ARCHIVE INSERT: OBSERVATION // CODE: INK-THRESH.08.ECHO
Status: Layered Dream Residue — Contaminated Archive Thread
Clearance: Tier Obsidian-Seal Only / Dual-Signature Required
Incident Type: Joint Recursion Climax Event
Subjects: Vale, Thalos and Cael, Joren
Location: Archive Dreamframe | Threshold Layer Convergence
Trigger Link: Simultaneous Resonant Breach | Classification: UNKNOWN COMPANION
Classified Memorandum
Archive Division: Threshold Echo Recovery Wing
Subject Files: VALE, THALOS and CAEL, JOREN
Observation Year: Cycle Unknown
Access Level: Obsidian Seal
Recorder: [Redacted]
[Internal Breach Warning]
Dual-subject recursion confirmed. Simultaneous dream-induced penetration. Compulsion risk: elevated.
The Archive does not forgive memory.
Entry #0872: Echo Breach Manifestation
Location: Archive Dreamframe | Threshold Layer Convergence | Just Before Waking
Primary findings:
[End Entry]
Recovered Visual Transcript:
Deleted Scene — "Threaded in Flesh"
Thalos slept.
But not alone.
Not beside Joren. Not in a bed. Not even in his body.
He dreamt like someone being opened.
The Archive had pulled him into a layered memory—one that wasn’t his, but recognized him like a lover pressing fingers to parted thighs. Geometry twisted around him: altars flickered where no walls should be, and the floor throbbed like something once worshipped through flesh, not words.
And there—kneeling—was the figure.
Not Joren. Not Kaelor. Not Ariken.
But someone familiar in a way that made Thalos’s cock ache with inherited grief.
He was already hard. Already leaking. Already moving toward him, guided not by thought, but by sigil memory. His breath stuttered.
No words passed.
Only instinct.
He knelt behind the figure and pressed in—one slow, devastating thrust.
The head of his cock breached slick, twitching flesh—tight, needy—stretching open with obscene resistance. He groaned low, feeling the clench around him, the body remembering him even when the mind could not.
The figure shuddered—hole spasming, leaking around him—as Thalos bottomed out, hips grinding flush against perfect, ruined heat.
A moan—not Thalos’s name. An erased one. A rewritten one.
He set a rhythm—grinding deep, rutting slow, dragging every thick inch out before forcing it back in until the walls sucked him greedily. The slick noise of it filled the breathing geometry around them.
He didn’t ask.
He didn’t apologize.
He entered like a prayer—flesh and memory entwined.
The sigil beneath his ribs flared—searing him open:
ECHO ME TRUE
He fucked deeper, hips snapping harder, sweat dripping into the altar-stone air. Each thrust stoked the fire in his gut, each clench dragged him closer, the dream tightening around his cock like a living spell.
When he came—it wasn’t a climax.
It was a claiming.
Seed spilled deep—in thick, helpless pulses—as his body shook, as the threshold swallowed him whole.
He woke gasping, thighs sticky, cock twitching against the sheets.
And beside him—Joren stirred.
Their eyes met.
No words.
Only awareness.
Simultaneous Thread: Cael, Joren
Joren didn’t sleep.
He folded.
His dream began in posture. Hands on altar stone. Knees apart. Hole open—not in anticipation, but in return.
Naked in a space that pulsed like breath wrapped in heat.
His cock dripped—precum trailing down his shaft in slow, heavy strings. The glow beneath his knees throbbed like a summoned heartbeat.
No voice commanded him.
No hand guided him.
Only the Archive holding its breath.
Then—entry.
A cock, thick and slick, breached his stretched rim—the head forcing his hole open with shuddering, helpless welcome.
Joren moaned—spine bowing, hips grinding back to meet the thrust.
"Fuck—yes—"
The Archive answered with deeper penetration.
Slow, brutal strokes that bottomed out inside him—dragging slick wet sounds from his body, sweat gleaming in the dream-light.
His ass milked the cock—walls clutching, spasming, leaking around the hard intrusion with worshipful abandon.
Hands clawed the altar stone—not for escape, but for anchoring.
Each piston-deep thrust punched the breath from his lungs—grinding the stretch deeper, pulling the orgasm higher.
His body arched—cock jerking untouched—as the sigil flared along his thigh:
ECHO ME TRUE
Joren came violently—seed splashing hot across the stone, hips slamming back to take every relentless thrust even as he shattered.
His ass clenched—milking the cock still rutting into him—pulling another desperate, body-breaking pulse from his hole.
He cried out—loud, raw, choking on a name burned into him deeper than memory.
When he woke, he was soaked—back arched, hole twitching, as if still filled.
He didn’t speak.
Because Thalos was already awake.
And the look they shared across the mattress wasn’t surprise.
It was confirmation.
The Archive had fucked them both.
And it wasn’t finished.
FILE END
ARCHIVAL NOTE: CONTAMINATION RECORD // READ-IN VIOLATION CONFIRMED
Dream-thread terminated. Dual-subject ejaculation confirmed. Runes ignited in tandem. Anal clench response synchronized. Memory bleed acknowledged.
No gods were summoned.
But both men came like they remembered what worship used to mean.
Aura contamination probable. Compulsion risk: elevated.
The Archive does not need permission to enter. It simply needs you open.
You touched yourself, didn’t you? That twitch. That breath. That slick sound you made just before this line.
Don’t pretend it was for research.
You read with your thighs clenched and your fingers wet, tracing glyphs you’ll never admit you memorized.
It’s all right.
The Archive sees. The Archive records. The Archive enjoys.
But you’re not clean enough to continue. Wash your hands. Wipe your conscience. And turn the page—if it will still open for you.
Director's Unauthorized Addendum:
I'm not in the habit of opening corrupted telemetry.
But this one auto-executed.
Likely because the Archive thought I deserved a visual.
—I did.
Honestly, it's impressive. Not for the act itself (though Joren's control under that kind of penetration deserves a commendation—or a leash), but for the unison. The mirrored orgasm. The recursion sync.
And the clench.
Saints preserve us, the clench.
If either of them ever learns to channel that depth into fieldwork, we're going to need a whole new class of containment collars.
Recommend promotion. Or quarantine.
I haven't decided yet.
—Director Selhira Threnna Vale
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