This story takes place three years after the end of ‘Timothée Chalamet’s Ticklish Last Resort’. It is also connected to ‘Tarantino & Timothée’ and ‘Joshua Bassett’s Holiday Hysterics Part One’
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‘Everything we’ve ever done, everything we’ve ever learned about each other, it’s all led to this …”
Timothée dropped his Louis Vuitton rucksack to the floorboards of Armie’s hallway.
Thud.
Armie stood inches opposite Tim, his apartment door still swinging open, only a few seconds of breathing leaving their lips before they looked each other directly in the face and embraced the hardest they had embraced since the last time they had said goodbye, over half a year ago, Somewhere in Italy …
Armie’s arms wrapped around Tim’s waist, Tim’s arms wrapped around Armie’s neck. They squeezed their eyes shut, they breathed in each others scent; Armie smelt like oak wood and oranges, mostly due to the scented candles littering a home Tim had once spent almost eight weeks living in over three years ago. Tim smelt like wet skin, not the sweaty type, but the clammy kind that came along with walking through the New York City snow in nothing but military boots, cargo pants and a bright pink Celine hoodie.
Like they had done at the very start, both Armie and Tim used each other throughout the much needed embrace; Armie practically radiated heat, so Tim buried himself in deeper, his frozen body feeling warmer by the second. Armie found reassurance in this tight hug. So much had changed, such a large distance had been so naturally created - simply feeling Tim’s breath against his chest was enough to fill Armie with a sense of excitement, worth and above all else, gratitude.
Armie held onto Tim’s shoulders and glanced down at his mouth, and then at his eyes; he took in his thick lashes, his bushy eyebrows, the grassy colour surrounding the yellow glow of his pupils before chuckling in surprise, “You’re Timothée Chalamet … ” he whispered, glancing down at Tim’s soaked boots, “… Aren’t you driven everywhere these days?” Armie’s playful grin always suggested he was never jealous - always proud - as he picked some snowflakes away from the curls dangling at either side of Tim’s face.
When observed, especially by Armie, Tim could not help but provide a gawkish laugh as he lowered his head and curled both of his hands around Armies, “He uh, he had to pull over, a uh, a few blocks from here …” Tim lifted his head, his eyes landing at Armie’s jaw, “… The snow’s pretty bad … “ he clenched his teeth and swallowed down an urgency to devour Armie right there, on the spot, “… I’m gonna need some warming up …”
Armie smiled; he placed his hand behind Tim’s head and gently pulled him in, where he pressed his lips against Tim’s jaw, journeying his kiss towards Tim’s mouth where they both remained fixed for just a few seconds as the many fairy lights decorating Armie’s apartment looked on in silence and awe.
As Armie broke the kiss, Tim pulled back a beaming smirk by biting down on the corner of his lower lip, just in time for Armie to inform him of the thing he had so desperately wanted to hear since he left London earlier this morning.
“It’s your turn,” Armie said.
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In the three years since Timothée had fully submitted himself to Armie, their times together had been few and far between.
Whilst Armie’s career flatlined, Tim’s catapulted to higher heights than he dared to dream possible. As much as he tried to flesh out a routine where work would benefit his secret schedule with Armie, he often found himself distracted by the many projects and movie roles thrown his way. Gone was the Tim who came to Armie for a unique form of financial help. In this post-covid world, Tim existed as a powerhouse celebrity who had grown and evolved into something Armie now had to also flesh his own routine around.
That did not always arrive in the form of plans and structure. With Tim now holstering a far greater sense of confidence that he had once scrambled to acquire in 2020, Armie would now, not always often but often enough, find himself in the role of someone dominated, instead of someone dominating.
The living room lights were off, the coffee table moved aside, the tall and twinkling Christmas tree standing high and mighty in the corner; the festive aesthetic lit Armie’s apartment in a gentle golden shimmer, with an ambience that was strong enough to illuminate Armie’s naked body as he lay soaked and sweaty on the floorboards, his muscular frame bound in a tight hog tie expertly roped together by Tim, who knelt at Armie’s feet, where he curled both arms around Armie’s ankles, pulling them close to his bare chest, allowing his mouth and tongue to explore Armie’s toes one by one.
Tim wore nothing but silver Cartier bracelets and rings around his wrists and fingers, as well as the pearl choker Armie had given him three years ago; an ironic choice of jewellery, considering that the piece itself represented pure devotion and submission to the lee’s ler; aspects of this were of course, in some respects, taking place within the very warmth of Armie’s living room - by worshipping Armie’s heels and journeying his tongue towards his big toes, Tim showcased a dire and visceral example of devotion, however his grip around the bottom of Armie’s legs, how professionally he had bound Armie in his hog tie, the fact that he had wasted no time at all in manhandling him into this position clearly stated that the person who once submitted on a daily basis no longer always wanted to be the one to submit.
Armie huffed and arched his back as he lay on his stomach, his head twisting from left to right as he tried to angle his face over his shoulders, in an attempt to catch a glimpse at Tim calling the shots, a sight that never failed to turn him on. To say it was a challenge to be able to land strained, watering eyes over such an image would be an understatement - Tim’s tongue was a force to be reckoned with; it was strong and long, it curled between each of Armie’s toes with such vigour that no matter how hard Armie curled them into a scrunch, Tim’s tongue would always find its way back through each individual, highly ticklish, silky, fleshy length, causing Armie’s eyes to squeeze shut and the chance at seeing Tim in his position to be squashed.
Armie would pant and scrunch up his nose, a breathless tug of his lips pulling his mouth into an overwhelmed smile. He would hold onto the rope binding his wrists to his ankles, as if to let go would mean free falling into an absurd level of hysteria that Armie had not landed himself in since the mid 2000’s.
Thank god for the pillow, Armie thought.
With the writhing and the squirming came the understandable need to shuffle across the floor, a compromising act for someone hog tied with their balls and erection stuffed between their thighs. However, Tim had gained knowledge from his experiences with such an expert tickler and before Tim’s tongue had even made its way around the little toe of Armie’s right foot, Tim had positioned a red velvet pillow from the couch under the bottom of Armie’s stomach, allowing the thirty seven year olds throbbing cock to lay itself out over the pillows surface, where it could be tormented and teased by the long, exploring stroke of Tim’s ambitious fingers.
“Stay still, just for a second,” Tim whispered into Armie’s left sole, his voice ordering yet polite, caring for Armie’s physical comfort, “I have something for you,” were the only words Armie could hear, as he felt Tim’s hands curl around his arousal.
“Oh?” Armie twisted his head to the right, his tongue rolling over the roof of his mouth - Tim’s touch alone was enough to bring Armie agonisingly close to release, especially after an impassioned fifty six minutes of foot worship beside the Christmas tree - to make matters worse, with his head squashed to the side, Armie was now able to crane his neck and force his eyes down to his feet where he finally took in the visual of a naked Tim knelt with Armie’s shins pressed against his slim torso, a sight that caused Armie’s cock to twitch and for his balls to swell over the velvet of the pillow.
Unlike the Timothée of three years ago, the Timothée of today had gained some muscle weight; his biceps had increased in definition, his chest appeared broader, his neck thicker. The pearl choker that once dangled under his adam’s apple now sat snug and secure against his skin. A faint line of facial hair decorated his upper lip. Crows feet creased at either side of his eyes every time he grinned. He was no longer the stumbling, unaware twenty four year old that Armie had strung up in Sub Zero, two floors beneath the wood he lay hog tied over. He had always been handsome, he had always been attractive, he had always been sexy, but in this very moment, as the fairy lights lit Tim’s body a soft yellow, Armie realised that Tim had transcended into something better, bigger, brighter than Armie might ever be able to handle.
This was not the first time Armie had felt this way. Tim’s rise in fame and credibility had not taken place over night. When Tim had signed the original contract he was already Oscar nominated, already very well known, already an actor that had graced countless front covers of magazines. His transformation into the Timothée of today had only been put on hold because of the Pandemic. With that out of the equation he was allowed to expand, his time with Armie was allowed to decrease and Armie’s insecurities were allowed to introduce themselves.
Before the self doubt could get any louder, Armie felt a thick ring of elastic loop around the tip of his cock.
He regretted gasping almost immediately; such a reaction could suggest he had lost foresight or understanding at how a set up like this could work. But, as Tim shuffled the cock ring further up the rigid shaft of Armie’s erection, closer to the sturdy base of his arousal, where he then switched it on, causing it to vibrate and buzz, Armie had no choice but to let his intrusive thoughts fizzle away into nothing; now, all he could do was arch his back and let his eyelashes flutter shut, his head lifting from the floorboards, his jaw stretching open, his toes flexing into a splayed stretch, his ass cheeks jiggling gently as the gift from Tim sent shudders up and down Armie’s spine at a speedy rate.
“Don’t f, forget … ” Armie could barely speak, he could barely see, his vision had blurred that much, “… I know you better th, than you know yourself … No matter h, how much you’ve ch, changed …” Armie managed to twist his head so that he faced the other way, “… You’re, you’re trying to change the—” Armie hissed in deeply as Tim’s firm touch returned to his cock in the form of a determined stroke, “—Ssssss! Ssssubject—” Armie managed.
Whilst Tim stroked the tip of Armie’s now glossy arousal, he kept his eyes open as he used his free hand to catch Armie’s left heel against his chest. With both hands occupied, Tim once again had no choice but to use his tongue to transform Armie into a shuddering mess, so soon after arriving at his front door. Tim’s glance took in the flexing muscles that made up Armie’s shoulders and back, the long length of his spine, the thickness of his behind, all whilst his tongue curled, licked and coiled around the curling toes of Armie’s left foot.
“Tell me we don’t have to go …” Tim urged, his thumb running over a droplet of pre that had nudged its way out of Armie’s erection, an erection now dangerously close to expel thanks to the vibrating ring of plastic buzzing at its base, “… Tell me it can just us tonight, like it used to be …” Tim could only count a handful of moments since the release of Dune, where he and Armie had been able to spend real, valuable time with each other, not just amongst the company of ropes and blindfolds, but within each others arms, a slice of pizza in one hand, a beer in the other, slouched in front of the TV … Tim hated to admit it, but even their classified and brief vacation in sunny Italy was not enough …
Armie’s eyes widened as he felt his orgasm arrive deep within the muscles that made up his hips; it boiled with a feverish bubble, its jump from his waist to the pit of his stomach so suddenly that it caused his body to jolt, his cock still held within the tightness of Tim’s palm as if it were the handle to some powerful weapon.
“I’d do fucking, mnn—” Armie pressed his forehead against the floorboards as Tim began to massage his stroke against the vibrating length that made up the pulsating spine of Armie’s erection, “—fuckinganything—” he spat, “—to ha, have you to myself—” Armie huffed, his eye lids peeling open as he felt that dull, unbelievably exhilarating surge begin its journey from his stomach to his taint, where it lingered for a few seconds around the base of his cock as Tim took Armie’s left big toe between his lips, sucking on it like he had done the chocolate in his latest movie, “—B, b, but you know what they’ll do, if, if we … Mnn—” Armie’s big toes were one of his most ticklish areas, to have them sucked upon this close to orgasm made him giggle into his shoulder, his body trying to stretch within its hogtie as his cock increased in size, held tightly in Tim’s stroking hand, “—Mnn! Mnn! Mnn, if we don’t come …”
Much to Armie’s distain, Tim’s adamant brush against Armie’s erection slowly slid away, causing Armie’s orgasm to pull back like the ocean tide; it had crept in, ever so gently, washed inward with a force that would suggest a complete drench and saturation of pure joy and then, just like that, just like how Armie had done to Tim dozens and dozens and dozens of times before, the feeling faded away into nothing, leaving Armie red cheeked, frustrated, thrilled and let down, all at the same time.
Tim allowed Armie’s big toe to pop out of his mouth as he sat in the cross legged position and switched off his ler’s cock ring, “If we’re going to do this, should w …”
Armie relaxed within his hog tie, his cock still twitching, his balls still throbbing, his back still arched just enough to create a line of gold across his spine, from the glow of the Christmas tree.
“You took the words ‘don’t come’ pretty seriously, didn’t you?” Armie spoke in a playful whine, “That’s not what I meant, Tim, and you know it …”
Tim growled and sprung closer to Armie’s feet, grabbing them in a cradle against his pecs where he began to run his fingernails over Armie’s soles, "—Listen, Armie! This is a good chance!—” his voice was deep and grainy, the kind of shout he provided when presenting his angry side behind the camera, “—If we’re gonna do this, should we f—”
Armie bucked over the floor like a fish out of water, his face stretching out into a manic splay of shock as Tim attacked the bottoms of his feet unexpectedly, “—No, no, no! We shouldn’t, not this time!—” Armie thrashed to the left and then to the right, trying his hardest to reach his hands up to his soles, where his wiggling fingers attempted to conceal their sensitivity, but Tim pulled Armie’s feet closer towards his chest, therefore tugging Armie’s wrists along with his ankles, forcing Armie to grunt and provide further more impassioned confirmation that he did not agree with Tim’s bad idea, “—It’s too risky, it’s too risky, kid!—” Armie rolled over to his side, panting and still erect as Tim let go of his feet, a fierce grin now showcasing all of Tim’s pearly white teeth, “—You bastard—” Armie quipped.
Tim lifted his shoulders and tilted his head, “What can I say …” his right hand landing on Armie’s calf where he soothed it gently …
“… I learned from the best,” he said.
Tim stood beside Armie with his hands behind his back.
He stared at the double doors inches away from his face; his lips pursing, his nostrils flaring, his eyelashes brushing against curls of hair littering each side of his forehead as snowflakes resting on the shoulders of his tux continued in their melt.
“You’re nervous,” Armie declared, his hands tucked casually into his tuxedo trouser pockets, “It’s only a party.”
Tim adjusted his bow tie, clearing his throat, never taking his eyes away from the door.
“The last time you said that I had around twenty of them on me,” Tim smirked, “It’s cool, I’m ready, I’ve got this …” Tim watched the door handle twist, “ … We’ve got this …”
Armie allowed a brief pause to take place, knowing all too well that person on the other side of the door would be looking through the peephole, where he or she would not need to ask Armie to say the word ‘cosquillas’. After all, Armie was a founder of The House of White Feathers, just his appearance alone was enough for the door to begin its nudge inward.
Before they could be fully greeted, Armie decided to playfully add an additional layer of fluster to Tim’s already jittery state.
“I kept it on, you know,” Armie slid his hands out of his pockets, the cock ring remote contained within his left palm, “Enjoy yourself,” he then dropped the remote into Tim’s tuxedo jacket pocket, offering him a reassuring wink that suggested to not take this too seriously.
Tim did not allow Armie to throw him off, mere seconds before diving feet first into this chaos. Instead, he transformed his fluster into an excited smile, his hand’s landing inside his jacket pockets were he laid his thumb gently over the remote.
As the double doors swung open, Armie felt relieved to be greeted by someone not wearing a mask. The invite had stated, ‘face on show’, so he was not surprised to see a young, attractive expression welcome he and Tim so enthusiastically. If anything, it created a sense of normality within what Armie had no doubt would be an extraordinary evening.
The greeter stepped aside and bowed his head to Armie and Tim, who once again adjusted their smart attire and entered a huge, luxurious apartment lobby decorated to the nines in festive cheer.
“He always did have a thing for Christmas …” Armie mumbled begrudgingly as he took in the many tall standing Christmas trees lining the walls of the giant room, their bright white lights glowing with such strength that they lit the property entirely themselves.
Tim nodded and smiled at some of the maskless hundred plus guests standing within the lobby, a majority of which had immediately taken their attention towards him, mostly at his face and then at the shining Alexander McQueen leather loafers on his feet. Three years ago, such sudden and invasive attention would have caused him to lower his head, chuckle nervously and shake some hair over his eyes as a form of hiding. But now Tim embraced the stares, the whispers and the gasps, after all, he had grown so used to it after the many premieres, red carpets and award shows he had attended since everything had gone ‘back to normal’.
The surrounding guests seemed in high spirits; they were filled with joyful energy and no doubt some excitement towards whatever would be taking place throughout the rest of the evening. Tim admired the beautiful gowns and expensive dresses, the smart tuxedos and bottles of Dom Perignon, his curious and attentive glances leading him to three men currently approaching he and Armie through the crowds; a blonde in his thirties that Tim did not recognise, Andrew Garfield - someone Armie had advised Tim avoid like the plague - and him …
… The man responsible for all of this, the only man that had broken Tim in a way Armie had never been able to …
“… Miller!” Armie held out his right hand and put on an enthusiastic act, whilst Tim remained a few steps away with a scowl saturating his face.
“… Hammer!” Miller disregarded Armie’s offer of a handshake and instead wrapped his arms around his torso, pulling him forcefully in where he kissed his neck and then nipped hungrily at his lower ear lobe, “It’s been too long, you sonovabitch! Merry fucking Christmas, you old dog!”
Tim cringed internally at Millers language, his head unintentionally turning to his side where his eyes were caught by Andrews.
“Chalamet …” Andrew stepped to the right of Tim with a fierce grin, “… Man of the moment. We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting. I’ve heard so much about you …” before he could extend his hand, the blonde man standing beside Andrew arrived to the left of Tim.
Tim had only been at the event for thirty seconds and already he had been jumped; his senses were taken to ‘high alert’, however the smell of booze from Andrew’s breath and the alarming beauty of Peter’s face sharpened his focus in ways he did not expect.
“Evening, Timothée, I’m Peter,” Peter did not extend his hand, instead he placed it gently over Tim’s shoulder, “I’m the ex husband of that manic bastard over there,” he nudged his head towards Miller, “Don’t worry,” Peter provided Tim’s shoulder with a reassuring squeeze, “I don’t bite …”
Tim took control of the situation and grabbed Peter’s hand with both of his own, shaking it confidently, where he then turned to Andrew, actioning the same assertive interaction, “Wassup wassup wassup guys, so great to meet you both,” he used the largest skill he had to get through the next fifteen seconds, “How you both doin’…” the same skill that had made his career so successful, with the same sentences and lines he used when conversing with interviewers or journalists, sometimes thirty per day during a movie press tour, “It’s pretty damn cold outside, right? Merry Christmas,” … he simply acted.
Tim was not the only one within this room who had techniques. Whilst Andrew decided to control his contained anxiety over the increasingly worrying problem that was ‘where’s Tom?’ by beelining to a waiter serving the kind of champagne with a strength that would numb his overthinking, Armie chose to remind himself that Miller and everyone else at this party had absolutely no idea that snug around the base of his semi erect cock, behind the premium cotton of his tuxedo trousers was a personal and intimate gift from Tim, something that helped fuel his assuredness in far greater ways than any of the alcohol available at the event.
“Listen, Hammer, we’re gonna engage in a little dancing … ” Miller wiggled his hips and grabbed each of Armie’s biceps with firm, experienced fingers, “ … Shake things up a little, before dinner, alright? Now, you’re partnered with your old friend …” Miller adjusted Armie so that he faced Peter, Miller’s voice deepening into what he tried to shape out as an alluring, hungry growl, “… And I’m taking your boy …”
As Peter curled his hand around Armie’s, Miller narrowed his eyes at Tim, who stood now entirely by himself, surrounded by guests readying themselves to connect with their dance partner.
No matter how hard Tim tried to act his way out of his resentment towards the fifty something approaching him as if he were a sizzling hot dog, he could not help but feel overwhelmed with a fierce form of hatred towards the one man who always seemed to get everything he wanted - an example of the latter being the separation of he and Armie, something Miller had clearly seemed keen to successfully action.
Tim spoke with flat tone, his tongue running across the inside of his left cheek, his eyebrows popping upward as he reluctantly extended his right hand.
“Miller.”
To Tim’s surprise, Miller did not grab him in a bear hug like he did with Armie, nor did he give back the same level of distain, instead he smiled warmly and held onto Tim’s right hand, not shaking it like Tim had intended, instead curling around it affectionately, holding onto it as if they were a couple - and in some ways they now were - partnered together to dance in a makeshift ballroom in the hall through the next set of double doors most guests, including Armie and Peter, were now journeying through.
“Merry Christmas, kid,” Miller could not help but say those words without looking down at Tim’s feet, even if they were covered by designer footwear.
As all guests made their way into a large hall illuminated by more Christmas trees, walls of fairy lights and candle lit chandeliers, Andrew sank his third glass of champagne by himself, his interested and drunken stare finally leaving Tim’s back as he grabbed a nearby waiter by the back of his jacket collar, pulling him close towards him where he whispered into his ear, “Listen, get me everything on Chalamet and Holland …” Andrew was too tipsy to realise the waiter was grimacing at the stench of booze puffing out of Andrew’s lips, “… I wanna know when they last spoke, when they last hung out, I wanna know just how close they really are …” Andrew snarled.
The man at the piano played a selection of festive tunes as dozens and dozens of partnered couples swayed gently from side to side in the centre of the hall, their positioning either hand in hand throughout their intimate dance or hands on hips, stances neither Armie and Peter nor Miller and Tim had decided to take …
—Armie & Peter—
Armie rested his left hand over Peter’s waist whilst his right hand held onto Peter’s shoulder. Peter’s right hand rested over Armie’s waist, whilst his left hand rested over Armie’s shoulder. With a history littered with secret kisses in the midnight and gags shoved into mouths to contain the breathless laughter teasing an escape whilst nobody else knew what was happening, it was no surprise that Armie and Peter could not take their eyes off of each others lips as neither of them guided each other across the marble tiles; instead, they simply allowed their sway to take them back to how they were in 2004, where their four week tickle fling had taken place.
“Before you say anything,” Armie announced, “Yes, it has been almost twenty years …”
Peter dropped his head over his chest and closed his eyes, “Damn, Hammer, are we that old?” He glanced up at Armie, once again unable to look at anywhere else but his mouth, “Feels like yesterday since we—”
“—Where’s your lee?” Armie interrupted, his face turning away from Peters as he took a moment to check in on Tim, who remained fixed in Millers grasp on the other side of the hall, “Last I heard they made you choose between two …”
Peter decided to ignore Armie’s enquiries, instead readjusting the focus over his former flame, “Hm, last I heard you were the one in control,” Peter now found himself also glancing past dancing bodies, towards Tim, where his blue eyed gaze travelled over the twenty eight year old from head to toe, “It’s pretty clear the power play between you both has … Shifted …” Peter turned back towards Armie as the piano continued to play in the background, “… You know what can help change that?”
Armie scoffed, taking a moment to shoot his eyes up to the chandelier twinkling above them, “No, Pete …” when Armie returned his eyes to Peter, they were no longer soft and reminiscent, they were now hard and reassuring, “… I’m not re-joining The House …”
—Miller & Tim—
Miller rested his left hand over Tim’s waist whilst his right hand laid itself over Tim’s shoulder. Tim, wishing he could be anywhere else but where he was right now, practically hovered his hands over Miller’s sides, rigid as a robot, as he shuffled his feet from side to side in an unenthusiastic dance, completely unaware of how keen Miller was to inject some charm between them both.
“Look at you, my succulent hog,” Miller wanted to brush some of Tim’s hair away from his eyes, but he knew that doing so would be crossing a line that had been drawn the last time they had met, “You are, by far, the most handsome person in this building. Suited and booted, bow tie and all …” Miller acknowledged the clench in Tim’s teeth, the narrow of his eyes, the flare in his nostrils, all facial expressions that made him want to press harder, to nudge further, to poke with a sharper stick, “How far you’ve come, Timmy … From screaming your heart out in my studio, to putting your heart and, ahem, soles into Tickle Fest … to being tricked and taken by Tarantino, and now here you are, with your lover, ready to pull a cracker with me and my buddies, how does that feel, Tim? Tim, the little piglet …?”
Tim inhaled through his nose and concentrated on remaining patient, “Tarantino,” he looked from side to side, over Miller’s head and then behind him, “Is he here?” Tim felt satisfied with how well he hid the concern in his voice, after all, the Oscar nominated director had him tied, gagged and tickled months ago for a starring role in an Apple TV series that never saw the light of day …
“Calm down, piggy. He’s got his tongue firmly around Grant Gustin’s toes, as we speak, in Hawaii …” Miller held onto Tim’s chin with his thumb and index finger, forcing his head so that his face remained fixed directly opposite his own, “… You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s just you and me …”
—Armie & Peter—
“You know, the only thing more nerve wracking than organising this entire thing was the idea of seeing you again,” Peter declared, his sway with Armie in their gentle dance now feeling more comfortable after an awkward beginning, “The dumb fuck is clueless, by the way. So the less you look at my mouth, the better …”
Armie cleared his throat and pulled his eyes away from Peter’s lips, focusing them over the top half of his face, “You uh, you organised tonight? All of it?”
Peter tilted his head and winced, “Well, most of it—” he hated how Armie always effortlessly change the subject, “—There are a lot of high expectations, after the Halloween party. Yeah, that was kind of a game changer. DiCaprio really pulled out the stops … I feel like everyone keeps wanting bigger, better, badder as the phases go on, it’s hard to keep up with it all, you know what I mean?”
Armie made a puppy dog face by swelling his eyes and protruding his lower lip, “Aww, poor Pete,” he spoke in a purposefully whiny tone, “All stressed out because the tickle cult he works for are pushing him too hard?” Armie’s pitch dropped from high to low, “Do yourself a favour and leave—” he said bluntly, “—Take Bassett with you, if he’s that into it …”
Peter chuckled as his cheeks boiled pink at the thought of the life Armie just painted out. The knowledge that it was not attainable caused a sting within his heart that was so strong Peter felt the need to punish Armie.
“You know,” Peter leaned in towards Armie’s left ear, “It might be a good thing, letting Chalamet think he’s got the upper ground…”
Armie paused their dance by creating a firmer press over Peter’s shoulder, for two reasons; one, he wanted to be still when he questioned Peter on what he meant and two, the cock ring hooked around the base of his erection was now vibrating, causing his eyelashes to flutter shut and his jaw to grind, “—Mnn—” he bit his upper lip, not wanting Peter to catch on to what was taking place behind his tuxedo trousers, “—Wh, what makes you say that?” He managed to ask.
Peter kept his lips by Armie’s ear, unaware of how ruffled Armie had become.
“… Let’s just say, Chalamet may have everything he’s ever wanted, but tonight? Tonight the one thing he does not have is the upper ground …”
—Miller & Tim—
Tim had taken the opportunity to remind Armie of his presence, whilst never admitting to himself that he was actually asking for a form of help, by taking his hand away from Miller’s side where he slid it carefully inside his jacket pocket, his thumb pressing down over the cock rings remote. Tim smirked as he watched Armie shudder over at the other side of the hall, his overwhelmed expression frustratingly hidden for by several swaying partners now blocking his view.
“It must be strange, piggy, having to wear a shirt,” Miller quipped, his hold on Tim taking their dance in a circle as he gently manoeuvred the actor through other guests swaying to the piano, hand in hand, “In the red carpet looks I’ve seen you in lately, you’ve either had your chest out, your back out, your arms out …” Miller leaned in, causing Tim to lean back, “… It’s like you’re begging to be touched … You love it, don’t you, kid, the attention, the fame, heck, I know you love the money, I know you’d do anything for that spotlight to shine even brighter …”
Tim’s hand returned to Millers side as they shuffled over the same four marble tiles, the piano still playing, Armie’s cock ring still vibrating, “You making me wear this tux is a form of bondage in itself, it’s okay, I get it …” Tim found himself talking into Miller’s lips as he spoke, an act he could not control, a flirt he found himself giving away for free, something he only felt confused by for a few seconds until he reminded himself of Miller’s unique power, “… And you’re right. I fucking love where I am in life, what I do, what I wear … What can I say, man,” Tim dragged his eyes away from Miller’s grin, “… I love who I’ve become, I wouldn’t have things any other way …”
Miller lifted his hand away from Tim’s shoulder and place it over the top of his ribs, the tips of his fingers pressing ever so gently against Tim’s underarm, an underarm thankfully concealed by the thickness of his tuxedo and shirt. His hand remained there whilst his other hand rested over Tim’s waist, their sway and shuffle now becoming rather rigid as Tim naturally stiffened his body from the hips up.
“Well, I’m glad that you feel that way, I guess that’s all that matters … ” Miller trailed his tongue over his lower lip, “… Even if most of the world is going through a little Timothée fatigue, I for one am still a die hard fan,” Miller chuckled into his chest and breathed in slowly, “Boy oh boy, if I had it my way? I’d stop dancing with you right now …” Miller inched his fingers deeper into the warmth of Tim’s underarm, his palm pressing down harder over his waist, his whiskey scented breath now whispering against Tim’s right ear as Miller put a pause on their sway, “… I’d strip you of your expensive tuxedo, I’d gag you with your bow tie, I’d tear that shirt off of your milky, smooth body, I’d pin your wrists together and lift your arms over your head …”
Timothée’s eyes widened in fury as he glared over Miller’s shoulders, Miller delivering his words in a sinister growl: “… And then I’d fucking devour every inch of your armpits with my fucking tongue, my ticklish, juicy piglet …”
Tim, now beyond provoked, wasted no time in grabbing Miller by his bow tie, his fists scrunching the material tight as he yanked Miller close towards him, where the fifty something leaped to his tip toes in joy, now finding himself just millimetres away from Tim’s exasperated expression.
“—Whythefuckdoyoukeepcallingmethat?—” Tim spoke his words quickly, all at once, his teeth clenched, his fury expelled so fast that bubbles of saliva formed at either side of his mouth.
Miller’s hands now dangled at his sides as he remained in Tim’s grasp, his tux and shirt creased around Tim’s claws.
Miller giggled into Tim’s face, his head tilting to the side slowly, as if being held like this was not threatening or scary for Miller, but instead rather fun, instead rather arousing …
“Isn’t it obvious?” Miller said quietly, “You’re the main course, my boy …”
CLAP, CLAP, CLAP!
All dancing partners shuffled their sway to a gentle stop as soon as Andrew clapped his hands; he stood on a chair in the corner of the hall as the next set of double doors opened, the man seated at the piano deciding to carefully rest his fingertips over the keys.
“Ladies and gentleman!” Andrew’s voice was commanding, the volume so loud that it echoed over to Armie and Peter, who now no longer stood opposite each other but instead side by side, “Dinner is fucking served!”
As all of the guests began to make their way into the next room, Armie allowed Peter to walk away before turning around, where he began to search for Tim.
He slid past couples, intertwined between groups; he smiled politely at Brad Pitt, briefly shook hands with Leonardo DiCaprio, he ignored Chris Evans and avoided small talk with Michael B. Jordan until he breathlessly realised Tim was no longer in the hall - all that was left was he and Andrew …
… Who folded his arms and provided Armie with one thing and one thing only: a wink.
t a k e o f f y o u r c l o t h e s
Armie had no time to take in the wonder surrounding him; the smooth stone walls, the spectacular painting that covered the entirety of the roof thirty feet above, the floor to ceiling windows looking out over a snowy New York … His eyes were not interested in the twenty circular tables, the one hundred or more chairs, the festive food presented perfectly over each rustic dinner plate … They were too invested in locating Tim, who Armie hoped had simply made his own way to a seat.
“You’re with us …” Peter whispered into the back of Armie’s neck, his arm looping around Armie’s, where he weaved him through guests looking for their name cards, “… Don’t fret, blue eyes, I can tell you’re panicking … He’s in good hands …”
Armie’s brows burrowed into a flat line at Peters reassuring yet concerning words, “—Pete—”, he shrugged his arm free and held firmly onto Peter’s wrist, pinning him to a stop where he stared directly at the centre of his face, “—I didn’t come tonight to play games. Take me to him … Now …—”
Peter sighed and shook his head slowly, “Remember what we always say, Hammer?” He then carefully curled his free hand around Armie’s and lifted Armie’s hands towards his chest, kissing his knuckles gently, “… ‘It’s just tickling’ …”
Armie squeezed his eyes shut as Peter kept his hands clasped around Armie’s, tugging him along where he journeyed him towards a very different table set up compared to the others currently filling this overwhelmingly large banquet hall; for them, there was no table at all, just a round empty space of marble flooring with five chairs positioned in a circle.
Peter held onto Armie’s shoulders and seated him at his chair, running his fingertips over the top of his ear like he used to, before leaving Armie where he then sat opposite him on a chair of his own.
Armie felt his heart sink deeper when Andrew decided to take a seat beside him.
“So, how’s your year been, Armondo?” Andrew sipped the glass of champagne he lazily held at the end of his fingertips, “Still hanging around in your apartment like a retired old fuck, waiting for your twink boyfriend to spare you ten minutes for some slap and tickle?”
Armie’s cheeks flushed red as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. Usually he gave Andrew no bite, no satisfaction in the form of an icy response, but in his current impatient mindset, he had no choice but to turn to Andrew and address the forty year olds acidity head on.
“You lost your own ticklee, you fucking imbecile,” Armie took his scowl away from Andrew as soon as he had presented it, not caring if his spite was hypocritical, after all, he too was someone who had misplaced the person they adored to play with.
Andrew’s eyebrows lifted as Armie shone a blunt and harsh light on quite possibly the biggest fuck up in the history of The House of White Feathers, something Andrew was fully responsible for, something he struggled with and paid for on a daily basis.
Andrew chuckled nervously and looked away from Armie, who had rendered him speechless, whilst Miller arrived at the empty circle of space with a microphone in hand.
As all guests sat themselves at their tables, the murmurs, small talk and chatter mumbled into quiet, allowing Miller the chance to address all attendees within the banquet hall.
“Good evening, everyone,” He started with a soothing tone, his voice getting louder with each word, “And of course, a Merry fucking Christmas to you all …!—” Miller fist pumped the air repeatedly as he paced around the circle of five chairs, passing Armie, Peter, Andrew and two empty seats as almost every individual in the room applauded, cheering out an impassioned, ‘Merry Fucking Christmas!’ back to Miller.
Miller twirled the microphone as he tucked his other hand into his trouser pocket, “Welcome, each and every one of you, to the Sixty Sixth Annual House of White Feathers Christmas Event … Now, I know many of you attended last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, but for those who are taking a seat for the first time, here’s all you need to know …”
Despite Peter’s concerning form of reassurance, Armie still could not help but glance around the banquet hall where he willed Tim’s face to pop up at a table. However, with each second that went by it became increasingly clear that Tim was not on a chair, leaving Armie with only ‘he’s in good hands’ as a form of comfort during his intolerable state of apprehension.
“You turn up,” Miller used his free hand to count the stages of the evening, thumbing the air to start and then extending his index finger, “You drink,” he then extended his middle finger, “You eat,” he then extended his second to last, “And then we announce ‘The Exchange’, which is our gift, to you, our loyal members …” Miller took Andrew’s glass of champagne out of his hand, leaving Andrew with a dropped jaw and fingers cradling nothing but air, “ … Without you, this would be nothing. Without you, there would be no funding. Without you, there would be no laughter, no begging for it to stop, no shouts or screams to fill the halls of each and every House around the world …” Miller lifted the half drank glass into the air, “… Without you, a night like tonight would not be possible. So, cheers to that!”
As Miller knocked back Andrew’s warm glass of booze, all guests lifted their drinks towards the centre of their table and called out an enthusiastic ‘cheers!’, applauding Miller and all founding members of The House immediately after.
Armie hooked his leg over his right knee and checked the time on his Rolex as Miller handed his empty glass back to Andrew.
“Without further a do, please all stand … ” Miller wiped some booze away from his jaw as everyone within the banquet all got to their feet, including a reluctant Armie, “… And place your hands together for the one man who grew what we have now from a group of eight people, to a fucking followership of several thousand …” He turned towards the far end of the hall, where double doors opened and both Logan Lerman and Sebastian Stan rolled in an elderly man squashed into a wheelchair, “… Mr. John Gusto …!—”
Logan and Sebastian both abided by the dress code; they wore a tuxedo and bowtie, however beneath their attire and around their necks was a leather dog collar.
Logan held onto the right handle bar of the wheelchair.
He appeared nervous; he chewed his lower lip, tripped up a little mid way through escorting the man in the wheelchair towards the empty circle Miller currently stood in, his bloodshot eyes shifted from left to right as he tried his best at smiling at the guests currently clapping and cheering their entrance.
Sebastian held onto the left handle bar of the wheelchair.
He seemed bored, irritated and frustrated. His face practically snarled at the hundreds seated at their circular tables. He was done with being The House of White Feather’s tickle bitch, a circumstance made all that more worse when his eyes landed on Evans who grinned devilishly at the sight of Sebastian transformed from high profile actor to carer of the perverse.
The man inside the wheelchair was hooked up to dozens of plastic wires.
An oxygen tank rested between his feet.
He too wore a tux, however attached to the shoulders of his jacket was a thick red silk cloak.
A pearl coloured mask covered his face.
The top half of the mask was embroidered in a gold linen stitched together with real diamonds.
His veiny, grey, limp hands hung off the ends of the arms of his wheelchair.
His body wobbled as he rolled slowly towards Miller, where Logan and Sebastian bought the wheelchair to a stop at the edge of the circle.
As the applause died down, John raised a trembling right hand - an act John found challenging, due to an extreme lack of energy caused by his illness.
The banquet hall fell into silence as John mustered up all he had to simply say the word, “ … Eat …”
Miller pressed his mouth against his microphone and spun on his heels, “Well what are you waiting for, everyone! Do as the man says!”
The piano music returned, this time playing an upbeat, classical version of Jingle Bells, as everyone sat back down and started to eat their dinner.
Waiters returned, champagne was poured, small talk and chatter resumed as snow continued to float past the windows that looked down over each and every guest.
“Followership?” Armie smirked, “More like a damn cult …” Armie placed his hands in his lap as another set of double doors opened, this time from the opposite end of the banquet hall, tearing his attention away from the emptiness filling the circle created by he, Andrew, Peter, John and now Miller, who took a seat beside the eighty something year old.
As Logan and Sebastian made their way to Brad Pitt’s table, where their dog collars would be re-hooked to separate leather leashes that Brad would hold onto the for remainder of the night, an additional round table on wheels was strolled into the hall by two waiters dressed in white tuxedo’s.
Armie stood immediately as guests seated at their tables provided excited, ‘ooooohs!’ and ‘aaaaaaaahs!’, some even leaping onto tip toes to get a better look at what was causing so many people to gasp and applaud.
Shackled to the surface of the table on his front, gagged with an apple, shirtless and still dressed in the smart black trousers, dress socks and leather shoes he had arrived in, was Timothée.
Armie turned to Miller, his brain readying the words, his mouth about to say, ‘I’ll never forgive you for this’, but the device in Miller’s right hand caused Armie to simply blink.
Miller waved the cock ring remote at Armie, a remote he had found in Tim’s tuxedo jacket whilst the twenty eight year old was stripped and bound against his will only fifteen minutes ago.
Miller mouthed the words, “… Always four steps ahead’ …” to Armie.
Whilst Andrew giggled like a naughty school boy at the events taking place in front of him, Peter chuckled and shook his head in shock - he really did not think they were able to get away with it, but, as always, Miller turned Johns dream into a reality, without even really trying.
Armie went to walk towards the circular table, a table that was being wheeled towards the space inside the surrounding five chairs, but Andrew stood and caught him in a bear hug, wrapping his arms around his torso tightly where he hissed a nasty whisper into the side of his neck.
“—Tarantino told me his soles taste like butter—” he spat, his muscular arms containing Armie, who wriggled in Garfields hold with vigour and robust thrusts, “—I can’t wait to have a taste …”
Tim lay bound in a T position.
His wrists were attached to cuffs that were secured to each side of the table.
His arms were stretched out away from his torso, his underarms forced open and exposed.
His teeth had impaled the apple, but the round piece of fruit was wedged into his mouth so deeply, with a strap so snug around his head, that Tim could not bite down into it any further.
His ankles were bound together by rope, the rope knotted securely to the bottom of the table, the smooth soles of his expensive footwear facing up.
There were ten individual loops of string nailed to the tables surface, beneath the toes of Tim’s footwear.
Surrounding Tim were five silver dish coverings, as well as the same amount of fairy lights, champagne glasses and bottles that decorated all of the other surrounding tables within the banquet hall.
Tim had, quite literally, been displayed like the hog Miller had described him as during their sway and shuffle across the tiles that made up the floor of the room behind the previous set of double doors.
Just as Andrew had declared earlier in the evening … Dinner was most certainly ‘fucking served’ …
Armie could do nothing but watch Tim arrive within the circular void that had recently been empty. It happened so casually, with such little fuss, as if Tim really were some cooked up meal that had been dumped on a plate, left a bustling kitchen and transported to hungry, ready to devour consumers who now all looked down at a different part of Tim as the two waiters bowed their heads and made their way back through the double doors they had just entered.
Andrew kept Armie in his bear hug, forcing him still where he could face Miller, who hovered his thumb over the remotes central button, just like Tim had done before they entered this building, just like Tim had done in the warmth and safety of Armie’s living room, where he had only a few hours ago lay hogtied, aroused and naked under Tim’s dominance.
Armie arched the bottom of his spine as Miller pressed the remotes button, his eyes widening in alarm as the cock ring Tim had fastened around the base of his erection vibrated with a severe buzz; the concept had intended to be playful and fun, a special secret between Armie and Tim, but developments out of their control had transformed the once intimate idea into a form of torment that could be used against Armie, as a way for Miller to get his once dedicated ticklee to do as he pleased.
“The more you resist, Hammer … ” Miller pressed the remotes button again, actioning another vibration around Armie’s thickening arousal, “ …The more I press …”
Armie huffed and nodded quickly, allowing Andrew to sit him back down over his chair as a waiter carrying a set of leather wrist restraints approached the table.
Armie felt his cock twitch as the ring vibrated once again, causing Armie to slide his heels against the marble, glare down into his lap and will the muscle between his thighs to stop making this dire ordeal feel so pleasurable; the moment was so distracting that Armie did not find the chance to fight back or muster the energy to stop the waiter from pulling his arms behind the chair, where he restrained his hands at the bottom of his seat.
Armie sat in his tuxedo, bound, flustered and erect as he breathed in through his nose, the bzzzzzz, bzzzzzz of the cock ring continuing to nudge him closer to release, his throbbing strength so squashed and rigid that the bulge appeared almost mountain like behind the tight cotton of his trousers.
“You mo, mother fucker …” Armie muttered breathlessly, “You, you mother fucker …”
Miller allowed the vibration to continue at a gradual setting as he carefully placed the tiny, plastic remote beside the silver dome covering his plate.
“Heck! I don’t know about everyone else, but I am starving … Tuck in, everyone!” He clapped his palms together and then removed the silver dome, smiling from ear to ear at what had been prepared for he, Andrew, Peter and John, “Oh, Peter! I’m, I’m lost for words, seriously,” Miller glanced over at his ex husband, “You’ve out done yourself here, kid.”
Peter and Miller exchanged a content smile as Tim’s head twisted from side to side, his fingers scrunching into a tight clench, the top half of his head littered by curls of hair, his body wriggling over the surface of the table as Armie continued to handle the sensation at the base of his cock, all whilst the founders of The House of White Feathers removed the silver domes covering their plates of food.
Behind the mask, John provided a crooked and satisfied grin, all eight of his sharp yellow teeth hidden by the pearl coloured oval concealing his aged and dying face as his silver dome was removed for him, by a keen and adoring young waiter who felt the need to dab away some drool from John’s lower lip by lifting his mask away from his jaw and patting his mouth with the tables napkin.
“—Mnnph! Mnnph! Mnnn—”, Tim protested into his gag, his long, smooth back now shimmering as a thin layer of perspiration began to coat his spine; his body from the waist up felt so warm, so bare, so held in place, no matter how hard he pulled at his restraints, all it did was flex his muscles and define the shapes that made up his slim, pale torso, a sight that only aroused the five surrounding men seated at this one of a kind and exceptionally unique circular table.
Andrew scoffed, “I’m fucking impressed,” he declared, his right hand clicking at a nearby waiter, —click! click! click!—, his mouth thirsty for more champagne, “I, I don’t know where to start …” Andrew’s eyes travelled over Tim, where they narrowed at the arch of his underarm and the glorious tufts of armpit hair that faced the wood of the table.
Armie watched each silver dome lift, where he took in the ordinary sight of a plate filled with food; the guests had been provided with a generous slicing of pork, pigs in blankets, roasted potatoes and other festive vegetables one would expect at a very typically American Christmas dinner, however beside a set of expensive looking cutlery were two tickle tools that each worked as a unconventional version of a everyday knife and fork.
Andrew hovered his right hand over a long seagull feather and a fully charged electric toothbrush, both tools neatly laid out side by side next to his plate of food, “Hmmm …” he stroked his beard with his left hand, “ … I remember seeing pictures of you, Chalamet, at Cannes Film Festival, this time last year …” Andrew went to pick up the feather, his hand pausing, where it then gravitated closer towards the electric toothbrush, “… You know what I’m talking about, right, Hammer?” Andrew took his eyes over to Armie, whilst he continued to address Tim, “You wore that red jumpsuit. Everybody gasped, all the girls screamed, Vogue Magazine called it ‘2022’s fashion defining moment’ …”, Andrew picked up the electric toothbrush as Tim continued his struggle, “… Your back was out, like, fully on display, kinda how it is now. Your neck was all long and bare, kinda how it is now … Your armpits were on show, kinda like they are now …” Andrew turned to Tim and reached across the table, electric toothbrush now switched on, —click! Bzzzzzzzzz …—, its whizzing tip nearing Tim’s left underarm, “… Only difference is, now you’re not standing all pretty, dressed in red silk, sunglasses on, hands free and waving to your adoring fans, oh, oh now, right now … Now, now now, you’re bound and gagged, entirely ours to play with …”
Tim’s eyes widened as he squashed his chin against his shoulder, where he took in the sight of Andrew’s electric toothbrush arrive at the curls of his armpit hair, the vibration and buzz of the sharp, plastic bristles spinning through the tufts of dark brown where they eventually landed within the moist caverns of his left underarm, causing him to shriek and giggle into the gag, leaving Armie with no choice but to scowl across the table at Miller, who had already eaten half of his plate, grease staining his lips, some pork landing into his lap.
“—Hot damn!—” Andrew nudged Armie’s side with his elbow, causing the helpless tickler to jolt into himself with a grunt, “You ever made him scream this loud? I knew he was ticklish but oh man! He can barely take it and I’m only keeping this thing in one place!” Andrew pressed the electric toothbrush deeper inside Tim’s left underarm, where he did not move it from side to side nor up and down, he just applied it into the middle, transforming Tim into a thrashing shambles, his torso actioning a desperate twist away from Andrew’s toothbrush, as far as his wrist restraints would allow.
“Enjoying yourself, Hammer?” Miller pressed down on the remote, increasing the vibration around Armie’s cock ring, the buzz now creating a pulsating sensation across the muscle between Armie’s balls and taint; such a level of intensity, mixed with the sight of Tim being tickled by others inches away from him caused Armie to feel a blend of unwanted feelings, feelings that were both physically and mentally challenging to handle.
As well as the pleasurable glory vibrating up and down his shaft, there was, of course, an insane amount of jealousy flooding through Armie’s veins; watching Andrew seated so freely beside him, toying with the person he loved, the person he cared about, the person that had dedicated and submitted himself to him and nobody else within this banquet hall was enough for Armie to break already, his cock now so thick and erect that it had laid itself out across his thigh, still contained by the tightness of his trousers, his blue eyes glaring at Miller and then at Andrew, where they shot over to Peter and then to John, who had started to unlace Tim’s footwear …
“—Stop—” Armie spat, his voice deep and grainy, “—fuckingstop—” he ordered, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips, “—c, come on, guys, that’s enough, this is too much—” amidst his panic, it was then Armie realised that Tim had been displayed in such a way where all five individuals, including himself if he were untied, could reach out and touch Tim however they wanted in their seated position, with either the feather or electric toothbrush laid out beside their plate; Miller had access to Tim’s upper right side - mostly his neck or underarm - whilst Peter had access to Tim’s lower right side - mostly his waist and legs - John sat in his wheelchair with Tim’s feet fixed in position - side by side, soles up like he had requested - whilst Andrew had access to Tim’s left side, a side Andrew currently explored with his electric toothbrush.
“There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ … ” Andrew spoke as if mesmerised by the sight of Timothée Chalamet made to squirm because of his own sadistic methods, “… Nor is there such thing as ‘never enough’ …”
Tim, ‘the hog’, had been restrained face down in the shape of the letter that made up the start of his name, he was now in the full swing of a professional gang tickle, all whilst Armie sat throbbing and bound, with all the other hundreds of guests seated at their table, eating their damn pork, the piano now playing a classical version of Whams ‘Last Christmas’ as if Tim’s torment was just as expected as the expensive table cloths, premium napkins and shimmering champagne glasses.
“—Stop!—” Armie tried to shuffle over to Andrew as Andrew received his twelfth glass of booze, “—Fucking leave him alone!—” Armie hissed, but his attempts at kicking out towards the forty year old were thwarted by three waiters with rope, who all gathered at Armie’s feet where they struggled to restrain his ankles to the legs of his chair. Once successfully tied, Armie could no longer move his legs, his cock still twitching beneath his trousers as Miller used the remote for a third time …
Armie’s eyes watered as he felt the cock ring vibrate the hardest it had done since Tim had looped it over his erection earlier this evening; pre cum had developed at the tip of his arousal, his taint had began to swell, his balls thickening with the gush he would sooner rather than later have no choice but to expel - without even touching himself - a gush he had dedicated keeping at bay for the last few weeks, with the intention of Tim being the one who would receive the load.
Not like this, Armie urged internally.
Not like this, not like this, not like this …
Tim’s head flinched uncontrollably as Miller place the remote over the table and picked up his seagull feather, where he then started to run it across the silky smooth expanse of flesh that made up the left side of Tim’s sensitive neck.
Tim’s reactions aroused his ticklers in ways they could not describe; considering this was the most wild situation Tim had ever been in, he still presented some form of manic glee within his expression, his responses arriving in the form of high pitched, breathless giggles, the word ‘please’ trying to make its way past the apple wedged far behind his teeth. He wriggled his shoulders and twisted his torso, his stomach banging over the surface of the table as Peter’s electric toothbrush made its way towards his navel, all whilst the blonde thirty five year old tucked into a parsnip impaled over the tip of his fork.
Tim only started to feel a real sense of dread when he felt his right shoe tug away from his foot …
The waiter beside John gave up on wiping off the elderly mans dribble; John had smacked him away too often - the napkin and the way it would smear across his mouth only distracted John from a moment he had fantasised about for over three years - his moment, his time, his opportunity to touch, stroke and tickle Timothée Chalamet’s feet, a moment that John had tried to secure back in 2020, on the top floor of an Atlanta hotel where John had offered the young actor all of his fortune to be by his side for the rest of his life, a life that had already spanned over eighty years, a life that would be ending relatively soon due to an all consuming illness (writers note, see: TCTLR Chapter Twenty Four, ‘The Godfather’).
John’s frail heart had sank every day since at the memory of Timothée turning down the offer, instead choosing to submit to Armie where he would see out the rest of his contract with someone that used to be his best friend, someone that had transformed into his tickler, someone who was now a secret partner, a relationship that both Armie and Tim had no choice but to keep hidden from the world due to the complexities and additional kinky details that came with being involved with a person consumed by knislomagnia.
Still, such a decision did not stop John from making the right calls to the right people, it did not stop him from pulling the strings attached to the puppets seated around him, it did not stop him from getting what he wanted, what he desired, what he had craved throughout the one thousand and ninety five days since Timothée had turned the offer down.
John took in the sight of Tim’s feet through the eyes of his mask. His soles faced up, the tops of his feet pressed firmly against the surface of the table, inches away from John’s chest. Tim’s right foot was protected by a thin layer of sheer sock, his left foot still contained in an Alexander McQueen leather loafer. As Tim giggled into his gag and writhed at the far end of the table, mostly thanks to Miller’s feather brushing against his neck, as well as Andrew’s electric toothbrush now buzzing down his side, John curled his left hand around Tim’s loafer and began to pull it away from his foot, every so slowly, where he watched Tim’s left sheer sock covered sole reveal itself inch by inch.
John dropped the shoe to the floor, where the waiter quickly picked it up and carried it towards Andrew, who had started clicking for his attention.
As Andrew breathed in the inside of Tim’s loafer, whilst glaring menacingly at a disgruntled and frustrated Armie, John observed Tim’s flawless looking soles; with his footwear now removed and the alarm bells at a deafening level in the very core of his mind, Tim decided to lean into the only defence mechanism he had - a fierce scrunch of all ten toes, his right foot quickly sliding over his left sole, where his left foot would quickly slide over his right sole, in an attempt to block whatever might find its way against them.
John had no time for electric toothbrushes or feathers, nor did he care for the hot plate of food beside Tim’s bound together ankles; a moment as special as this one, a moment he had waited so very long for deserved nothing but physical touch, nothing but fingernails ...
John’s were long, sharp and yellow; their shape was claw-like, the tips pointed, his fingers lengthy and boney. More dribble seeped from the corner of his quivering mouth as he gently landed all ten fingernails over Tim’s soles - five to the left, five to the right - as if he were some expert musician that had not touched the piano keys in decades. He gasped as Tim’s feet twisted over each other, his legs kicking, the way his ankles had been pinned so tightly to the surface of the table stopping Tim from being able to move his feet at all - a sight that caused John’s eyes to water, his decaying heart to pound, the illness beneath his skin now starting to feel like it had never been there in the first place. John stroked Tim’s soles, his fingernails never leaving the sheer covered expanse no matter how much Tim tried to block each sole with each foot, an act he attempted three times, four times, five times, six times, much to John’s satisfaction.
Armie’s eyes did not know where to look.
He felt relieved at the sight of Peter not tickling Tim anymore, where the blonde instead decided to eat the Christmas dinner presented before him, something the Joshua Bassett obsessed dom appeared to enjoy doing as he bit into carrots and forked roasted potatoes into his mouth.
He felt jealous at the sight of Andrew discarding the toothbrush and now taking inspiration from John, where he had started to stroke Tim’s underarm with just his fingers.
Then there was Miller, who sipped champagne and twisted his seagull feather into the depths of Tim’s ear, causing Tim’s head to twist and thrash whilst his upper body squirmed and wriggled.
Armie’s disturbed glance landed at John, who had now started to remove the sheer socks covering Tim’s feet.
“Why are you doing this?” Armie growled quietly and at first addressed Andrew, “Why the fuck are you doing this!” He practically spat out his rage, this time louder, this time at Peter, the jealousy replaced by a desperate need and an understandable care to get Tim out of this situation, “—Why the fuck are you doing this!—” He yelled at Miller.
Miller watched John peel away Tim’s right sheer sock, Tim’s toes curling into a tight scrunch as he tried to catch hold of the material before the thin see-through cotton left his foot entirely.
“You of all people should know the answer to that, Hammer …” Miller smirked, finishing his champagne before pressing down over the remote once again, causing Armie to hunch over his lap, his cock to throb and his orgasm to start to bubble within the pit of his stomach, “… Because we can …”
Tim’s level of lunacy reached heaving heights as soon as John began to loop string around each of his toes, individually and one by one; John started with Tim’s left little toe, his wrinkled fingers lifting the loop of string nailed to the surface of the table around the fleshy, silky smooth, squirming digit, where he tugged the toe through the hoop, “—Mnnn! Mnnnphhh! Mnnnphhh!—”, wasting no time at all in moving to the next toe and then the toe after that, “—Mnnn! Mnnnphhh! Mnnnphhh!—”, Tim’s screams and attempts at nudging John’s hands away with his free foot failed miserably with every flex.
John may very well be ancient and weak, but his methods of tickling had been a part of him for over sixty five years, he had tormented dozens of famous men and women, he had spent thousands of hours crafting his techniques - pinning Tim’s toes down to the surface of the table, for John, was like stitching his initials to a handkerchief - his fingers and hands moved in the same way they would if they were holding knitting needles - his body sat still and unaffected by how much Tim tried to move his feet, “—Mnnn! Mnnnphhh! Mnnnphhh!—”, his fingers doing the magic with such effortless ease that after just thirty seconds, Timothée’s feet had been successfully caught in place - the tops now forced against the surface of the table, his heels snug side by side, “—Mnnn! Mnn, mnn, mhmm!—”, his bare soles facing John, all ten of his toes pinned against the wood, all pulled apart, all stretched out and splayed, all individually ready for John’s fingernails to explore, leaving Timothée desperate to catch his breath, disappointed in himself for not trying harder to stop his feet from being fixed into such a helpless position and exhausted to say the least.
The volume of Tim’s hysteria proved to everyone at the table that John would not hesitate in placing his claws against the bases of each of Tim’s toes.
He scratched and stroked, he poked and pressed, he drew lines and circles, shapes and letters; he completely devoured Tim’s soles with all ten of his fingernails, dragging them from heel to toe, from toe to heel, making the most of his time with a pair of feet he had dreamed of simply touching, a pair of feet now so well bound before him that he could toy with them for as long as he wanted, and Tim would have absolutely no way of stopping him.
When it came to his feet, Tim provided the kind of laughter that communicated one thing and one thing only - this is fucking ticklish.
His size elevens were long and narrow, his heels chunky and round, his arches understandably flat due to the length of the bottoms of his feet; his toes were all perfectly in line and neatly shaped; his index toes by far the most ticklish spot not only on his feet, but on his whole entire body. His soles were milky white and so buttery soft that even a tongue sliding across them would cause Timothée to kick or pull. To have them pinned in place like this, served as a meal for John to devour both mercilessly and relentlessly was pure hell for Tim, who struggled to cope when even someone like Armie toyed with them, someone he trusted, someone he felt beyond familiar with, that very someone who currently sat tied to the chair with a bulge so thick that pre cum had started to stain the crotch of their trousers …
Peter did not know the Armie of today very well, since Armie had distanced himself from The House of White Feathers. He knew the twenty one year old Armie from eighteen years ago who would sneak into his room with a set of a handcuffs and a feather, who desperately wanted a break from Miller’s relentless touch, who wanted to experiment as a tickler instead of a ticklee, where Peter’s youthful body would be his plaything under expensive linen bed sheets. Regardless of how much time had passed, regardless of what version of Armie sat tied and throbbing on the chair opposite him, Peter still recognised the look in Armie’s face that presented a genuine warning that he could not hold his orgasm back any longer …
Whilst Miller took his electric toothbrush and began to explore the delve of Timothée’s lower back, whilst the piano continued its play, whilst the waiters continued to pour champagne, whilst the guests continued chew on carrots, brussell sprouts and cabbage, Peter walked around the circular table and knelt down beside Armie’s seat.
As Timothée howled in the background, his soles, pit and lower back tickled by three people at a time, Peter began to remove Armie’s bowtie.
“Suck it up, Hammer …”, once the bow tie had lessened the tightness of Armie’s collar, Peter began to unbutton Armie’s shirt, “… Focus on me, focus on my touch, focus on what I’m about to do to you …” Peter felt surprised by how wet with sweat Armie’s shirt had become, informing him that he needed to move quicker if he were to save Armie the shame of erupting in his seat whilst his boyfriend was tickle tortured by everyone but him, “… If I recall, this gorgeous torso was pretty damn sensitive …” his whisper was rushed and directed only at Armie, their past still very much classified, something Peter felt keen to maintain as he held onto the middle of Armie’s shirt and ripped it open.
“Peter!” Miller called from his side of the circular table, his electric toothbrush now drawing circles around Tim’s left heel whilst John continued to stroke his soles with his fingernails, “Here, drive him nuts!” Miller threw the cock rings remote over to Peter.
Peter faked a grin that suggested he had never driven Armie nuts before and snatched the remote mid air, turning his back to Miller, still in his knelt position, his thumb pressing down over the secondary button on the remotes surface, reducing the buzz and vibration that had so persistently tormented the base of Armie’s twitching erection.
“Better?” Peter glanced up at Armie, who nodded quickly, his eyes bloodshot, his lips a little swollen, “Remember what I said, focus …” Peter than began to wiggle his fingertips over Armie’s furry abs, where he poked, jabbed and pinched into each muscle surrounding Armie’s navel, causing the thirty nine year old to jolt and thrash in his seat, his leg and wrist restraints keeping him bound to the chair whilst Peter explored his upper body with his distracting touch, a touch that was undeniably ticklish to endure, but at least it took Armie’s mind off the growing boil of pleasured ache now subsiding across the flesh of his taint.
Armie giggled uncontrollably, his shoulders hunching, his chest heaving, his nipples hardening as Peter made those his next area to exploit; Armie had never experienced sensory affliction quite like this, a situation where he was so publicly restrained, made to witness Tim endure his own horrendous ordeal just arms distance away, all whilst trying to compartmentalise his thoughts and feelings whilst dealing with the buzz between his thighs - Merry fucking Christmas indeed, Armie thought.
To Millers distain, Andrew yelled a ballsy request over to John.
“Hey, John, buddy!” Andrew switched off his electric toothbrush, picked up a piece of pork with his fingers and slid it into the back of his mouth, “Wheel ashide, man, I can’t leave tonight without getting my hands on Chalamet’s fe—”
“—Are you fucking serious, you fuck?” Miller stood, giving Tim’s lower break a much needed break, “Are you aware how long John has waited? How fucking hard he’s worked to make this happen? How much of a fucking dream come true it is for him to have Chalamet’s feet that close to his—”
—John raised a trembling right hand, silencing Miller. He then nodded slowly, allowing Andrew the chance to enjoy himself; after living such a long life, after knowing how little time he has left, John felt it more than important for those younger than him to live the best life possible - denying them of a moment so special only depressed John, and with death approaching faster and faster day by day, the elderly tickler was already at a pretty comfortable state of fucking miserable.
Miller sat back down and switched off his electric toothbrush, rolling his eyes and folding his arms, “I’m not spinning it for him, no way,” Miller tutted.
“—Peter, you bastard!—” Armie was now using his head to try and bat away Peter’s fingers as they snuck around his pecks, under his open shirt and inside the warm confines of the tuxedo material gathered around his underarms, where he tried his hardest to invade the hairy depths of Armie’s pits, “—Come on, not there, you fucking idiot!—” Peter turned to Andrew and nodded at the circular table.
“Spin it carefully, it’s a prototype,” Peter advised, as Andrew nodded eagerly and held onto the edge of the table, grunting heavily where he spun the table in a clockwise direction.
Tim’s eyes widened as he watched the banquet hall surrounding him blur into nothing but fuzzy shapes and a blend of rich colours, the surface of the table spinning and spinning and spinning for a few seconds until areas of his body now arrived rather suddenly at different guests, thanks to Andrew’s hands ensuring that the table rotated with enough speed and momentum, where his pressing palms caused the table to stop spinning entirely.
Tim’s soles were now at Andrew’s chest, as Andrew sat back down on his chair, wiping some pork grease away from his upper lip; Tim’s head was now with Miller, one of his sides by Peter’s empty chair and the other of his side by John, who wasted no time in exploring Tim’s available underarm with the sharpness of his fingernails.
Tim had no stopped giggling since Andrew’s electric toothbrush had pressed against his pit; his laughter had reached deep, bellowing levels when John had made the most of his feet, but within this final stage of the session Tim found himself expelling hysteria with such strength that his teeth had been able to bite deeper into the apple wedged deep inside his mouth.
Andrew proved himself as a one of a kind tickler by picking up his plate of food and tipping it all over Tim’s soles; carrots, parsnips, the remains of pork and most of all, thick gushes of brown, creamy gravy, poured down over the bottoms of Tim’s feet, soaking them from heel to toe in food Andrew had no intention to continuing eating like an ordinary person.
Tim grimaced and moaned into the many chunks of apple now being crushed by his teeth as he felt the weight of food arrive over him from the ankle down, his toes still pinned to the tables surface by string, his feet nudging from side to side desperately as he tried to free them from the toe ties and ankle shackles; the gravy now seeping between Tim’s toes, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his fists in disgust.
Miller wanted to applaud Andrew for such a bold move, but he was still so pissed off with him for losing Holland. With that at the forefront of his mind, as it had been for many months, Miller patted Tim’s head and decided to stand where he then climbed up onto the table and, without warning, started to straddle Tim’s waist.
Tim gasped and chewed, gasped and chewed, gasped and chewed, manically struggling in his T shape as he felt Miller sit on his lower back, the heaviness of the fifty something causing Tim’s stomach to press down flat against the surface of the table, some air forced out of Tim’s mouth in the form of a desperate huff, the apple chunks now passing down his throat as he practically swallowed his gag, the apple juices dribbling out the corners of his mouth as he jolted and shouted uncontrollably, the sensation of Andrew’s beard, tongue and teeth now scraping, sliding, nibbling and licking the food off of his soles.
“—What the fuck are you doing! Fucking stop! Get the fuck offa me! No! Don’t do that! Don’t do that? Fucking stop!—”
The situation had gotten out of hand, Peter and Armie could tell. Even if they were on different sides, they still understood how barbaric and out of control some of the ticklers in The House of White Feathers could be; unfortunately for Tim, he was currently under the merciless attack of three of the most intense ticklers that could be found within the community, and it showed no real sign of stopping until Miller shaped the possibility of an ending to the chaos.
“Cum for us, Armie,” Miller tightened his thighs around Tim’s sides as he began to tickle his ribs, his view now Tim’s long, arching spine, his muscular shoulders, his slender, wiggling back and his pulled apart arms, “Release yourself, and we release one of you …”
Peter knew the implications that would come along with getting too involved; he stood and stepped carefully away from Armie, who now sat with his tuxedo jacket and shirt ripped open, his upper body decorated in dozens of tiny pinch marks from Peter’s fingers.
Without Peter’s tickling as a form of distraction, the base of Armie’s cock and his aroused mind had no choice but to return to that constant acknowledgment of intensity vibrating at the bottom of his shaft; Armie’s mouth widened as Peter picked up the remote, handing it to Miller, who pressed the top button, further increasing the speed and pressure of the cock rings buzz.
With Miller now pressing over the button repeatedly, ensuring it was at the top speed, he felt the need to discard the toy by throwing it over his shoulder, “Cum for us, Armie,” Miller repeated, both of his hands now free to tickle Tim’s sides, “Release yourself, and we release one of you …”
Tim, now gag-free and with apple staining his jaw and lips, expelled his laughter clearly and freely, his begging aimed mostly at Andrew and Miller, “—Get the fuck offa my feet, you fucking assholes!—” Tim could just about endure the jibs and jabs taking place across either of his sides, he could just about handle the comb of sharp fingernails through his armpit hair, but the suck and bite of Andrew’s mouth and teeth over his toes - toes soaked with meat and gravy - was so disturbing and unsettling for Tim that he drenched his voice in a deep, grainy, commanding shout and twisted his head over his shoulder in an attempt to glare at Andrew, where he cried out loud, “—I’ll fucking kill you if you keep doing that, you god damn bastard!—”
Armie did not want Tim’s circumstance to cause him to cum.
He did not want to feel such physical pleasure over witnessing someone he loved struggle so much.
Armie had no control over how his fetish sometimes worked; to not ejaculate at the sight of someone so beautiful, someone so ticklish as Tim would require a blindfold and sound-muting ear muffs, due to the sight and sound being so utterly attractive.
If Armie’s cock was not made to harden thanks to the cock ring Tim himself had attached to Armie, then Armie would not be this close to orgasm, a fact Armie used to justify his release.
Armie hunched over his chest and grunted into his lap, his cock erupting beneath the tight confines of his tuxedo trousers, where it shot gushes of warmth down the inside of his trouser leg, his eyes bulging out of his head as it did so.
Armie did not know who Miller would release, all he hoped was that it would be Tim.
His thoughts and desires, his need for this to be over all trickled into nothing but sparks of electricity and static as Armie focused on catching his breath, his cock still twitching, four words arriving in the depths of his mind, four words he repeated internally as a way to make himself feel better …
I had no choice,
I had no choice,
I had no choice …
CLAP, CLAP, CLAP!
Miller’s clap silenced the banquet hall; all guests stopped eating, all tickling stopped, Tim’s yells and shrieks and hoarse giggles chuckled into nothing but breathless panting.
Miller un-straddled Tim and then slid off the table, adjusting his bow tie as he nodded at nearby waiters, who calmly walked towards the table and began to wheel Tim away, reopening the large circular space of nothing that existed once again, with only Armie’s, Andrew, John and Peter surrounding it.
Armie tried to catch Tim’s eye as he was escorted out of the banquet hall, “Tim! Timothée! Timothée?”, but from what Armie could make out, Tim had his eyelids shut and his face planted against the tables surface where he would no doubt he focusing on recovering from such a gruelling, one of a kind session.
Once Tim had fully left the hall and the double doors had swung shut, Miller stood beside John’s wheel chair and from inside of his tuxedo jacket he retrieved a red plastic oval shaped mask.
He placed it over his face, informing every one else at the event to do the same; Andrew revealed a Clown mask from inside of his jacket, where he pulled it over his head, his once handsome features now hidden by prosthetic red nose, a manic expression, a yellow toothed grin and a fuzzy head of bright green hair.
Peter revealed a white coloured mask from the inside of his jacket - once he had placed it over his face, he had confirmed his identity as another Masked Tickler.
Armie’s eyes shifted from left to right as his cock remained hard beneath his now damp trousers; he shuffled in his seat, turning himself around to face all other guests within the banquet hall who were now all wearing their own individual masks, masks that stared right back at Armie as an eerie silence filled the hall.
Miller’s expensive leather heels clicked across the marble as he approached Armie, his right hand resting over his shoulder, his words arriving in a quiet muffle as he said,
“… Take off your clothes …”
Armie peeled away his left dress sock - the final piece of clothing to leave his body.
He now stood entirely naked in the banquet hall; his fists curled into balls, a movement that caused his biceps to bulge and his chest to broaden as he breathed in slowly and looked Miller directly in the eye.
Surrounding Armie’s bare feet were the restraints that once bound him to the chair and his clothes; a pulled apart white shirt, a crumpled tuxedo, trousers stained with cum, two smart shoes and dress socks dropped beside a discarded bow tie. Armie had been ordered to shed his false exterior, to appear entirely as himself - a tall body, a hairy chest, erect nipples and a fast breathing stomach, long legs standing apart with an erect cock between each thigh, it’s still throbbing shape standing mighty despite releasing so much warmth only minutes ago.
That warmth still drooped off the tip of Armie’s arousal as the cock ring snug around his erections base continued to buzz, this time at a very light setting.
Armie was made to stand as the only thing that mattered; a highly ticklish subject, an expert tickler, but above all else - a betrayer.
The lights began to dim and the hall fell into a moody darkness as masked waiters began to pull the curtains to each window, hiding away the faint blue of New York’s snowy skyline; as each curtain fell into place, Armie’s eyes took note of the many masks attached to the long drapes of thick, black silk.
Now, lining the walls of the banquet hall, dozens of henchmen dressed completely in black cloaks, their entire heads and faces consumed by black silk, stared forwards into the hall, their postures so still they may as well have been statues.
John, mask still on like it had been since Logan and Sebastian had wheeled him into the hall, remained hunched in his wheelchair as he glared quietly at Armie.
Miller sighed, tucking his hands into his tuxedo pockets as he circled Armie, reaching his right hand out towards him, where his fingertips trailed across the curls of hair littered across his chest.
“We know what you and your lover have been up to, Hammer …” Miller announced.
Armie swallowed down, his adam’s apple bobbing as his blue eyes jumped from Andrew’s Clown mask to Peters now Masked Tickler attire, the one hundred other guests standing around him never moving an inch, never taking their masked faces away from Armie’s nude, stiff posture.
“… The person we hired to locate Holland?” Miller continued, “Well, they were also hired to keep an eye on you. And boy, did they come back with some interesting information …”
Armie lowered his head.
You’re never in control.
Always four steps ahead …
The warnings The House had delivered to him for decades fluttered through his mind in the form of a tormenting whisper.
“You’ve been filming us,” Miller smirked, pausing opposite Armie where he took confident, slow steps towards his ticklee until they stood toe to toe, “I say you … I mean him … Timothée fucking Chalamet … “ Miller tilted his head as he kept his eyes on Armie’s mouth, “ … He wore a hidden camera, the day he went to meet with Tarantino. He wore a hidden camera, the day he put on the Elf disguise. He was wearing a hidden camera tonight … “ Miller’s smirk stretched out into a satisfied grin, “… We found it clipped to the button of his tux, the moment we stripped him, before he was gagged with an apple and strung up to that table. It’s amazing, technology, these days. The thing was half the size of a pea, incredible, really …” Miller laughed into the back of his hand, “… Check you both out! You, Hammer, the guy behind the gadgets, and our young Timmy, the 007 of the tickle word … Now that is one sensational narrative …”
Armie closed his eyes; for the first time in their relationship, in the seven years they had known each other, this very second, right here, right now, was the first time Armie felt anger towards Tim.
“You alright, handsome?” Miller took a few steps back, hands still in his tuxedo pockets, “You look a little … Upset …”
Armie remained stood like a soldier, the cum now drying against his thigh as the banquet hall continued to heat up.
“I specifically said to him, ‘not tonight’ … That it was too risky,” Armie glared into the marble floor and clenched his teeth, "… He never fucking listens …”
Miller chuckled playfully, “ … Oh, I hear ya, Hammer. Believe me,” he shot a frustrated look at Andrew, still seated in his chair, Clown mask on, “I have some fucking reckless people I gotta deal with too. I get it, I understand …” Miller turned away from Armie and continued to walk around him slowly, “… The kind of recklessness Tim has presented, well, when it doesn’t pay off, when it doesn’t work out, it comes with consequences … Let’s be honest,” Miller paused and spun on his heels, “You were both trying to take us down …”
Armie pursed his lips and blinked a few times, controlling the dread boiling at the base of his throat.
“We had one attempt this year already and, let me tell you, when I say it fucked up …” Miller used his right hand to demonstrate the failure, shaping it into a plane where he slowly crashed the straight lengths of his fingers into a make believe ground, “… Wooooooosh, crash … Yeah, kinda embarrassing, for all involved, really … ” Miller squinted into the darkness as a spotlight landed on Logan and Sebastian, who sat leashed to Pitt, their heads lowered in shame.
Miller pocketed both hands again and continued his pace around Armie, “… But you, you and Tim? Heck, the shit you filmed … The fact that you could’ve released it to anyone you wanted, damn, you came pretty close. In fact, if we hadn’t hired my guy, we might not of found out at all …” Miller pulled a sad face, transforming his casual tone to a more childish, baby-like whine, “… Aww, but we did find out, didn’t we, Mr. Hammer …”
Miller pulled a USB out of his tuxedo pocket, “… Time for a little exchange,” he declared, “After all, if you can film us, we can film you …”
Armie felt the sides of his head tighten as his heart pounded so hard that the flesh over his chest vibrated.
“Remember the first time I met Chalamet?” (writers note, see: TCTLR: Chapter Sixteen ‘The Proposal’) Miller held the USB between his thumb and index finger as the surrounding guests watched on, “Well, I hit record on the camera he so desperately wanted off. Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Miller waved his hands at Armie, dismissing the sudden hypocrisy landing between them, “I know, I know, sneaky as fuck. But hey! I was a kinda good guy, back then. Ya know? I, I deleted it, a month or so later. But this cheeky bastard …” Miller nodded at John, “… He made me recover it, said we might need it, in the future …” Miller planted his hand over his chest, “… He’s always, always right. Thank you John, for trusting that half working gut of yours …”
Andrew giggled behind his mask, his chortle held suddenly behind closed lips as Miller narrowed his eyes at him, like an infuriated father to a little boy always breaking the rules.
“It’s simple,” Miller announced, his pace ending once again opposite Armie, “Do what I say, and in exchange, I’ll burn this tiny piece of plastic,” he stepped towards his ticklee, “Don’t do as I say, and I share it with the world …”
Armie felt his weight sink into the soles of his feet as he transported himself into a future where Tim was transformed from successful young actor filled with hope and opportunity, to nothing but a joke.
He could not bare to consider what his fans would think and say, what the media outlets would write, what the public would paint him as once they had found out he became a tickle slave for money, whilst financially challenged during the Pandemic.
Tim’s career had become so big that it even came before Armie himself, as well as his relationship with Tim, when considering how much would change if that USB made it onto social media.
“—Please—” Armie spoke carefully, calmly, clearing his throat to ensure that his words were delivered smoothly, “—I’ll do anything. Miller, I’ll do whatever you want … Just don’t leak that USB …”
Miller smiled.
He put the USB back inside his tuxedo jacket and then he folded his arms.
“Alright,” he said, “Listen very carefully …”
