#character drabble

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.

On the battlefield, it was different. The air tightened when he stepped forward, silence settling like dust before a storm. Eyes went wide, grips loosened, knees buckled. He never questioned it -- weaklings collapsed, that was all. Even the strong, the kind of men who had carved their names into the sea, faltered for half a heartbeat before him.

He assumed it was will, nothing more. His was unbroken. Theirs bent.

Among the crew of the Sunny, though, it lingered softer. The power coiled in his chest but never uncoiled fully, like a blade sheathed but present. They felt it, he could tell, though none spoke of it. Usopp’s laugh sometimes caught short when Zoro’s gaze flicked his way. Chopper’s hooves shuffled when Zoro passed too close, though the little doctor never looked afraid, only unsettled - as if sensing something he could not name. Even Sanji, quick-tongued and unflinching, stilled for the barest fraction of a second when Zoro’s hand rested on a hilt. Only Robin seemed to study it without unease, her eyes curving faintly, as though she recognized the shape of something vast but chose to leave it unspoken.

And Luffy -- their Captain never reacted at all. Where others felt the weight of Zoro’s presence most keenly in battle, when steel sang and lives hung balanced on the edge of a heartbeat, the captain simply grinned. To him, it wasn’t pressure, or fear, or mystery - it was Zoro’s instinct to stand at his side, to cut down whatever threatened their path. Luffy trusted it. Trusted him. Between them, there was no need to resist, no need to name.

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.

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.

And yet, the memory clung to him like damp mist.

He lowered his gaze to his own wrist. Pale skin, almost translucent under the lamplight, revealed the map of veins beneath. Thin, blue-black cords, pulsing faithfully. Too faithfully. He pressed a fingertip along one, watching the flesh blanch then flush, watching the pulse continue, stubborn and relentless. It should have reassured him. Instead, it made bile rise in his throat. For he had seen too many of those pulses rupture, stutter, stop. He had seen men spill themselves hollow in the mud when one fragile thread snapped.

It struck him, as it always did, how laughably delicate the human body was. A cage of brittle rivers. Break one, and eternity ended in silence.

The battlefield had taught him that lesson well. Mortality was not a mystery - it was a grotesque inevitability. He had stared it down in the trenches, in the cries of comrades, in the bags that writhed before stiffening still. And when he looked at his own skin, he saw no exception. No privilege. Only the same fragile lattice waiting to betray him.

A thin smile slithered across his lips. Perhaps that was why the old stories spoke to him so. The White Snake. A symbol of rebirth, of immortality, of endless renewal. A creature that shed what was dying, discarded weakness, and began again. Not a prisoner of veins and flesh, but a spirit eternal.

He traced the line of blue on his wrist again, but this time the disgust softened into something else - anticipation. If veins were chains, he would unravel them. If flesh was brittle, he would molt it. The battlefield had shown him decay; he would answer with transformation. He would peel away humanity itself until only eternity remained.

Peeta Mellark | Homecoming

ㅤㅤㅤPeeta's  not  too  proud  to  admit  that  he  sulked  for  nearly  a  week  after  they  returned  home  to  District  12,  following  the  events  of  the  Games. 

ㅤㅤㅤThe  district  gives  him  a  house  in  the  Victor's  Village  that  has  never  even  been  lived  in.  It's  huge  in  comparison  to  the  tiny  back  bedroom  he'd  shared  with  his  middle  brother  in  their  home  above  the  bakery.  And  it's  made  larger  and  more  foreign  by  the  feeling  that  he  hasn't  even earned it.  That  he  shouldn't  even  be  here,  alive,  in  a  world  where  people  fetishize  his  feelings  for  someone  who  has  to pretend to  love  him  back. 

ㅤㅤㅤ…  So,  yeah.  He's  a  little  bitter.

ㅤㅤㅤAnd  unlike  Katniss's  sister  and  mother,  none  of  Peeta's  family  show  much  interest  in  joining  him  in  his  house  at  Victor's  Village.  They  come  to  visit  him  (because  it  would  seem  strange  if  they  didn't),  and  his  brothers  are  complimentary  of  his  winnings  if  not  of  his  performance  in  the  Games  themselves.  There's  some  ribbing  about  how  much  he  needed  to  be saved  by  Katniss,  and  Peeta  --  already  well-versed  in  being the  youngest --  doesn't  even  try  to  defend  himself.  What's  there  to  defend,  anyway?  Katniss  saved  his  life  multiple  times  over.  Everyone  in  all  of  Panem  knows  about  how  she  nearly  got  herself killed  trying  to  keep  him  alive…. 

ㅤㅤㅤ(And  for  what?  She  still  doesn't  love  you.)

ㅤㅤㅤHis  parents  are…  stiff.  Granted,  the  Mellark  household  has  never  overflowed  with  familial  warmth,  but  Peeta  knows  that  his  parents  care  for  him  in  their  own  way.  His  father's  even  more  quiet  than  his  norm,  something  awkward  and  detached  about  the  way  he  stands  in  the  receiving  room  of  the  opulent  Victor's  house.  The  kitchen  here  is  probably  modest  by  Capitol  standards,  but  it  far  outshines  anything  in  District  12,  even  the  bakery's  reasonably-stocked  galley.  Peeta  had  thought…  maybe…  his  dad  would  want  to  see  it? 

ㅤㅤㅤBut  for  all  that  he  was  born  in  town,  Otho  Mellark's  never  shown  any  particular  interested  in  what  few  small  luxuries  could  be  afforded  by  the  merchant  class,  and  he  seems  utterly  uninterested  in  his  Victor  son's  sudden  affluence. 

ㅤㅤㅤPeeta  isn't  sure  if  he's  disappointed  or relieved by  that. 

ㅤㅤㅤHis  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  is  almost  outright hostile.  She's  never  had  much  tolerance  for  him,  even  when  he  was  a  child.  Perhaps  giving  birth  to  two  boys  before  Peeta  had  exhausted  whatever  patience  she  was  born  with,  leaving  her  perpetually  exasperated  by  all  of  the  youngest  Mellark's  missteps.  But  surely  she  can  at  least  be  happy  at  his  return,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  it  means  she'll  reap  the  financial  benefits  of  his  victory?  Instead,  Peeta's  mother  seems  angry  at  him  for  his  win.  For  daring  to  survive  when  she  clearly  didn't  expect  him  to.  For  having  so  much  of  that  survival  tied  up  with  Katniss  Everdee--

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤOh.  Oh no. 

ㅤㅤㅤUntil  recently,  Peeta  had  forgotten  much  of  what  he  and  Katniss  talked  about  while  hiding  out  in  that  arena  cave.  Well…  not forgotten,  really  (there  were  some  pretty  memorable  moments),  but  his  recollection  of  it  was  partially  obscured  by  a  haze  of  fever  and  pain  and  hunger.  And  Peeta  tries  not  to  think  too  much  about  some  of  the  more  vulnerable  things  he'd  said  because  now  it  feels  so foolish,  makes  his  throat  close  up  with  embarrassment. 

ㅤㅤㅤBut  he  does  remember,  with  ill-timed  clarity,  how  he'd  revealed  his  earliest  memory  of  Katniss,  and  in  the  process  betrayed  his  father's  secret  about  her  mom.  How  they  both  had  lost  their  hearts  to  women  who  would  never  love  them.  And  how  all  of  Panem  had  most certainly  been  watching  when  he'd  admitted  to  it. 

ㅤㅤㅤIncluding  his  Mother… 

ㅤㅤㅤPeeta  always  had  a  feeling  that  someone  reaped  couldn't  come  home  from  the  Hunger  Games  and  just  pick  up  where  they'd  left  off.  Everything  about  the  experience,  about surviving, is  designed  to  change  a  person  irrevocably.  To  make  them  no  longer  fit  into  the  life  they'd  had  before.  Like  a  puzzle  piece  warped  by  inclement  weather,  forever  unable  to  complete  the  picture  it  had  once  been  a  seamless  part  of.  Haymitch  couldn't  have  always  been  the  slovenly,  self-destructive  drunkard  he  is  today.  He  couldn't  have  always  been  as alone  as  he  is  now…

ㅤㅤㅤBut  standing  at  the  window  of  his  bedroom  in  this  cavernous, empty  house,  Peeta  thinks  of  the  echoing  emptiness  of  Victor's  Village.  He  thinks  of  his  father's  silence  and  his  mother's  anger.  He  thinks  of  the  Katniss  shaped hole  that  sits  at  the  edge  of  his  vision,  day  in  and  day  out. 

<3333

I'm just warning you, I fucking suck at writing drabbles n stuff lol but i try!!

Gender neutral reader <3 I don't do gender specified unless asked. I also hope I got his character/personality correct mfklew

“Ugh- Jun! I can't fucking do it!” You groan and throw the training rifle to the side. He chuckles behind you “Yes you can, you're too tense, again.” You could hear the smirk in Jun’s voice as he gave you encouragement, clearly finding your frustration amusing. He had brought you into the shooting range because according to him “you are a horrible aim” specifically with a sniper rifle, his choice of weapon. And now here you are, 50 minutes and 8 attempts later, questioning your sanity. “Here let me...” He grabs the rifle and places it in your hands again. As you get into position, he slightly hovers over you and moves your hand down the handguard. Jun pushes the small of your back down gently “Relax.”

You suck in a breath, you hate it when Jun whispers like that, his voice dripping with honey. At the sound of his voice, you relax. “Just like that dear. Now shoot.” You pull the trigger.

Bullseye!

Mirha-centric

[TW: heavily implied child abuse]