass hole, the flex of his taint, the wobble of each cheek …
From inside of his talon, T.K produced a white feather, spinning, whizzing, blurring in motion …
Tom began to yell, loud and fierce, his spare hand attempting to reach behind, to smack T.K away, “—IF, IF YOU LOVE ME—” he could hear the whizz, feel the push of air between his thighs as the feather neared, “—YOU’LL LET ME GO!—”
The feather hovered closer, trembling at the brink, drawn to Tom’s smooth, hairless, plump and ticklish buttocks …
Tom’s eyes darted, frantic, desperate to do something, anything …
His free foot stretched backward, toes searching … They pressed against cold steel, they fingered a switch …
He couldn’t see it, it might not be the right one, but it had to work, it just had to …
He clenched his jaw, took the risk - his big toe flicked it.
Btzzzzzoooooooooooo …
The world went black.
T.K. spasmed; sparks crackled across his coils - the world first A.I Tickler shrieked a metallic screech, then collapsed into silence …
T.J’s grip shattered, allowing Tom to drop hard to the floor, naked skin smacking against concrete.
He gasped, coughing, scrambling to his feet with no hesitation …
Behind him, T.K.’s coils hung limp, twitching once before falling still …
“… I only ever btzz wanted to … btzz keep … You … Btzzzzzzz
Tom didn’t look back …
He sprinted up the steps, every nerve alight, the dark swallowing him whole, racing to the others, while T.K. lay motionless in the shadows of the basement, dead at last.
The Event Hall was no longer a hall but an inferno …
Table candles toppled, spreading flame across white linens, climbing the gold stage curtains until they were tongues of fire licking the rafters …
Gold chandeliers snapped loose and crashed into the crowd, smoke thickened, curling through lungs, choking shrieks into rasping coughs; white, plastic, oval shaped masks scattered the floor like bones, trampled, broken, discarded by the panicked guests who clawed for the exits …
And still, John watched.
The elder John slumped in his chair, while the younger John leaned above him - blonde hair shining in the firelight, lean body encased in braces and pinstripes …
His voice was soft, conversational, intimate, as the world around them fell to ruin.
“Remember when we came up with this idea?” John smirked, “Must’ve been ’79, maybe ’80? Who would’ve thought you’d live to see it all …” John tucked one hand into his trouser pocket as he placed his other hand over the handle bar of John’s wheelchair, “… The laughter, the torment, again and again and again. We were right, even then … There has never been anything like this before … And there will never be anything like this again …”
Through the flames, Maxwell reached Tim, unlatching the golden bars, snapping open the toe restraints, unbuckling the stocks, “Come on, kid, easy does it …”
Tim staggered forward, ripping The Winner’s Mask from his face and hurling it away - it shattered across the floorboards, the expensive fragments reduced to nothing but shards …
“Oh wow,” John flashed his eyebrows upward, “All that preparation,” he murmured, “All those phases, all that time! And look - on the floor, reduced to pieces. Worth it all, huh?”
Young John leaned down and whispered into an ear that was his own; no longer smooth, young, tanned, instead filled with grey hair, wrinkled edges and wax …
“… It was always going to end sometime, somehow … We just didn’t expect it to look like this …”
Tim’s voice rose through the chaos, “I’ve been waiting all week!—” Tim climbed out of The Throne, Maxwell taking his hands, “—So good to see you, man!—”
Maxwell helped Tim’s nude body arrive on the floorboards as dust and debris fell over the shoulders, the flames increasing in size as quickly as the crowds screams - all week? - Maxwell thought … “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” he said, eyeing their way out …
Nearby, Tobey and Jake yanked ball gags free, tore away cuffs, pulled apart stocks, dragging Kit, Logan, Joshua and Sebastian upright.
Young John smiled as he stood beside the wheelchair, watching each contestant release themselves from their tickle chairs, “We had them here for almost a quarter of the year. Not bad, huh? You should be proud. Those boys may forget what they’ve taken part in, but from now on? …”
As Young John’s hands faded away, Miller’s hands gripped the wheelchairs handles, Young John’s words fading into the smoke …
“… They’ll remember us forever …”
Miller’s eyes lifted …
“… Tom …” he snarled.
Naked, silver collar glinting against his throat, bruises and dust covering his body, fists clenched, knuckles bloody … The flames behind Tom framed him like a revenant.
“I know what you’ve done to us, big man,” Tom sneered, chest heaving, “I smacked you once before. But this time—”
—Justin’s hand closed on Tom’s wrist, his voice cracked like glass.
“He’s mine …”
Before Tom could breathe, Justin was on Miller - a frenzy, fists and nails, screaming like a rabid animal, spit and blood flying …
THWACKPUNCHSMACKTHUDPUNCHTHWACK! …
He sat over Miller’s hips, he dug his fingers into his face, he pounded him with a force pent up since day one, unknowingly hundreds of days ago …
Miller reeled, face caved under blows, until he resembled the twisted grin of a clown; swollen, red, eyes blackened, smile stretched into something inhuman …
Logan and Sebastian joined the carnage, tearing bottles of champagne open, pouring them over the spreading fires, sending the inferno higher; tuxedo jackets flung away, skin glistening; Sebastian was bare-chested, Logan’s bowtie hanging loose at his throat …
Tom spun on his heels, his hands landing on Andrew …
Through the heat, through the smoke, Andrew stumbled …
They crashed together, clinging, hysterical, clutching each other’s faces …
“You haven’t forgotten me, have you?” Andrew gasped.
“As if, mate!” Tom cried, pulling him close.
Above them, the ceiling cracked, stone groaning - beams tumbled, debris crashing, sparks exploding …
Onstage, Peter crawled to John’s side, coughing blood into his sleeve, but John’s head had fallen, silent at last …
Peter sobbed into the old man’s lap, uncaring of anything else …
Joshua staggered toward him, longing, desperate to find the Peter he thought he knew, he thought he cared about …
Kit seized Joshua’s arm and yanked him back, “—It’s over, Joshua! We need to get out!—”
Peter fell to John’s knees, he squeezed them tight and screamed in distress, his tears soaking John’s trousers …
However, his eyes widened when he watched the flames creep up to John’s oxygen tank …
An explosion erupted through The Mansion’s main double doors, causing them to hurtle open, to break off their hinges and to land in the dirt …
Masked guests poured out, masks half-off, bloodied, screaming, calling for those they had arrived with who they had lost - some collapsed, trampled, others tore for the trees like animals freed from cages …
Outside, Logan and Sebastian had already leveled dart guns at a Masked Henchman; Ross stumbled from The Mansion, his tuxedo jacket on fire - he spun on the spot and threw the jacket off of his torso, allowing the flames to catch onto the floor, to spread to the base of a nearby tree trunk …
Ross snatched keys from the trembling hand of The Masked Henchman held under Logan and Sebastian’s dart-gun aim - he sprinted to a coach used to escort guests to The Mansion …
Tim, Maxwell, Jake, Tobey, Logan, Sebastian, Joshua, Justin, Kit - they all clambered inside the coach, wheezing, coughing, tuxedo’s burnt and torn, Tim’s naked body glistening - they ignored pounding fists of guests desperate for escape - the doors slamming shut, Ross throwing his foot down on the pedal, coach wheels crunching over bodies, over faces … No one stopped him …
“Head for the distance!” Maxwell barked as a nearby helicopter caught aflame whilst attempting to take off, “Just keep going!”
Tim twisted in his seat, “—Where’s Tom!—” he shouted …
The coach shook with panic until they saw him - naked, battered, Tom emerged from the smoke billowing from The Mansions open doorway - he carried Andrew, blood pouring from a steel bar lodged in his side …
Spotlights from above tumbled, crashing into the dirt, smashing to sparks - Tom looked up, and for the first time saw it - the smoke from The Mansion’s roaring fire rose only so far, then stopped, pressing against a ceiling miles above painted like sky …
A world he had once escaped into, a world he and everyone else had been tricked to think was real …
Ross reversed - vvvvhhrrrrrmmmmmm! - Tim flung the back door open and dragged Tom and Andrew in, the coach surging forward again through the false forest …
… Trees bent and splintered, man-made rivers splashed under tires, studio spotlights rained like meteors …
“—We need a hospital!—” Tom shouted, cradling Andrew, “—He’s … He’s bleeding out!—”
Maxwell placed his hands over Andrew’s would, in an attempt to apply pressure, “—There aren’t hospitals here, kid!—” Andrew lunged forwards in pain …
Joshua’s eyebrows were raised into a horrified lift, his glance snatched by the sight of Klådjur, dressed in a bow tie and tuxedo, his wooden mask burning into his face as he rolled across the grass, screaming, shrieking, not a tickle monster at all, not a mysterious character hidden by shadow … A mere actor …
They screeched to a halt at The Wall …
Blue-painted steps wound upward, blending with the painted heavens; at the top, Masked Henchmen fought to hold them back, with Leonardo already doing his part of defence by punching Henchmen off the steps where they’d land on the ground with a crack.
Harry, keen to escape hours ago, arrived here, his mind-set shifted. Instead of fighting Leo, he helped him, kicking back at Masked Henchmen trying to stop the contestants from escaping …
The Mansion, two or three miles away, collapsed into itself, fire and smoke pummelling upwards, catching onto the trees, the grass, the hills … The sky became black …
The boys ascended the stairs, fists flying; Jake hurled men from the stairwell, Tobey punched until his hands bled, Sebastian smashed a Henchman’s face into the steps until bone cracked …
A few steps up, Tim came face to face with Aaron.
In a second, he flashed back to the simplicity of an Atlanta hotel; a party, drink, Miller, and a blonde, young prostitute with no where to go and nothing to do but make Tim feel welcome.
Here they stood, toe to toe, half a decade later - everything had changed - Tim, naked, soaked in sweat, Aaron, dressed in a tuxedo, only recently made into an official HOWF Tickler …
Tim’s eyes screamed ‘let me pass’, Aaron’s eyes screamed ‘you’re going nowhere’.
Tim used his hands to shove Aaron off the stairwell - a tough push, the need to move ahead, a crunch noise signalling that perhaps Aaron had landed on his head …
Some surviving guests grabbed at Kit, they tried to tear off his tuxedo, some grabbed at his shoes, others grabbed his hands and held them behind his back …
“—Geh, get off me!—” he felt the grip release as Joshua pulled at the guests hair, snatched hold of their collars, elbowed masks till they crunched …
Behind them, The Forest burned, filled with the howls of masked guests running, falling, burning alive …
At the steps summit, the group eventually crashed through Stage Door Six, into steel corridors …
Only three lingered at the doorway: Tom, Tim, and Justin …
Through the flames, Miller and Peter had ran into sight …
They stared upward, faces molten with firelight, eyes hollow but fixed - between them, the steps, and Stage Door Six was maybe thirty seconds of running … Behind them, the cult’s world collapsed, the set ablaze, fake trees igniting, ceilings breaking apart …
“We … We can just leave them,” Tim glanced at Tom, “Can we just leave them?”
“—Mate!—” Tom barked, “—We’ve got to go!—”
“—Shut the door!—” Justin snapped.
“But there’s thousands of them—” Tim’s eyes squinted as the heat from the flames greeted his face …
Miller’s bloody stare remained on Tim, like a Lion done feasting on a boar - there was nothing left to consume - this was it, this was the end.
Miller mouthed words Tim could not make out, his voice muted by the roar of flame …
Maxwell barged in front of Tom, Justin and Tim and then slammed the door shut with both hands.
CRANK!
The lock thundered shut - his voice was final …
“Always know …” he said coldly, “… We didn’t kill them …” he turned away, “… I did …”
Maxwell, Justin, Tom and Tim ran from Stage Door Six, where they joined the others and climbed a steel ladder, opening a latch, appearing in a cold, wet field in the middle of nowhere …
The framed Clown mask hanging in The Mansion’s living room fell and shattered, burning to a crisp as the flames greeted the frazzled red tips of curly hair …
The masked audience burned in their own theatre, The Forest and it’s planted trees collapsing, painted skies above aflame …
Feathers, plastic and real, curled into ash …
Peter arrived behind Miller, coughing spluttering, flames nearing his heels …
“We need to get out! What, what are we going to do!—”
Miller spun around and grabbed Peter’s shoulders.
“We’re going to die, you fuck!” He shook Peter once, twice, three times, “And what a fucking brilliant death it’ll be …”
He then turned to the fury of fire that erupted towards them, the heat burning the skin from his face in one swift blow …
In the basement, T.K. lay melting, his steel coils unable to handle the heat of the flames …
Wires sparked, talons became black with burn, the coils curled into themselves, as if in prayer …
In the final moments, T.K did not register lust or need - instead, his A.I software realised something before he finally burnt to a crisp:
… If animals had a religion, humans would be the devil …
“Good evening, and welcome to News at Ten …
… On tonight’s show …
… Three months ago, the world was transfixed as the notorious cult, The House of White Feathers, collapsed in flames …
… Eight survivors, all well known celebrities, emerged after more than one hundred and fifty days of captivity, revealing a spectacle of physical torment broadcast to everyone around the globe …
… Since then, investigations have revealed layers of corruption and cover-ups stretching into politics, finance, entertainment and even royalty. Dozens of arrests have been made. But one so called survivor remains at the center of worldwide fascination - Harry Styles …
… While some view him as a victim of a sadistic system, others insist he participated willingly, pointing to his continued involvement in what has become a lucrative phenomenon. He has refused to comment …
… Three months on, one question remains: has Harry Styles escaped The House of White Feathers … Or has he become its last prisoner?”
Logan sat in the middle of the terminal with a newspaper shielding his face.
The morning rush churned around him; families dragging suitcases, businessmen barking into phones, the shuffle and clatter of arrivals …
He appeared casual, but behind the print his eyes stayed sharp, blue and unblinking - he adjusted the earpiece tucked discreetly into his right ear and whispered, “They booked Row A seats … They should be the first off the flight.”
Across the lounge, Sebastian waited in silence - a leather jacket clung to his broad frame, his sunglasses hiding the stern expression lingering behind them - he sat with his head bowed, posture deceptively loose, like a predator saving its energy for the strike - his reply was steady, without the faintest hint of hesitation.
“If the press are successfully thrown off,” he said, “This should be an easy catch …”
A crackle answered them as another voice joined the line: Tobey, posted further down the terminal, invisible among the crowd, “They’ve been tipped to gather at the wrong gate,” he said, “Your catch should be effortless …”
Logan’s gaze flicked to the Starbucks across the hall - Jake had set up there, sipping casually at a paper cup, his cross-body bag resting against his side - without breaking his rhythm, Jake lowered the cup, checked his watch, and pressed two fingers to his mic.
“I’m on the move.”
The arrival doors opened and a wave of weary passengers poured through, shuffling toward the waiting arms of loved ones.
At the front of the pack came two men who didn’t belong in the ordinary flow of families and tourists - Evans, dragging a suitcase with a tired hand, and Brad, just a step behind, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the room.
Logan folded his newspaper, stood, and cut through the crowd to greet them, his voice carrying the kind of calm that made the air around him tense.
“Hello, boys,” he said with a smile that was anything but warm, “I’ll be your driver today.”
Evans froze as his reality cracked his composure, panic flaring across his face - the suitcase slipped from his hand and hit the polished floor with a hollow bang - he turned sharply, ready to bolt …
Sebastian took one step forward, one hand lifting his sunglasses just enough to reveal the dangerous glint of his eyes as he blocked Evans path, “Going somewhere, runt?—” He growled …
Brad’s throat bobbed as his eyes darted from Sebastian to Logan - he swallowed hard, forcing his voice to come out steady, “Don’t you think you should’ve gotten over this by now?… ” he said, “… It’s been three months! …”
Logan smirked as he tilted his head slowly, while Jake and Tobey closed in from either side …
Jake unzipped the cross-body bag with deliberate care, letting the contents catch the light: black leather straps, a gleam of metal … A ball gag.
“You know,” Logan said softly, his voice more memory than confession, “They made us scream pig noises to stop the tickling.”
Evans and Brad were seized, forced forward toward a side exit, their resistance nothing but theatre against the precision of four men who had already survived worse than public shame …
Logan didn’t follow - he stood in the middle of the terminal, watching the scene fold neatly into place, his smirk settling deeper as though the world had finally righted itself.
“Now,” he said, so quietly only he could hear it, “It’s my turn to hear you oink …”
Kit sprawled across the sheets as if the bed was made for him alone …
Naked, his body gleamed under the low amber light: pale, broad chest rising and falling, muscles slick with perspiration, a grin so wide it looked permanent …
His arms rested behind his head, biceps flexed just enough to show their cut, pits auburn, fuzzy and glistening in the glow - he wasn’t hiding, he wasn’t pretending, he was putting himself on display, teasing Joshua with every slow, confident breath …
Joshua rolled his hips in a gentle sway, the tightness of his behind firm around the thickness of Kit’s throbbing arousal, his own sweat dampening the tight white vest clinging to his torso …
… He looked down at Kit like he was something unreal, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch - Kit caught his hesitation, chuckling, his grin widening …
“You’re staring again …” he teased, his voice hot, breathless.
Joshua’s mouth curved, “And you’re laughing …”
Kit stretched, his whole torso rippling, nipples tightening as the air hit him, “Because,” he gasped between chuckles, “If you told me three months ago that I’d be here, like this, in you—”. he broke off into another laugh, “I wouldn’t have believed it …”
The words hit Joshua hard - his chest tightened, the humor dimming beneath the weight of memory …
… Three months ago …
… Fire, screaming, Peter’s voice still echoing in his skull …
His eyes flicked, unbidden, to the iPhone glowing faintly on the nightstand …
Kit noticed, his grin faltered just slightly as he caught his breath and said softly, “… He isn’t going to call, you know …”
The air pulsed as Joshua moved, slipping off of Kit and then the bed, his back now facing the person he’d been having sex with for the best part of eight weeks …
For a beat, the silence felt louder than the San Francisco traffic thirty feet below.
Kit sat up, watching Joshua carefully, “We … Don’t have to do this. Not if you’re not—”
—Joshua shook his head, voice ragged, words pulled out like splinters.,“That’s not it. It’s just …” he dragged in a breath, his back still turned, “… I don’t think I’ve ever let someone get this close before. Not really.”
Kit leaned back on his hands, naked and unashamed, still erect even in the tension, “Then maybe it’s time you show me the ropes. Like I suggested … Back in … There …” he didn’t finish the thought, they both knew what there meant, and neither liked naming it.
Joshua turned slowly, as if something in him had shifted - the hesitation was still there, but it burned under something sharper - hunger, mischief, a kind of feral need he hadn’t let himself feel until now - his mouth curled into a grin that wasn’t cautious anymore …
In two steps he was on the bed, shoving Kit back into the mattress …
The sheets bunched under Kit’s shoulders as his laugh burst free again, startled and delighted - Joshua’s hand darted sideways, fingers snatching up the half-opened Amazon parcel from the nightstand … Cold steel glinted in the lamplight.
Kit’s eyes widened as he laughed even harder, “They’re mere toys compared to what we’ve been—”
—The snap of cuffs cut him off.
Joshua pinned Kit’s wrists above his head, the metal locking into place against the bedframe with a finality that made Kit’s chest surge - his muscles flexed, veins straining as he pulled instinctively against the restraints, testing them … They didn’t give.
Joshua leaned down, lips brushing Kit’s ear, his voice soft, quiet, “… Time for something new …”
Kit’s eyes closed as his throat tightened - Joshua slid back on top of Kit’s arousal and sank, slowly, over the thickness of the girth, taking him entirely …
When Kit opened his eyes, he could tell that the first touch was deliberate - Joshua’s fingers skimmed Kit’s chest, sliding down over slick skin, tracing the ridges of each rib - Kit jolted inward, breath catching, just before Joshua dove, sudden and merciless, into the depths of each underarm …
Kit’s whole body bucked off the mattress, laughter tearing out of him raw and uncontrollable, his thrust unintentionally fucking into Joshua with such strength Joshua moaned …
The cuffs wrenched tight above his head as he thrashed, — CLANK! —, muscles flexing, chest arching toward Joshua’s hands only to try to twist away …
Joshua attacked again and again, circling his fingers, digging deeper, scribbling over hot, hairy skin that Kit couldn’t protect - his laughter grew guttural, spilling out like something he couldn’t hold back, his grin stretched wide even as he writhed, his hips and waist automatically thrusting, naturally slamming into Joshua as Joshua’s erection slapped and bounced over Kit’s stomach …
“—Josh, Joshua!—” Kit gasped between ragged bursts of laughter, but it wasn’t begging, it was joy, reckless and delirious, “—Mnn! Mnn!—” his pits, his ribs, his sides, Joshua explored them all, relentless, tracing sweat-slick lines down his body only to surge back into the hollows that made Kit convulse and buck, his hard cock now deep, deep inside of Joshua, who had so much water in his eyes tears formed at the top of each cheek …
The room was a storm: the bed rattling under their weight, the sheets twisted, the air thick with heat and sound - Joshua’s vest clung tighter, plastered to his chest, his breath coming as ragged as Kit’s laughter.
In an attempt to feel Kit’s arousal throb in a repetitive thrust within him, Joshua used his index fingers to scribble against the base of Kit’s abs, exploring the ‘V’ shape of his waist - with no thought process included, Kit reacted like a puppet, his hips always surging forward in non stop thrusts, his giggles coming out of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut - such a movement nudged them both close to release; Joshua bit his upper lip whilst Kit bit his lower lip - thrust, thrust, tickle, tickle, throb, throb … But Joshua had learned from a master, a master that no longer existed, a master he had to let go … And just because he had to let go of one thing, it didn’t mean he had to let go of another …
Joshua lifted his hands away from Kit’s stomach as heaving, gasps and spluttered coughs from Kit filled the apartment bedroom …
“I … I nearly …” Kit watched Joshua lift himself off him for a second time, however now, he turned and bent over, briefly offering Kit a glance at what he was fucking, before sliding under the bed sheets …
Kit felt Joshua’s arms and hands curling around his thighs, and then his legs, and then his ankles, firm, controlling, trapping both feet, sliding his weight over them, pinning them in place … The sheets rustled as Joshua shifted closer, his breath hot against Kit’s toes … A second later, a kiss landed - slow, deliberate, right across the arch of his right foot.
Kit’s whole body convulsed, a shout of laughter bursting out of him, raw and startled - he kicked, but Joshua’s weight held him firm.
“Oh God—Joshua!—” Kit wheezed, thrashing, his grin splitting wider even as his voice cracked.
Under the covers, Joshua kissed again, then let his lips drag up to Kit’s toes - his tongue flicked against them, quick and teasing, before his teeth grazed lightly over the pads - his fingers joined in, nails scribbling mercilessly over Kit’s soles, back and forth, up and down, never pausing …
Kit’s frantic laughter filled the room, harsh and broken, his chest heaving, arms straining so hard against the cuffs the bedframe shook, his legs writhed but couldn’t escape, his feet caught perfectly in Joshua’s grip, “Stop—stop—” he whined between helpless bursts, though his face was nothing but joy, every line of him alive with it.
Joshua didn’t stop - he was laughing now too, muffled against Kit’s skin, drunk on the sound of him, on the sheer chaos of the moment, every kick, every desperate twist of Kit’s body only made him hungrier, more determined to take this further, to keep him here, spent, tired, tickled to exhaustion …
.. Joshua stretched his legs back, his bare feet arriving at Kit’s armpits, his own toes curling and flexing like fingers into Kit’s underarms, tickling them at the same time …
Kit became a submissive, beefy, wet squirm, always stuttering and cackling, shouting and huffing, his own erection rubbing under Joshua’s stomach, caught in a soaked rub, Joshua’s erection also sliding against Kit’s in a constant grind as the two bodies became one erotic mixture of physical art …
And Joshua pressed harder, kissing, teasing, tickling, his thoughts cleared - this wasn’t about holding back, or about shadows of the past, it was about Kit - radiant, wild, unbreakable beneath him.
They wanted this. All of it.
Together, they came at the same time, exploding within each other, drenching each other in the knowledge that something like this could be enjoyed instead of endured …
Joshua pulled back only when they had both caught their breath, chests heaving, grins wild …
Kit’s eyes gleamed, pupils wide, body stretched and helpless, glowing under the lamplight.
Joshua shuffled out from the bedsheets and dropped him, panting, his hands still hovering just above Kit’s body - his eyes then locked on Kit’s face, and in that moment, the truth crashed over him.
This wasn’t about Peter. This wasn’t about distraction …
It was about Kit, the way his laughter lit the air, the way his body strained and yielded, the way Joshua wanted him more than he had ever let himself want anyone.
And for the first time in months, Joshua didn’t fight it.
Justin moved quickly, head down, Hailey’s hand locked around his, but the crowd had grown thicker than usual …
Paparazzi flashes went off in rapid fire, but behind the cameras were others - ordinary men, no lenses in their hands, no credentials on their necks - they stared too intently, their gazes dragging across Justin’s sneakers like they were undressing him through the leather.
One leaned close enough to whisper, “Bet the clown shoes come off easy!”, another laughed and reached for him, shouting, “Show us the toes, Biebs!” … Security shoved them back, but the laughter lingered, chasing him into the car.
Hailey was tense, furious, but quiet - she squeezed his knee as the door slammed shut, “Ignore them,” she said, but Justin couldn’t … He could still feel their eyes on his ankles, still hear the sound of his own voice defending his property as obsessed individuals hovered around his home …
“… You’re not getting it, it’s not clocking to you, it’s not clocking to you that I’m standin’ on business …”
His mansion in Beverly Hills was supposed to be a fortress … After his time in that place, he’d invested in walls, guards, cameras, yet the walls had been breached three times in as many weeks; strange men caught outside at 3 a.m., letters left on the gate describing in lurid detail what they would do to his feet, how they would tie him spread-eagle, ‘ … work each toe until you lose your mind …’
Before a worried Hailey went on vacation with The Kardashians, he told her he could handle it, that the cult was gone, burned, literally dead - but the story itself had become a contagion, it had infected not only the world, but his world …
That night, the shower steamed and filled his lungs with heat - for a moment he let himself relax, head tipped back, eyes closed as the water coursed down his tattooed chest - he toweled himself quickly, footsteps patting gently on marble, leaving droplets behind him like evidence …
When he pushed open the bedroom door, he wasn’t alone.
One of his security guards stood by the dresser, one of his closest, someone Justin had trusted to keep him safe, someone who’d shared beers with him during long shifts, who’d nodded along when Justin said he was finally free.
“Everything okay?” Justin asked, frowning, “Ken, is it?”
The guard didn’t answer at first, he stepped forward, closing the door softly behind him.
“I’ve been learning,” he said quietly, “Every interview. Every clip. The world doesn’t get it … Not really. But I do …”
“… I’ve been dreaming about this, every night, for the past three months …”
“… And now it’s just us.”
Justin blinked, stepping back, “Get the fuck out, man …”
The towel slipped from his hips as the guard surged forward - his hands were iron, large and strong - Justin winced as his wrists were yanked behind his back, rope burning his skin before he could even process it - he tried to fight, kicking and leaping, “—HELP! FUCKING HELP!—”, but the betrayal stunned him more than the strength …
Within minutes he was thrown face-down onto his own bed, hogtied, muscles straining against the knots; The cameras - the little red eyes in the ceiling corners - were dark, his home was silent, the security guards voice fulled by obsession …
“They all want this, but they’ll never have you like I do now …” He lifted something from the vanity desk: Hailey’s hairbrush, pale and delicate, in his other hand, a tub of her face cream .. He uncapped it and smeared the cream across Justin’s soles, slow, obscene …
Justin writhed, furious, humiliated once again, “You sick—get the fuck—”, his words cut off in a shriek of helpless screams as the brush dragged across his heels …
The sensation was too sharp, too intimate, too familiar - his body bucked against the bed, ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, his voice cracking between rage and hysterics.
“Is this what they did to you in The Dome?—”, the guard whispered, “In ‘Sweden’ …” he spread Justin’s toes wide, working the brush into the gaps as Justin grunted and snarled, his face pressed into the sheets, hot tears streaking down his cheeks …
“—Stop! Fucking stop! I’m gonna fucking kill you!—” a burst of uncontrollable laughter tore through him, helpless and furious. “—You ss, sss-ICK FUCK!—”
The guard only pressed closer, sweat dripping, breath ragged, whispering, “No, no, I’m just lucky…”
Minutes blurred into forever, the bedroom filled with Justin’s laughter, animal and ugly, the kind that tore his throat raw - his body thrashed, slick with sweat, powerless in his own home, his hyper ticklish heels victim to his own wife’s hairbrush …
When the home erupted hours later in chaos - police sirens, other security guards storming in, the obsessed stalker dragged screaming from the bed - Justin lay hogtied, exhausted and silent - his feet untouched once again, the bedsheets beneath his face soaked with dribble …
Hailey’s hairbrush sat on the floor, the plastic nibs soaked with perspiration and lotion, their tips filled with the oaky scent of Justin’s heels and toes …
Justin rolled over to his back as the police worked at removing his restraints, his eyes glassy, the ceiling flashing in a mixed blend of red and blue …
Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears, he heard the saw the security guards face in the crowd outside the restaurant, amongst the many times he and his wife had been hounded by the hysteria caused since The Games ended …
The House of White Feathers had been reduced to ash, but its lingering shadow stretched longer than fire. It had followed him here.
Onto his bed and onto his skin.
Colmar, France …
Ross’s naked body vibrated with an uncontrollably tremble that captivated him from the tips of his toes to the frayed strands of his blonde fringe …
His spine was arched against the wooden chair, his muscular thighs spread wide, ankles restrained to the legs of the chair, wrists bound by rope behind its back; Leo, masked as a Horned Devil, crouched between Ross’s legs, his black leather gloved right hand curled tightly around the thickness of Ross’s pulsating erection, his left ungloved hand drawing faint circles around Ross’s navel …
Ross sat on top of a plastic butt plug that buzzed with strength in the depths of what felt like his stomach; each ass cheek either clenched or bubbled out, his balls were twitching, his shaft throbbing, his mouth always open, his eyes unblinking as he watched Leo nudge him closer, and closer, and closer … Always to the cliff edge, where he would always yank him back again …
… It had been two hours.
Ross had been famous once, untouchable, the very torso now heaving in the morning sunlight used to face thousands of screaming girls as he showed off on stage, on tour … In this moment he was nothing more than a gasping mess in the hands of men he had chased down for three months, so he could feel again, so he could be wanted once more …
Maxwell’s jaw was tight, his eyes locked on Ross’s face - he had been the savior, the one who tore down the House of White Feathers, who risked everything to end it, but here he was, holding Ross on the edge of orgasm, controlling him more completely than The HOWF ever had - Maxwell swigged from his second bottle of vodka as he thought - are we any different from them?
Ross whined, hips jerking up into Leo’s hand, “—Come on, man!—” he sounded desperate, “—Just give me what I want!—” he sounded sad, unable to take his watering eyes from the fingernail orbiting his belly button, “—Ssstop!—”, Ross’s laughter broke through his cries, helpless, delirious, humiliating …
Maxwell leaned towards Ross, bitter and drunk, “I freed you. I fr, freed you all. And look what it’s done …” He watched Leo’s strokes grow harsher, faster, dragging Ross to the brink again, - thwapthwapthwapthwap!-, “… You’re not free! You’ve been ruined …”
Ross’s eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading down his neck, “—Please, man … Please, I nee, nee, need—”, his tanned body bucked wildly, every muscle straining, every nerve aflame …
Leo stopped, holding Ross in pleasured agony - for a moment, only the faint buzz of the butt plug could be heard within the trashed bedroom …
“Maybe they won,” Maxwell whispered, “Maybe the house always wins. Because even here …”
Leo’s speed returned …
“Even now …” Maxwell purred …
Ross could feel that bubble boil, his jaw clenched, “—Oh, oh god—”
“The only thing with real power, is this …” Maxwell dropped the bottle of vodka to the floor, never to drink again …
Ross grunted into hot air, saliva seeping from his lips, relieved laughter and a tight grin tangled into one incoherent sound, “—GRAH! AHA!—” he felt himself shatter like glass, release tearing through him like a flood, spewing out the tip of his cock like a hose pipe …
Maxwell’s eyes never left Ross’s face as he came - hooked, broken, undone - in that instant, it was undeniable: neither Ross, nor Maxwell, nor Leo or the ghosts of The House of White Feathers were in control …
… It was the fetish itself.
The rain came down in sheets, turning the streets of London into rivers of reflected neon.
Andrew ran through it with his head low, boots splashing in puddles, the weight of a grocery bag biting into his hand …
He slowed as he passed a newspaper stand, rain dripping from his hair as his eyes caught the headlines …
“HOLLAND HUMILIATED: ZENDAYA WALKS. ODYSSEY SCRAPPED. FETISH REVELATIONS END CAREER.”
The paper showed Tom’s face: pale, bleary eyes, caught mid-stride outside a hotel … The caption below was damning:
“ … Fetishised by millions: How a moment of public exploitation changed the lives of eight famous men forever …”
Andrew’s stomach turned, he ignored the vendor’s stare and hurried on …
___
The flat was dark when he let himself in, water dripping from his coat onto the wooden floorboards.
He set the groceries down on the counter, calling out softly.
“Tom? I thought maybe … I thought I’d cook tonight. Something nice. Take our minds off …” His voice trailed …
His eyes fell to the coffee table.
A bottle of whiskey sat there, half empty, amber catching the dim light - Andrew froze.
Everyone knew Tom had quit years ago - he had built a whole empire around it, Beero, the alcohol-free lager that carried his grin on every ad … Seeing the whiskey was a sign of helplessness.
Beside it lay a folded sheet of paper.
Andrew’s heart sank as he recognized Tom’s hurried, uneven handwriting.
He unfolded it with shaking hands …
Andrew.
I’ve gone to find Harrison.
Even though he helped us get out, he’s still responsible for the times he was made to keep us there.
I’ll be back, mate.
Wait for me?
T x
Andrew dropped into the sofa, letter trembling in his grip, heart pounding with fear and anger all at once as the rain hammered against the windows.
“Tom…” he whispered, the groceries forgotten …
Across the city, perched on the corner of a tall building, Tom pulled his hood tighter against the storm.
Rain streamed down his face, dripping from the stubble on his jaw.
His jacket clung wet to his frame, but he didn’t move, his eyes were locked on the lit windows opposite.
Inside, Harrison stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung low around his hips, steam curling behind him.
He moved lazily across the living room, running a hand through his wet hair, unaware of the eyes watching him from the dark.
Tom’s lips curled into a smirk.
In his hand, he held the silver collar that was once locked around his neck, the padlock cut open with pliers - he brushed his thumb over the feather inscribed over the padlocks surface, narrowing his gaze, his whole body coiled with intent.
He knew what he had to do …
… It was now only a question of when.
