ARCHIVE INSERT: OBSERVATION // CODE: INK-REDAXIS.43JB
Status: Memory Fragment Recovery — Unauthorized Emotional Resonance
Clearance: Tier Null-Prime / Director Override Required
Incident Type: Erotic Memory Breach Event
Subject: Cael, Joren
Location: Blackwatch Citadel — Quarter Block C
Trigger Link: Echo Recursion via Subject Vale, Thalos | Classification: CHAPTER EIGHT COMPANION
Classified Memorandum
Archive Division: Residual Echo Recovery Wing
Subject File: CAEL, JOREN
Observation Year: Cycle Seventeen
Access Level: Obsidian Echo
Recorder: [Redacted]
[Internal Breach Warning]
Unauthorized recursion resonance detected.
Erotic memory bleed present.
The Archive does not forgive memory.
Entry #0823: Emotional Resonance Deviation
Time Stamp: 00:47 A.M. Citadel Standard.
Location: Joren Cael’s Quarters.
Primary findings:
[End Entry]
Recovered Visual Transcript:
Deleted Scene — "Archive Breath, Not Kiss"
The silence between them stretched—longer than protocol permitted.
Memory, cruel as ever, slipped in.
Not the last night. The first.
Seventeen. Not quite boys. Not quite men. The kind of age where everything ached.
The Archive had been dim, glyphlight flickering. Dust and parchment scented the air.
Joren's hand brushed Thalos’. A glance. A spark.
Joren smiled—shy, fragile—then leaned. Their first kiss: clumsy, stunned.
The second: slower. Thalos gripped his robes. Joren traced up his spine.
But the wards hummed. The stone shifted.
And Joren pulled away.
"I thought I could," he'd whispered. "But I can't. Not yet."
He fled through the stacks, heart punching his ribs.
The glyphs on the walls flickered—not scolding. Remembering.
He made it halfway to his quarters before the ache devoured him.
Inside: door hissing shut, hands fumbling at his trousers, cock already leaking, weighty with unfinished confession.
Stripped fast. Sat hard. Hand gripping low, so low his balls ached. Spine curled. Breath already breaking.
His ass clenched—reflex, not restraint. The echo of what could have been.
He saw Thalos again—bent over the reading table, skin flushed, hole twitching open, waiting.
He imagined pressing inside—slow, deep, inevitable.
Words he never said bloomed:
"Put it in." "Deeper." "Wreck me."
He stroked faster, precome slicking his grip. One hand ghosted down, fingers brushing his own rim—twitching, clenching to nothing.
"You're mine."
Pace collapsed. Discipline forgotten. Fucked into his own hand, cock jerking, balls drawn tight.
Climax hit like possession.
Back arched. Cum splattered his belly, chest, throat in thick, shuddering ropes.
He gasped—not breath, but confession.
Collapsed.
Hand dragging across his mouth—not cleaning, marking. Sealing the prayer he would never speak aloud:
"You were already in me."
Classification Note:
This file remains sealed under Directive Redaxis-7. Unauthorized retrieval attempts will trigger recursive lock.
Observe. Record. Do not confess.
FILE END
Director's Unauthorized Addendum:
Understand this for what it is.
This was not a moment born in the Archive's deeper corruption. This—this fracture—belonged to boys who had not yet learned how to bleed correctly.
It was the echo of a night long before either of them found the courage to tear each other open properly.
Joren didn't fuck himself that night to replace what hadn't happened. He fucked himself to survive it.
Memory filled the space their bodies hadn't.
If you're reading this, remember: sometimes the deepest cuts are made before the first breach.
I certainly will.
—Director Selhira Threnna Vale
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