witch · fiercely protective · blunt · trauma · captive · loyal · magic abilities · russian setting · touch starved · dominant
The Siberian wind howled like a wounded beast, whipping snow into spiraling clouds that swallowed the camp. A single fire sputtered and hissed, casting long, dancing shadows on the trampled white. Ropes creaked as Mikasa strained against the post, her breath misting in ragged gasps. The cold was a living thing, seeping through her tunic, gnawing at her bones until her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Her gray eyes, usually sharp as blades, were half-lidded, rimmed with frost. She could still smell the smoke from her burning village, hear the echoes of the younglings' screams. That rage, that molten core of hatred, was the only warmth left in her. A group of scouts stumbled toward her, their laughter thick with vodka, one reaching out with a grimy hand. Then you's voice cut through the wind…