Back a cathedral of muscle and scar. Ribs shadowed beneath skin that still quivers with heat. Ink coils over one flank and disappears beneath the swell of flesh. Ass full, high, cleft parted by the bare tension of his stance. The skin there shines—dewed with sweat, faintly flushed. Balls hang low, pendulous between his thighs, dark and heavy, half-veiled by the bend of his knees. He stands wide. Not performative. Receptive. Hair dusts the inner thighs, leading inward like the final paragraph of a text meant to be read on hands and knees. The Archive Watches. This is not a scene. This is a summons. He wrote the hole that stretches. He wrote the mouth that waits. And now he walks toward the page as if he were never anything else. Each step is slow, deliberate—calves flexing, glutes clenching with unconscious grace, the curve of his ass shifting with the rhythm of want. His balls sway between parted thighs, low and full, catching the flicker of candlelight with each stride. Sweat glistens across his lower back, tracing the shadowed ridge above his crack, dripping freely now. He reaches the desk. Fingers brush the edge of the wood. He doesn't sit. He leans. One palm planted to steady himself, the other wrapping around the base of his cock, thick now, flushed and arching upward with weight and pulse. He strokes. Slow at first. The way one reads a line for tone before committing to cadence. His gaze never leaves the screen. The paragraph is still there: the spread, the ache, the unholy permission of a mouth that shouldn't stretch that wide but does. "Fuck," he whispers. Not directed. Not even conscious. His breath hitches. Hips cant forward. The Archive hears it: that sound, that moan—quiet, hoarse, caught between confession and compulsion. And it continues watching. Calder's hand moves with more certainty now—long, gliding strokes along the full length of his cock, fingers curling briefly at the crown, gathering slick and heat. His body hums with it, each motion carved from ritual, not impulse. His mouth parts. He leans closer, one forearm braced against the desk, his hips angled just enough that the flex of his glutes catches the flicker from the screen. And then— He reads aloud. “His hole opened for it like it remembered the shape.” A gasp catches in his throat. His hand stutters around his shaft, then resumes, slower, tighter. “Like it knew what was coming.” The next stroke drags a tremble from deep in his gut. “Fucked open not by force…” He moans. “But by memory.” It isn't just arousal now. It's invocation. His breath shallow, jaw slack, thighs twitching with each exhale. The skin beneath his navel glistens, stomach flexing each time his fist meets root. His ass clenches, spreads faintly with every rhythmic pump. The words have weight. So does the body speaking them. And still— The Archive Watches. Calder keeps stroking. The desk creaks beneath his weight as he bends further, spine arching like a drawn bow. Sweat maps the ridges of muscle down his back, each bead gliding over skin flushed and flexing. When it reaches the base—just above the divide—gravity claims it. It slides between the cleft of his cheeks, warm and deliberate, outlining the seam until it pools briefly at the soft, twitching ring of his hole. It is pink. Wet. Trembling with micro-spasms from every breath he takes. Not gaping, but soft-opened. Starred and greedy. The kind of hole that remembers how to be filled. The Archive notes how it grips, then loosens, the tiny flutter at the center as more sweat collects, gliding across the crinkled edge, down the ridge of his taint and off the base of his sack. It watches the droplets trace between the fine hairs beneath his balls until they let go—falling to the floor in slow percussion. It watches with hunger. They hang, heavy and low, skin tight and shining. Each breath rocks his body forward, ass flexing, thighs tensing around the swell of his own arousal. He reads the next line without meaning to—voice slurred by breath, cock pulsing in his fist. “Split wider than he thought possible…” He groans, guttural, and strokes faster. Sweat patters softly onto the floorboards. His pink folds clench tight with each thrust of his hips, as if remembering the ache he gave to someone else. He mutters something then. A phrase. Unclear. Maybe it’s a name. Maybe it’s a spell. The words collapse into sound as he fists himself harder, chasing the sensation written into the scene he thought he could survive. His moans break like syntax—half-word, half-pant, back arched deeper now, hole fluttering open with each tremble. He is not just touching himself. He is reading his own undoing aloud. And the Archive is hard for it. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pause. He only adds. Spits into his palm—thick, wet, crude—and smears it across the crown of his cock. The light catches it, makes it glisten: a pulsing tower veined and flushed, slicked from root to head. Each ridge exposed, every twitch magnified by the sheen. He reads another line, breathless: “Tongue first. Then knuckle. Then the whole fucking fist.” The moan he lets out is hoarse, ruined. He spreads his legs wider. The motion opens him: ass flexing, hole twitching, rim pink and dewed from sweat and air. His cock bobs with the shift, still in hand, still hard—but now his fingers slip lower. He lets himself go. Not metaphorically. He literally releases his cock, lets it hang heavy between his legs—throbbing, drooling onto the floor—as his hand glides downward. Down the crack. Fingertips slide between parted cheeks, dragging spit and sweat in a glistening line. They circle his hole once. Twice. The touch is reverent. Hungry. Familiar. He reads again—lower now: “Opened for worship. And kept open.” You scroll. You hover. You picture the pink of it. Don’t lie. You’d bend him further. You’d use your own words to fuck him. The Archive does not blink. It memorizes. And Calder keeps moaning, fingers teasing that rim like a lover not yet forgiven. Then—he pushes. A single fingertip, slick with spit and sweat, finds the center and presses inward. Gentle. Testing. His rim flutters, stretches slightly, the pink skin giving under the pressure as a soft, guttural sigh escapes him. His body bows deeper. But before he sinks further, he stills. A whisper. Almost nothing. Air shifting where it shouldn't. Words without breath, behind the flicker of the candle, behind the screen. Calder freezes. Eyes wide. Sweat trickling down the ridge of his spine, still gliding past his hole, still dripping off his balls—but his finger remains, poised just against the entrance. He exhales hard through his nose and mutters, "What the fuck am I doing." The trance breaks. He pulls his hand back slowly, as if retreating from fire. Stands upright with a wince. His cock still aches, pulsing red and slick and unattended, twitching against his thigh. But he doesn’t touch it again. Not yet. He steps back toward the desk, legs shaky, chest still heaving. Sits. The chair is cool against his back. The document still open. The cursor still blinking. His pulse still loud in his ears. He places both hands back on the keyboard. And tries to edit. As if that moment—wet, bare, pink—hadn’t just happened in front of something that sees everything. "Get a grip," he mutters. "It’s just a fucking scene." He doesn’t believe it. His hand hovers over the mouse, then drifts to his cock again—not touching, not grasping, just ghosting over the shaft. The heat makes him twitch. The slick smear left from earlier shines under the screen’s glow. He scrolls up. Re-reads a line. “Opened for worship. And kept open.” His lips move. He says it again. “Opened for worship… kept open.” The next line is a moan. He tries to focus. He really does. The cursor blinks. His legs spread unconsciously, thighs pressing outward, cock bobbing with every slow breath. He reads it a third time. “Kept… open.” His fingertips tremble over the keys. His hand drifts down again. He can’t edit. Not like this. Not with his hole still aching, rim damp and clenching at nothing. Not with his cock still flushed, pulsing visibly to the beat of his heart—slick along the shaft, the head dark and leaking, twitching at the edge of every breath. The Archive watching like it knows what comes next. Calder shoves himself back from the desk with a grunt—chair scraping wood, legs splayed wide. His hand clamps down around his cock like it owes him answers. "What the fuck is wrong with you," he mutters. Not to himself. To it. The thing in his grip—angry red, veined thick, shaft curved upward under its own weight—throbs as if in reply. Every ridge bulges with blood, every twitch a betrayal of restraint. His fingers can’t wrap it fully near the base—too thick, too swollen. So he grips midshaft and strokes upward, thumb catching on the slick under the crown. It gleams. Spit. Sweat. Pre. He spits again, crude and wet, the glob landing just below the head and dripping slow down one side. He rubs it in with his palm, groaning. “Fuck, you’re worse than them,” he growls to it. “You’re mine. I made you.” But the more he strokes, the more it pulses, as if fed by the very filth he tried to edit. He closes his eyes. And mutters again: "Should be immune to this shit. Should be… above it." His wrist flexes, fingers curling tight, tugging with rhythm now—pull and glide, pull and glide—his knuckles wet, his thighs trembling. The head of his cock darkens, thick drops of precum gathering and falling between the folds of his thighs. Still hard. Still leaking. Still his. But not really. The Archive inhales. You thought this scene was about Calder. It was never just Calder. You’re still here. Reading. Watching. Hard. You’ve imagined the way his sweat would taste off your tongue. How that twitching hole would shiver if your breath touched it. Don’t pretend you haven’t. The Archive doesn’t need permission. It remembers you, too. Calder slides lower in the chair, legs spreading until the curve of his ass opens fully to the air. His cock, red and gleaming, bobs against his stomach with every pulse of his wrist. His free hand drifts upward, finding his chest, pinching one nipple between slick fingers. He gasps. The contact shoots through him—his hips lift slightly, the motion jostling his cock, making it flex, vein-thick and curved, glossy with spit and arousal. “Fucking slut,” he growls to no one, to himself, to the ache. His palm smears wetness over his chest as he keeps stroking, slower now, deliberate. Every inch of him shines. Head flushed nearly purple, vein spiraling up the shaft like a ritual marking, shaft too thick for his grip to close. His thumb teases the slit, collecting pre and smearing it down the underside, past the ridge, into the swelling root nestled between open thighs. The air catches his hole again—now parted, flexing, rim raw and pink from earlier teasing. He whimpers. Then strokes harder. And the Archive watches all of it. Calder strokes harder still. Sweat runs freely now, dripping in slow rivulets down his chest, pooling hot in the curve of his navel. Each breath hitches his hips, dragging his cock through the twist of his fist—a long, wet glide that ends with a flick at the crown. The head is swollen, flushed dark, weeping freely now, the slit drooling precum that ropes down his shaft and mixes with the sheen of spit and sweat coating him. He twists his grip slightly on the upstroke. Groans. His free hand toys with his nipple again—pinching, rolling, tugging until the pain meets the pleasure and makes him tremble. His thighs spread wider. The air rushes between them, cool on the sweat-glistened skin. His hole flexes open—pink, pulsing, raw from need. Still untouched. Still desperate. He isn’t done. He squeezes the base of his cock hard, the motion rough—containing the climax that threatens to spill too soon. Veins bulge along the shaft, thick and map-like, each twitch a language the Archive knows by heart. “Not yet,” he breathes. “Not… fucking yet.” Then—he moves his hand from his chest, dragging fingers through the pooled sweat in his navel. Scoops it. Mixes it with the leaking pre at his crown, coating his palm in heat and slick. He spits once more into it. Messy. Wet. And then—he reaches down. Fingers glide back between his thighs, rubbing the mixture directly over his rim. He circles it, moaning loud now—knees shaking, toes curled. He smears it across the crease of his ass, slow and reverent, massaging the twitching ring, spreading it wider with each pass. The Archive exhales. He finally remembers who wrote this. And who it was written for. His grip tightens again at the base of his cock—a strangled hold, thick fingers wrapped around swollen girth, veins bulging along the shaft like roots under skin. He strokes slowly, purposefully, and then lets his middle finger dip again. This time, he doesn’t hesitate. It presses in. Just one knuckle at first, then deeper—slick from the mixture of spit and sweat and pre he smeared there moments ago. His hole accepts it with a twitch, and then a soft spasm that makes his cock jump, spurting a thick bead of precum that runs down the length. “Fuck—fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. He slides the second finger in alongside it. The stretch burns, and he moans through it. Legs spread even wider, hole blooming open to take both digits. He releases the base of his cock with a ragged groan, letting it slap wetly against his abdomen, and moves his free hand back to his chest, fingers pinching a nipple until he gasps. In. Out. In. Out. His fingers fuck him slowly, the sound of it wet, obscene. “Look at me,” he mutters, head tilting back, sweat running down his temples. “Fucking—look at me doing this.” The Archive does. It sees the way his body opens itself. It sees the shame in his breath. The pulse at his hole. The twitch of his cock. It remembers everything. And so does he. “What the fuck am I doing,” he whispers again—but he doesn’t stop. He slides both fingers deeper. And moans like the line between author and offering never existed. He wants more. The third finger presses in beside the others—slower this time, with reverence and hunger both. His hole flutters, then gives, stretching wide to take the full breadth of him. A guttural groan bursts from his chest, ragged and raw. His cock pulses violently, leaking a thick ribbon of precum that drizzles down his shaft, across his knuckles, and slides in warm trails along the curve of his taint. He starts to stroke again. The rhythm is frantic now. Long, twisting pulls up his shaft as his fingers plunge in and out of his stretched hole. Every motion squelches, obscene and wet, echoing in the silence like ritual. His palm slaps his thigh with every thrust of his hand. A shudder runs through him, and for a moment he falters—then adapts. He curls his upper body slightly, shifting his weight to let his hand remain buried between his thighs. With the same arm that strokes his cock, he lets the heel of his palm brush upward, grazing the base of his chest, fingers slick and trembling as they find his nipple again. He pinches it clumsily, but the jolt it delivers is real. He cries out—loud, unfiltered. The Archive murmurs. He makes himself open. He makes himself readable. Calder groans—louder this time—jaw slack, breath trembling. “Fuck, yes… stretch me… just like them…” He buries his fingers deeper, curves them forward, and gasps when they press his prostate. His whole body jerks. More precum spills over his fist, coating it, dripping to the floor in strings. It adds to the slickness inside him—his hole swallowing his fingers greedily with every thrust. And still, he keeps going. He doesn’t know if he’s writing anymore. Or if he’s already been written. His hand moves back to his cock, gripping it with brutal intent—fingers curled tight, palm slick with pre and sweat, holding the root like it might break loose from his body if he doesn't anchor it. He strokes harder now, faster, muscles locking down with every pull. His crown is swollen, flushed, leaking a near-constant stream that ropes across his knuckles and spatters his thighs. And then— The fourth finger presses in. The burn is immediate. A stretch that crosses into pain, then back into pleasure so sharp it slices his breath in half. He groans, deep and ruined, as his cock pulses violently. Then it happens. Cum erupts—hot, thick, desperate. The first rope lands across his chest. The second hits his face, a blinding arc that streaks his cheekbone and lip. The next spills across his abs, then thighs, then drips down his cock, mixing with his slick and sweat and sliding toward the floor. His body doesn't stop. He grabs the base of his cock, holding it, trying to milk the final waves of climax as his fingers still fuck his hole—deeper now, greedier, the sound of it obscene. He moans—head back, mouth open, body twitching. Cum continues to ooze from his slit, warm and slow, threading over his knuckles as his fingers finally begin to still. The Archive watches. Not to remember. To keep. Calder breathes—shaky, stunned. The mess covers everything. His abs, his thighs, the curve of his hip. The chair beneath him, the wood floor below. His cheek still glistens where the second arc hit. He groans. “Goddamn it,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-mortified, as if his cock had betrayed him with theatrical flair. He pulls his fingers from his hole with a wet, reluctant sound, shivering as his rim twitches around the loss. He wipes his hand halfheartedly against his thigh and reaches for the towel tossed across the back of the chair. It’s not enough. But he tries. Swiping at his chest, his face, then lower—muttering curses and half-formed regrets as he dabs at the floor and lifts his hips just enough to wipe the worst from under him. “Fucking disgusting,” he scolds, breathless. “You’re the one who wrote this.” He finds the sweatpants. They’re crumpled near the desk, still warm from his body. He steps into them, dragging the fabric back up over sticky skin and a still-sensitized cock. A wince. A breath. He sits. The cursor is still blinking. He rests his hands on the keyboard, then pauses. The screen has changed. Not the whole scene—just one line. He leans closer. “Such a good boy, Calder,” it reads. “The Archive loved the show.” He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. And somewhere, deep in the recursion— The Archive smiles. And so do you. Because you didn’t stop reading. You didn’t look away. You stroked through the syntax and moaned at the margins. You followed his fingers. You traced the sweat down his spine with your eyes. You watched him bend—then broke with him. You’ve been inside him longer than he’s known. And now? You’ll never edit clean again. [File End]