In the center of a clandestine space, a twelve-year-old boy with spiky white hair and a face full of freckles sat cross-legged, his expression one of intense, scholarly focus.
Jiraiya of the Sannin, well, Jiraiya of the Academy, soon to be Sannin if he had anything to say about it, was engaged in his most sacred ritual.
He reached into a small, hidden compartment beneath a loose floorboard and reverently withdrew a stack of papers.
This was his collection, his library and his reason for living.
"Ah," he breathed, his voice a reverent whisper. "The latest from the 'Temptations of the Hidden Cloud' series."
He fanned through the pages, his eyes glazing over at the generously proportioned kunoichi depicted within. "Masterful. The artist truly understands the… tactical advantages of a larger… asset in the field."
He set that prized volume aside and picked up another, this one a dog-eared, well-loved copy of 'Icha Icha Tactics,' a name he'd coined himself for his private collection.
"Now, this one," he muttered, licking his thumb and turning a page carefully. "This is the pinnacle of literary achievement. The heroine's confession scene on page twelve is simply a masterpiece of emotional and physical vulnerability; sensei truly knows games."
For Jiraiya, this was his true path. The shinobi arts were just a means to an end: funding his research and providing him with real-world experience for his characters.
He dreamed of the day his name would be whispered not just with fear, but with a knowing, appreciative grin. The day he would be known as the world's greatest Mangaka, with the exception of Azula Uchiha, of course.
His dream, however, was a fragile, beautiful bubble, and it was about to be popped.
A faint, almost imperceptible thump came from his window. Jiraiya froze, his senses sharper than most gave him credit for.
He quickly stuffed his collection back under the floorboard and slid it shut just as a small, paper-wrapped package sailed through his open window and landed on his futon with a soft fwump.
Jiraiya stared at it. It was tied with a simple red string. A delivery method he recognized. This was how you got the good stuff, the stuff the vendors were too scared to sell openly.
With trembling hands, he untied the string. The paper fell away to reveal a stack of freshly bound pages.
On the cover, written in elegant, flowing calligraphy, was the title: "Serpent's Embrace." The art was incredible, far better than the usual stuff.
It showed two shinobi locked in a passionate embrace.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. This was the premium content. And from the look of it… were those two… men?
He paused. He wasn't… against it. Art was art, after all. And the linework was phenomenal. He could appreciate the craft.
He flipped to the first page, just curious.
The art was breathtaking. The characters were unmistakable. One, with long, dark hair, pale skin, and calculating golden eyes. The other, with a mane of wild white hair and a look of boisterous confidence.
His blood ran cold.
Page one: The white-haired one, who looked an awful lot like a handsome, cooler version of himself, was laughing. "Orochimaru," the speech bubble read, "your mind is as fascinating as your smile!"
Jiraiya blinked. Orochimaru? My teammate? The creepy snake guy?
Page two: Orochimaru, depicted with long, elegant lashes and a slender, almost delicate frame, blushed. "Jiraiya… you're the only one who understands my true research." He leaned in.
Page three: Their lips met.
Jiraiya's soul tried to leave his body. He slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a noise that was somewhere between a dying cat and a boiling kettle.
He couldn't stop. It was like a wagon crash. He had to see how bad it was. He flipped through the pages with increasing horror.
There was a scene where "Jiraiya" serenaded "Orochimaru" with a badly written poem under a full moon.
Another where "Orochimaru" fed "Jiraiya" a dango, gazing into his eyes with unnerving tenderness. And then… the hot springs scene.
He slammed the manga shut, his face a perfect, burning crimson, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
This was a fan comic about him and Orochimaru by someone who apparently thought they were the star-crossed lovers of the Leaf Village!
He looked at the final page, where a little note was written in the same elegant hand:
"To the beautiful mangaka at the market who always buys the 'Temptations' series. Your passion for the craft is inspiring. I hope you enjoy my humble work. Please, write more stories! The world needs to see the depth of your feeling! - A devoted fan."
Jiraiya stared at the note. The beautiful mangaka at the market. That was him.
This girl, and it had to be a girl, no guy would draw him this way, this girl had seen him buying smut and had decided he was a kindred spirit.
A fellow romantic. And her romantic fantasy was… this.
He looked back at the cover, at the two of them locked in that embrace. His teammate. The one who had once tried to use him as a test dummy for a new poison. The one whose idea of a good time was dissecting something.
A horrifying, beautiful, soul-crushing realization dawned on him. This was a market. A new market he hadn't even considered.
Other people could write stories about him.
And apparently, some of them wanted to see him locked in a torrid romance with the human equivalent of a shed snakeskin.
Suddenly, his dream of becoming the greatest Mangaka of all time felt less like a noble pursuit and more like a curse.
He imagined a future where his legacy wasn't the "Tales of Jiraya the Great," but a library full of comics where he was the blushing love interest of every weirdo in the village. "Jiraiya and the Akimichi Crush!" "Jiraiya's Forbidden Love with the Dango Shop Owner!" The horror was endless.
He heard a slow, slithering sound from outside his door. A familiar, chilling voice echoed in the hallway.
"Jiraiya… are you awake? I saw a light. We should study together. I have some new… specimens to show you."
Jiraiya shrieked. A high-pitched, truly undignified sound for a future legendary shinobi.
He grabbed the manga, his hidden collection be damned, and threw it under his futon.
Then, realizing Orochimaru might actually come in and somehow sense its presence, he snatched it back up.
He looked around the room in a blind panic. The window? No, too slow. His closet? Too obvious.
In a final, desperate act, he shoved the entire stack of papers—'Serpent's Embrace' and all—down the back of his shirt, flattening himself against the cold wall.
The door slid open. Orochimaru stood there, his golden eyes narrowed.
"Jiraiya," he hissed softly. "You're sweating."
Jiraiya forced a laugh that sounded more like a strangled gasp. "Hahaha! Orochimaru! Old buddy! Old pal! I was just… uh… doing some intense… calisthenics! Yes! Building core strength! For… for toad summoning! You need a strong core to… uh… ribbit effectively."
Orochimaru's gaze slowly traveled down Jiraiya's form, lingering on the suspicious, papery bulge at his lower back. A slow, unnerving smile spread across his lips.
"Indeed," he murmured. "You seem to have developed a rather… pronounced spinal condition. We should examine it thoroughly."
Jiraiya's freckles stood out in stark relief against his ghost-pale face. He was trapped. His dream lay in tatters at his (metaphorical) feet, and the subject of his new, unwanted fame was offering to "examine" him.
This was, without a doubt, Jiraiya's worst nightmare.
(END OF THE CHAPTER)
I will be voyaging about 500Km tomorrow with bad roads, plus I've been too busy with stuff to be done, I wasn't able to write a chapter, and most likely wouldn't be able to tomorrow, but here's an Omake I came up with in the 80 something chapter, hope you enjoyed it.
And if you had some Omake ideas, don't forget to share, don't be selfish, lol.