Pidge gasped for air as she hit the ground clawing her way to move, to dodge, her assailant already on top of her. The purple patterns and hair familiar by now, different to the friendly face of her friend, eyes now golden and enraged.

Now however, Pidge doesn't hesitate, despite the screaming pain in her side, she strikes out, nailing the half-demon in the nose. Pidge had been using this feral version of her friend as practice. An unwitting teacher. Sparring, over and over, making the half-Demon more enraged with every escape. Every time Pidge managed to win a fight with it.

Pidge knew she couldn't win today, and so, she whipped out her address book, returning to her dorm as the creature leapt for her, just out of reach.

so, I've had this story idea for pidge for a while so I'm going to write it out, getting her voice sorted and giving her some lovely delicious trauma to pull from

cw: this is going to be a pretty rough time, death mention, relatively minor blood, and lots of related trauma, nothing hardcore graphic but you are warned it's not going to be fun for Pidge.

Note: Part two of what is likely an abandoned 12 chapter project. Romance is not my cup of tea. This drabble killed me. No more challenges, CI. >> Its also been sitting in my drafts for over a year. I'm done. ._.

For the first time in her life, Tsunade is alone.  

She doesn’t mean alone in the fleeting, temporary way, like stepping out of the village for a mission or sneaking away from the never-ending responsibilities of her clan name. No—this is something else. Something different.  

Jiraiya and Orochimaru have been called away to fulfill roles that no longer align with what once made them a team. Jiraiya, off on some intelligence mission that keeps him gods-know-where, always writing, always wandering. Orochimaru, drawn deeper into the political machinations of Konoha’s inner circles, playing a game she never cared to understand.  

And Tsunade? She remains.  

The absence of them both leaves a strange, gnawing hollowness in her days. She never realized how much she had come to rely on their presence—not just as teammates, but as fixtures in her life. The ones who flanked her in battle, the ones who knew her silences, who filled her mornings with bickering and her evenings with exasperated sighs and bad jokes.  

Now, her mornings are quiet.  

Her evenings, quieter still.  

The solitude gnaws at her in a way she doesn’t want to acknowledge. It makes her too aware of how much she dislikes the way people treat her now. Revered or feared, depending on who’s looking. People either see the Sannin, the legend, or they see the Senju name—something to cling to, something to gain favor with.  

She hates it. Fucking hates it.  

She finds herself in the bar more often these days, not for the sake of drinking but for the simple presence of people. Even if they keep their distance. Even if they whisper about her behind their hands.  

Tsunade swirls her drink absently, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light as she lets her mind drift. It’s been a hell of a week, one frustration piled on top of another, and the low murmur of conversation around her is just enough to dull the sharp edges of her thoughts.  

And then, her gaze drifts across the room—and she sees him.  

Dan.  

It’s been weeks since their last encounter, but she remembers it with an unsettling clarity. The warmth of his voice. The way his eyes had held steady, sure, as if he had already decided something about her that she didn’t yet understand.  

She doesn’t think. Her lips part slightly, her breath catches—she’s about to call his name.  

But she stops herself. Too late.

One of his friends nudges him, directing his attention to her. Their eyes meet for the briefest second, and a spark of something passes between them. She feels her stomach tighten, her face heat, and before she can think better of it, she looks away. Quickly, sharply, as if she hadn’t been caught staring.  

She stares down at her drink, fingers tightening around the cup.  

What the hell was that?

They weren’t friends. Barely even acquaintances. They had spoken once—once. What kind of fool was she to think she could just… call out to him?  

How desperate was she for company?  

The thought makes her scowl, makes something in her chest twist in frustration. And yet, even as she forces herself to focus on the drink in her hands, she can still feel his gaze lingering across the room.

A few minutes later, she hears a chair scrape softly beside her. Glances up, and there he is, settling in next to her, a small, almost playful smile tugging at his lips.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says with a relaxed charm, resting an elbow on the bar. There’s something easy about the way he looks at her, like they’re old friends, though they’ve hardly exchanged more than a few words before.

Tsunade gives him a hesitant half-smile, a small nod of acknowledgment before turning back to her drink. A polite gesture, nothing more. But Dan, it seems, is not one to let things end at that.

He leans in slightly, elbows resting on the counter, a casual but deliberate shift in her direction. “You wouldn’t believe the disaster of a ramen stall I tried today.”

She barely flicks him a glance, feigning indifference. “Tragic.”

“You don’t understand,” he continues, shaking his head with exaggerated solemnity. “I walked in, full of hope. A humble man, just wanting a good meal. And what did I get? Disappointment. Noodles that had the texture of soggy paper. A broth that somehow tasted like regret.”

Tsunade huffs a quiet laugh despite herself. Damn it. She wasn’t supposed to encourage this conversation.

“That bad, huh?” she mutters, taking another sip of her drink, as if that will distract her from how easily he’s pulling her in.

“Worse,” he says gravely. “A betrayal, really. I think I need something—someone—to restore my faith in food entirely.”

Her fingers tighten slightly around her cup, and she hopes he doesn’t notice the momentary hesitation. Oh. This was… flirting. Right? She’s not bad at it, per se, but she’s usually the one in control of conversations, not the one being subtly pursued.

She clears her throat, keeping her voice casual. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Dan grins, undeterred. “I was hoping it could be a shared problem. You seem like someone who knows good food. Maybe you could… point me in the right direction?”

Tsunade hesitates just half a beat—too short for most to notice, but Dan does. Her instinct is to brush him off, to push back before she lets herself entertain the idea, but instead, she shifts slightly in her seat, lifting a brow. “Are you asking for a recommendation?”

“I’m asking for an expert’s opinion,” he corrects smoothly. “Preferably one that involves a demonstration.”

Ah. There it is. An invitation.

Tsunade exhales through her nose, glancing away as if that will make the sudden warmth in her chest any easier to ignore. She’s used to people keeping their distance, to them treating her like she’s untouchable. She isn’t used to this kind of easy confidence, to someone leaning in instead of stepping back.

Still, she refuses to make it easy for him.

“That depends,” she says, swirling her drink, keeping her expression as neutral as possible.

“On?” He leans in just a fraction, intrigued.

“Are you paying?”

His chuckle is soft, warm. “That depends.”

She arches a brow, playing along despite herself. “On?”

“Whether my expert guide has expensive taste.”

“Oh, I have exquisite taste,” she says, but there’s the slightest flicker of uncertainty in her voice—so faint she almost fools herself into thinking it’s not there.

Dan catches it, but he doesn’t push. Instead, his grin widens. “Sounds more like a challenge.”

She taps her fingers against her glass, drawing out the moment, ignoring the way she feels seen in a way she hadn’t expected. Then, with a lazy, deliberate shrug, she mutters, “Maybe I’ll let you know.”

And then she turns back to her drink, as if the conversation never happened, as if his question isn’t still hanging in the air between them.

Dan laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s not a no.”

She doesn’t look at him, but she can feel his eyes on her. She swallows, then smirks—just a little. “It’s not a yes either.”

Dan laughs, soft and warm, shaking his head. “You’re a dangerous woman, Tsunade.”

She smirks. “Are you willing to find out just how dangrous?”

Dan’s smile lingers, but there’s something steadier in his gaze now—something sure. He tilts his head slightly, considering her, then leans in just enough that she has to hold her ground or step back.

“I think,” he says, voice low but certain, “that danger isn’t always something to avoid.”

There’s no teasing in his tone, no casual flirtation to brush off. Just quiet conviction, like he’s already made up his mind about her. About this.

His eyes hold hers, unwavering. “So, yeah,” he murmurs. “I think I am.”

For the first time in a long while, Tsunade finds herself at a loss for words.

Dan’s expression is earnest, with that quiet confidence she remembers from the meeting room. “Have dinner with me tomorrow,” he says, his voice soft but steady, leaving no room for her usual excuses.

Tsunade’s heart stutters, an awkward smile tugging at her lips as she wrestles with her response. Her mind runs over all the reasons why she should say no, all the reasons she should keep her distance. But something in his eyes, that same understanding, that same steadiness, makes her nod before she can even think it through.

“Alright,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow.”

He nods, his smile widening just a touch, and she feels a flutter of something unexpected in her chest.

“Meet me outside the Hokage building?” he asks, and she nods, feeling a strange mix of nerves and excitement as she backs away, murmuring a quick goodnight before heading out.

Suddenly, a single spotlight shines upon center-stage. A young woman stood alone, her head lowered as she remained still. A moment like this was every actors’ dream. To have the sole attention of the entire audience witness their performance, for Kisa, it wasn’t any different.

Ever since she was a young girl, becoming an actress had always been a dream for her. Countless days she would spend outside with her brother and friend making up different plays that the three of them would perform in the backyard for anyone who would come and watch. Those memories were such a fond moment in Kisa’s life.

Thinking about her brother, Kisa recalled seeing his last performance at Univeil. The ending of his performance was the most memorable as his monologue declaring his undying-love to his lover had brought tears to many of the audience members’ eyes. Looking around from where she was sitting, Kisa was captivated by the power her brother had in projecting his emotions upon the audience. No wonder he alone had created a legacy at Univeil, and left a big hole ever since his graduation.

Now, over a year later, Kisa was now standing on the same stage, the exact same spot as her brother’s final monologue, in the same class as she even performed with some of his classmates.

Tsuki, wherever you are, I hope you could be proud of me for just how far I’ve come. Footsteps echoed across the stage, a tall man with dark, black hair approached the young maiden, torch in hand as he looked down upon the newcomer.

“Young woman, clean and pure. Will you still enter Havenna?”

Raising her head, Kisa was no longer herself on the stage as she now assumed the identity of her role as Chichi, a newcomer to the town of pleasure. With no hesitation in her eyes, she looked straight ahead with determination standing tall. Whatever hardship she may come across, she was ready to take it head on.

The meeting room feels suffocating, every breath drawn thick with the staleness of politics and false pleasantries. The drone of voices arguing back and forth pounds against Tsunade’s skull, making her fists tighten beneath the table until her knuckles pale. She’s pushed, she’s pleaded, she’s fought to get them to listen—Gods, how she’s tried. Her plan—her vision to place a medic on every team—could save so many lives. It could’ve saved Nawaki.

But they don’t care. They’re too wrapped up in their own power plays, stuck in their damned traditions, blind to the blood that soaks the very ground they protect.

Her heart clenches as Nawaki’s face flickers in her mind—the blood, the brokenness of his body when they brought him back. His voice, so full of life, of ambition, when he spoke of becoming Hokage, now just a memory she can't outrun. Tsunade swallows hard, fighting the tears that burn behind her eyes, refusing to let them fall here. She can still see him, hear him, and it makes her want to scream. He’s gone, and all she’s left with is the bitter emptiness that gnaws at her insides like a wound that will never heal.

Her voice had been nothing more than background noise to them. The council. The elders. They dismissed her as always. Idealistic. Impractical. They hide behind words like that, cowards shielding themselves from change. They talk of resources, of how the village has always functioned. The word makes her sick—always. How many have died because they cling to what they’ve always known? How many more will follow?

As the meeting draws to a close, her stomach twists with a heavy, familiar disappointment. The elders congratulate themselves with smug nods, patting each other on the back for their so-called wisdom. Tsunade sits frozen, her throat tight, anger and heartbreak twisting into something bitter and volatile inside her. They don’t understand. They never will.

Seventeen. Too young, they say. Too young to hold any real power, too young to see the broader picture.

Bullshit.

She’s about to stand, her defeat swallowing her whole, when a voice cuts through the room—a voice she hadn't expected.

"I agree with Tsunade's proposal." The calm, steady tone belongs to Kato Dan.

The words hang in the air like a lifeline, cutting through the suffocating indifference that has been strangling her all day. Tsunade’s heart stutters in her chest. She stares, wide-eyed, across the room. Dan stands near the back, his tall, composed figure framed by the dim light filtering through the windows. He’s relaxed but commanding, his silver hair catching the faint glow. He speaks with the quiet assurance of someone who knows loss—someone who, in that moment, understands her.

It’s fleeting, his words barely shift the course of the meeting, and the elders, in their typical fashion, brush him off as easily as they did her. But it’s something. His voice was there, offering support when no one else had. Someone listened.

The room empties out, and Tsunade sits for a moment, her mind racing, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears. Kato Dan. She’s heard the name plenty of times, in the hospital, in the halls. The nurses swoon over him, their gossip always filled with whispers of admiration. She never paid attention. Never cared for those kinds of rumors.

But now? Now, he’s the one who stood up for her, who spoke when no one else would. He listened.

Before she can stop herself, she’s on her feet, the adrenaline propelling her forward before her brain catches up. She catches a glimpse of Dan as he exits the hall, his broad shoulders disappearing around the corner. Her heart hammers in her chest, but she pushes through the doubt, her voice breaking through the otherwise empty corridor.

“Wait!” she calls, her voice sharper than she intended.

Dan stops mid-step, turning slowly to face her. For a split second, Tsunade hesitates, suddenly feeling foolish for chasing after him. But then his eyes meet hers, and there’s a softness there, a quiet understanding that draws her closer.

She slows to a stop just a few feet away, breathless, her emotions tangled in a mess she’s trying so desperately to keep contained. Up close, Dan is even more striking—tall, calm, and composed in a way that feels foreign to her right now. The sunlight catches him in just the right way, casting a soft glow that only emphasizes the steadiness in his gaze. Tsunade swallows hard, struggling to find the words.

“I—” Her voice cracks, and she curses herself for it. She forces herself to take a breath, trying again. “I just… I wanted to thank you. For what you said back there.”

He tilts his head slightly, a small, almost amused smile playing at his lips. “I meant every word,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Your plan makes sense. It’s practical, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

Her chest tightens at his words, the relief hitting her all at once. He doesn’t just agree—he understands. He gets what she’s trying to do, what she’s fighting for. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Tsunade doesn’t feel so damn alone.

Dan’s gaze lingers on her, soft yet unwavering, as if he can see right through the carefully built walls she’s constructed to protect herself. She’s suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his eyes, and she realizes she hasn’t had someone look at her like this in... she doesn’t even know how long. Like she’s more than just a voice they can easily ignore.

For a moment, the corridor seems to contract around them, quieting the world outside.

Tsunade clears her throat, looking away briefly to gather her thoughts. She hates feeling this exposed, hates that her guard slipped just from a few kind words. But something in his presence makes it hard to armor herself as she usually would. She tries to play it off, her voice sharper than intended. "Most people think it’s a waste of resources."

"Then they’re not seeing the lives that’ll be saved." His reply is immediate, resolute. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t back down.

Her chest tightens again, a feeling she recognizes but refuses to name—a strange comfort mixed with disbelief. She’s so used to being told her ideas are radical, impractical; hearing her vision affirmed so simply, so earnestly, feels almost surreal.

She lets out a shaky breath, crossing her arms in an attempt to ground herself. “Why?” she asks, her tone laced with suspicion, but it’s not directed at him. Not really. “Why would you care? None of them do.”

Dan’s expression shifts, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes—a shadow of loss, of something he’s tried to bury but can’t quite let go of. “I lost someone too,” he says quietly, the words barely above a whisper. He doesn’t elaborate, but he doesn’t need to. She recognizes the weight behind them, the invisible scars left by battles that had no victors.

The silence stretches between them, filled with an unspoken understanding that feels both raw and strangely grounding. She doesn’t know him well, hardly at all, but in this moment, Dan feels like the only one who understands what drives her.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentle, almost like he’s speaking to a younger sibling, or to someone he knows is fighting an impossible fight. “You have the right idea, Tsunade. Keep pushing. They’ll come around eventually.”

She wants to scoff, to tell him he’s being too optimistic, that the elders are stubborn beyond measure. But the look in his eyes makes her pause. She’s known her share of hard-headed men, but there’s something different about him—a strength that isn’t about force, but about conviction.

She nods, the words catching in her throat as she tries to keep her composure. “Thank you,” she says, softer this time, with a trace of sincerity that catches even her off guard.

Dan gives her a small nod, his expression softening. “You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth... you’re not alone in this.” With a last, reassuring glance, he steps away, leaving her standing in the dim corridor, his words echoing in her mind.

As his footsteps fade down the hall, Tsunade realizes that something in her has shifted. Just a fraction, just enough to make her feel a spark of hope again.

Note: Inspired by the howling wind, the foxes and avocado obsessed wizards.

Dan looked half-dead. Not in the shinobi-bled-out-on-the-battlefield way — more in the man-taken-down-by-a-cold kind of way.

He was sprawled across her couch, bundled in a blanket like it might shield him from the horrors of existence. His nose was pink, his voice rasping, and the pout he wore could’ve rivaled a sulking academy brat.

“If I don’t make it through the night,” he croaked dramatically, “tell people how charming I was.”

Tsunade didn’t even look up from her notes. “I’ll tell them how evil you were.”

He let out a pitiful groan. “A kunai to my heart, princess. Trying to end me before the cold does?”

Her lips curved — a flicker of amusement breaking through her practiced indifference. “Perhaps. Or maybe I’m simply testing your resolve. If you can’t survive a cold, how will you ever survive me?”

Dan’s laugh came soft, low — like the hush of wind through leaves. “I’ll try,” he murmured, eyes hazy with warmth and fever.

“Idiot,” she said, but the word fell gentle. She rose, crossing the distance between them, her fingertips pressing to his forehead with a healer’s instinct. Too warm. She frowned, thumb brushing against his temple. “You’ve been poisoned by your own stupidity.”

“Or by you,” he murmured, barely audible, his lips curving into that faint, familiar smile.

“Like I’d waste poison on you.” Still, her hand lingered — tracing lightly through his hair, the motion unguarded, almost tender.

Dan’s eyes drifted closed beneath her touch. “Does your cruelty know no end, princess?”

Tsunade’s answer came as a quiet breath. “Nope.”