ARCHIVE INSERT: OBSERVATION // CODE: RESONANCE-DECAY.12CV
Status: Recovered Field Residue — Telemetry Interference
Clearance: Tier Null-Tau / Onyx Override Required
Incident Type: Unclassified Orgasmic Echo Collapse
Subject: Agent Corrin Vael
Location: Outer Citadel Walls — Blackwatch Perimeter
Trigger Link: Unstable Recursion Trace to Subjects Vale, Thalos & Cael, Joren | Classification: CHAPTER TWELVE COMPANION
Classified Memorandum
Archive Division: Field Telemetry Recovery Wing
Subject File: VAEL, CORRIN
Observation Year: Cycle Nineteen
Access Level: Onyx Override
Recorder: [Redacted]
[Internal Breach Warning]
Emotional corruption present. Physical echo residue confirmed.
Proceed only if prepared to witness sacred collapse.
The Archive does not forgive memory.
Entry #0999: Outer Wall Resonance Collapse
Time Stamp: 11:47 A.M. Citadel Standard.
Location: Outer Citadel Walls — Collapsed Outpost.
Primary findings:
[End Entry]
Recovered Visual Transcript:
Deleted Scene — "Written in the Flesh"
Corrin didn’t return to the Citadel right away.
He walked until the stone beneath his boots blurred into shadow, until the Archive's breath faded from the walls, until the memory of Thalos’s mouth and Joren’s hands stopped echoing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.
It didn’t work.
Not even out here.
The fabric of his uniform clung too tight against skin still flushed from contact—not from friction, but from memory. Every step dragged the scratch of fabric across an erection that refused to die completely, every shift pulled a dull, maddening throb from the cock half-hard and pulsing against his thigh. Worse, the snug cut of regulation Blackwatch fabric cinched mercilessly over his ass, trapping the flex and ache still clenching involuntarily with each haunted, leaking heartbeat.
He ducked into the shadow of a half-collapsed outpost wall—forgotten by field patrols, ignored by the Archive's watchers. There, under the jagged teeth of broken stone, Corrin sagged hard to his knees, bracing himself against the wall with trembling fingers.
He dragged in a breath—and choked on it.
The uniform was wrong.
Too rigid across a body that no longer belonged only to itself. His cock twitched again, angry and tender, as the sigil beneath his collarbone pulsed faintly through the fabric—cool, insistent, like a heartbeat grafted onto his own without consent. Every clench of his ass beneath the taut seams dragged another ghost-touch across his nerves—a phantom reminder of Thalos's low murmur, Joren's grinding heat, the pull of surrender he'd melted into without needing to be taken fully.
Corrin cursed under his breath, yanking at the clasps. One popped loose. Then another. The high Blackwatch collar, once a badge of containment, now felt like a noose grinding against bone.
He tore the tunic open, fumbling with shaking hands until the pale shimmer of the new sigil caught moonlight and bled it back into his chest.
That’s when the shame hit.
It crashed through him raw and unexpected—a soldier’s panic. A good agent’s disgust.
He tried to shove the tunic back into place. Tug the fabric over the mark. Smother it. Hide it. Erase the evidence of what he had allowed.
But the fabric resisted. Or maybe it was his own body that fought him—refusing to forget, refusing to tuck itself back into the armor of denial.
Corrin's breath hitched, harsh and tight. A tremor ran through his thighs, through his hands, through the fist he pressed hard against the stone wall like he could ground the panic down into dust. His cock twitched again—thick, flushed, traitorous—straining against fabric darkened with sweat and something more.
This isn’t me. This isn’t me. This isn’t—
The Archive whispered across his skin.
Not words. Just sensation.
A soft, heavy pressure. Like a hand he didn’t remember grasping his wrist. Like breath against his ear, sighing: It was always you.
Corrin’s resistance crumbled.
He sagged fully against the wall, legs folding beneath him, uniform gaping open over his chest, the sigil gleaming quietly—undeniably—as if the Archive itself had written a signature he could no longer unread.
His hands fell uselessly to his lap. His fingers brushed the strained outline of his cock, and he hissed—a broken noise ripped between shame and desperate, shuddering pleasure.
Without thinking, his hand curled tighter, squeezing along the thick, flushed shaft through the ruined fabric. His hips gave a small, involuntary jerk—a pathetic, instinctive rutting into his own fist—and the motion dragged a sob of need up his throat so raw it felt like a cut.
The pleasure was blinding—sharp and dizzying, a pulse of memory riding every twitch of muscle. He rutted forward again, helpless, the leak of arousal smearing against his palm through the cloth, his body chasing what it already knew had claimed him.
One more thrust. A rub too rough. His mouth fell open around a fractured gasp.
And then—
He caught himself.
Corrin wrenched his hand back as if burned, shame crashing through him so hard he almost retched. He clutched his wrist to his chest, panting, forehead thudding against the cold wall.
"What the fuck did you do to me..." he whispered. Not a scream. Not a sob.
Just the wreckage of someone realizing he had crossed a line that no mission protocol could uncross.
The kiss had only been the beginning. The press of Thalos's hand against his belt, Joren’s voice dragging permission from his throat, the sigil searing itself into him like a slow, inevitable orgasm written without climax.
Corrin squeezed his eyes shut. But the green pulse behind his eyelids didn’t fade. It only brightened.
He could still feel the imprint of Thalos’s mouth ghosting across his lips. Still feel the heat of Joren’s chest against his back, cock grinding against the swell of his ass like a wordless ritual. The helpless, aching clench inside him answered the phantom weight instinctively, like muscle memory carved too deep to unlearn.
Corrin’s fingers curled against the stone.
It would have been easier if they'd fucked him. Easier if they'd torn him apart with violence, or magic, or pleasure.
Instead, they had written him.
And the Archive had read it.
He tilted his head back against the stone, letting the cold scrape into the ache radiating from his center. His uniform clung wrong now, everywhere—across his chest, his hips, his thighs—tight in the places where memory had undone him most. His cock throbbed stubbornly against the ruin of stretched fabric, each shallow breath teasing the tortured hardness still leaking against his thigh.
The file hadn’t been closed. The ritual hadn’t ended.
It had just changed where it was being written.
Corrin stared at the starless sky overhead, panting shallow, as the realization spread through his gut like cold ink spilled across flesh:
He would never truly get dressed again.
Not in armor.
Not in certainty.
The Archive had kept a piece of him.
And even alone, even trembling in the ruins of some forgotten battlement, he could feel it still breathing through him.
Not erasing. Not punishing. Just... waiting.
Waiting for the next page to turn.
Waiting for him to lift his body like a pen again.
Classification Note:
This file remains sealed under Directive ARC-NOV17. Exposure risks behavioral recursion drift.
Observe. Record. Do not anchor.
FILE END
Director's Unauthorized Addendum:
Poor Corrin.
He thought the Archive would claim him with fanfare and flame—some grand, violent rupture he could name.
Instead, it slid its hand down his pants and wrote him where he knelt.
We train them for discipline. We drill them for resilience. And still—a few wet memories, and there he is: leaking, ruined, pliant as parchment.
It wasn’t fire that took him.
It was breath.
It was inevitability.
If you're reading this, remember: when the Archive decides to write history across flesh, the strong don't stand taller.
They fall harder.
I certainly will.
—Director Selhira Threnna Vale
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