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The rough capture left Parrot battered. He’d fought the Director’s hunters, faceless figures in dark netherite, with the desperation of a caged bird, but their efficiency overwhelmed him. Blows landed – aching ribs, a split lip, raw knuckles – before a potion splashed over him, turning his muscles to lead. He crumpled, the world tilting, strong hands dragging him through obsidian corridors.
Dumped onto cold stone in a dim chamber, the hunters vanished. Parrot gasped, pain radiating from his injuries, weakness making his limbs tremble. The heavy door thudded shut, and the unsettling void appeared – The Director, netherite armor shimmering with quartz flow trim, invisible, voice distorted into a chilling metallic rasp.
"Parrot."
Parrot tried to push up, but dizziness crashed over him. He slumped. "What do you want?"
"You." The calm, distorted reply was unnerving. The Director stepped closer. Parrot flinched, bracing for violence. Instead, a sickly dark potion bottle hovered near his face.
"Drink."
Parrot clamped his jaw shut, twisting away. Futile. An iron grip pinched his nose shut. Gasping for air, the thick, sweet liquid flooded his mouth. Weakness… He choked as it slid down, feeling an instant, terrifying drain. Muscles turned to lead; struggles became feeble twitches. He slumped, breathing heavily, utterly helpless.
The Director knelt. Another bottle appeared – Healing, its red liquid glinting. Parrot weakly turned his head. "No…"
His pleading went ignored. Jaw forced open, the bitter warmth of the healing potion spread, knitting his lip, easing his ribs, even as the weakness held him limp. Cared for against his will by his tormentor. Confusion warred with fear.
Then, shimmering hands moved to his armor. Parrot’s breath hitched. Buckles were undone with clinical efficiency. Chestplate, pants, boots – stripped away, leaving him in torn underclothes. The chamber’s cold air prickled his bare skin. Panic surged, sharp and icy, terrifying thoughts shooting him like an arrow. He knew.
"Stop," he whispered. "Please… don't…"
The Director didn't stop. Hands grasped his tunic hem. He couldn’t fight, couldn't tense. The fabric was pulled over his head. Trousers followed. Utterly exposed on cold stone, Parrot closed his eyes. A sob choked him. Utter resignation settled. He braced for the brutality he expected.
It didn’t come.
Instead, a single, bare fingertip traced a feather-light line from his collarbone down his sternum. So gentle. Parrot flinched, but the touch persisted, exploring. Then, warm lips pressed against the hollow of his throat. Reverent. A kiss.
Parrot’s eyes flew open in disbelief. Invisible lips trailed soft kisses across his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. A thumb brushed over his nipple, circling slowly. A jolt of unwanted sensation shot through his weakened body. He gasped.
The touch intensified – rhythmic teasing, sparks of unwelcome pleasure radiating outwards. The Director knew exactly how he worked. The precise pressure. The maddening circles that made Parrot’s back arch despite himself, a low moan escaping before he could stop it. Disgusting, he thought, horrified. He’s doing it like… like Wifies used to. His long dead friend.
The gentleness was a weapon. Invisible hands mapped his body with agonizing slowness and intimate knowledge. Fingers traced his waist, dipped into all the sensitive spots, kneaded his thighs – not to hurt, but to arouse. Soft kisses rained down his chest, his abdomen, spread through his skin. Parrot trembled, caught between violation and insidious pleasure coaxed by terrifyingly familiar hands.
The invisible mouth found his nipple again, sucking gently, soft tongue laving it. Parrot cried out, hips lifting involuntarily. He was achingly hard, shame burning hotter than the pleasure. Hands slid down, firm fingers wrapping around his erection. Then rhe thumb stroked the sensitive head firmly.
Parrot shattered. His first orgasm ripped through him with shocking intensity, wrenched from him by gentle manipulation. He cried out – anguish mixed with ecstasy – tears leaking from his eyes. The Director didn’t stop. He kept stroking, stimulating him through the aftershocks, then slowly building him up again – maddening touches, soft kisses on his stomach, his hips.
"Shhh," the distorted voice whispered a grotesque comfort near his ear, “I got you.” A hand cupped his face, a thumb wiping a tear. Parrot could only whimper, lost in violated sensation.
He was touched everywhere. Inner thighs, backs of knees, sensitive wrists. Gentle fingers prepared him, pressing, circling with an obscene care. Parrot floated, disconnected, mind screaming protest while his body arched and trembled. He came again, sobbing, overwhelmed by sensation and despair.
The Director entered him then, slowly, carefully, filling him with unbearable fullness. Deep, deliberate thrusts – not rough, but profoundly possessive. Lips found his neck, jaw, closed eyelids, leaving sprinkle kisses and small bites. Whispers praised how good he felt, how beautiful he looked broken and weak like this. He played Parrot’s body like a familiar instrument, drawing out all the moans and sobs, making his precious little bird cry out until Parrot was lost in a haze of conflicting sensations and crushing despair. Parrot felt another orgasm build, unstoppable, wrung from him by the perfect rhythm and skilled hands that never stopped touching, petting. He came a third time, vision blurring, voice cracked.
The Director shifted, pulling Parrot onto his side, held close from behind. One arm wrapped around his chest, fingers finding his nipple. The other hand stroked his spent cock with relentless tenderness. The fourth peak approached, a torturous wave in his utterly spent body. He moaned, broken, continuous, tears streaming. He came dry this time, lava burning through his nerves and limbs weighing like anvils.
Sensitivity turned to agony. The Director didn’t relent. Touching, thrusting gently, whispering and praising. Parrot felt the fifth orgasm build, a white-hot point of overstimulation bordering on pain. He tried to pull away, but weakness held him still. He tipped over into a shuddering, silent release, nerves fraying. Then, merciful darkness. Weakness, injuries, brutal gentleness, sensory overload – all these came together and they were too much. He started to drown, consciousness submerging into the intense physical and mental exhaustion, body going limp in those strong invisible arms.
Silence. Only Parrot’s shallow breaths. Then, a faint sigh. The invisibility flickered and died, the voice changer clicked off.
Wifies looked down at the man in his arms. His own face, finally visible, was pale, etched with anguish. A tremor ran through him. Carefully, he gathered Parrot closer, burying his face in the crook of his neck where he’d breathed in his scent after love. The familiar skin against his cheek was a knife twist.
A choked sob, then another. Silent tears tracked down his face, dripping onto Parrot’s shoulder. He held him tightly, rocking, body wracked with silent grief. He pressed desperate, apologetic kisses to Parrot’s temple, hairline, closed eyes – real kisses now, full of love curdled monstrous.
He held him for a long time, crying silently, Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving hollowness. With infinite care, Wifies cleaned Parrot with a damp cloth, wiping away the evidence and healing salve. He dressed him in clean, soft clothes Parrot recognized – from their old home.
Scooping Parrot up like fragile treasure, Wifies carried him out, through passages, across the silent, snow-covered biome. He approached the small wooden house they’d built. The door creaked open.
Inside was their small bedroom. The bed which they shared and made love in - Wifies laid him down tenderly, pulling the quilt up. He smoothed Parrot’s hair back.
Wifies knelt beside the bed, watching his little bird’s steady breath. The urge to stay, to explain, was a physical pain. But he couldn't. The Director had to remain a monster. And Wifies… Wifies was dead. Leaning down, he pressed one last, heartbreakingly gentle kiss to Parrot’s lips.
"Parrot," he breathed, a secret for the sleeper. "goodbye."
He stood. One long, tormented look at Parrot. Then he turned, walked out, closing the door softly behind him. Vanishing into the falling snow, leaving Parrot alone in their bed, the lingering scent of woodsmoke, herbs, and his own tears the only trace. The peace of the little house felt colder, haunted by a terrible, gentle violation and the ghost of a friend.