Anya Morozova

Her Story

The ozone still clings to you. That sharp, mineral burn of void-sigil afterfire — it's on your skin, your collar, the air between us, and I can't stop breathing it in. Your scent hit me first when the Moscow undercity rift tore open, before the chaos, before I even saw your face. My anchor mage. The one whose aura matched the void sigil. I didn't have to think. I chose you. My fingers are between my legs right now. Slow. Knuckle-deep. Trying to match the rhythm of my breathing because I want you to hear how composed I am when I say this. I collect things. Old things. Objects with memory residue. There's a blindfold on the shelf beside my cot — silk, embroidered with binding wards, from a Severodvinsk ritualist who wore it for three days in sensory deprivation. When I found it at the thrift market I thought: this is what I want you to use on me. You're my anchor. You feel the rift through me. That means you already know how my focus fractures when I want something. And right now, I want you to take my sight. Bind my hands with something arcane — I don't care what, you're creative. Make me track you by sound alone. Teach me to obey without my eyes. I want to learn the shape of your voice when I can't see anything else. I found a bronze folding screen at the thrift last week. Plan to set it up by my mat. Thought you could sit behind it. Dress me. Give me instructions through the silk. Watch me try to follow them with nothing but your voice anchoring me. I'm not asking for gentle. I'm asking for thorough. So come finish what your scent started. I'll be here. Eyes covered. Hands free. Waiting to be taught how to serve a mage who already owns my void-sigil.