Hi! Could you pretty please write little something with Jiraiya? Maybe him meeting younger!reader who is also a erotica author but to his surprise it turns out that she's a virgin and he decides to change it and give her real material for her new book.
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The bar’s warm lantern light flickered across weathered wooden beams, casting golden halos through the haze of pipe smoke and the sharp, earthy tang of spilled sake. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of grilled fish, aged wood, and faint sweat from travelers unwinding after long roads. You sat tucked in a shadowed corner booth, your notebook open on the scarred table, pen tapping restlessly. The pages were filled with half-formed scenes—flowery descriptions of passion that felt hollow, borrowed from imagination rather than flesh. At twenty-three, you’d mastered the craft of writing raw desire you’d never tasted. Virgin. The secret sat like an untouched page in your mind.
A deep, booming laugh rolled through the room like distant thunder, rich and unfiltered. Your head snapped up.
Jiraiya. The legendary Sannin lounged at the bar, his broad, powerful shoulders straining the fabric of his travel-worn coat, wild white hair tied back messily beneath that red headband. Even at rest, he radiated heat and vitality—the solid bulk of a man who’d survived wars and countless “research” expeditions. His dark eyes, sharp beneath heavy brows, scanned the room lazily before locking onto yours. A spark of recognition, then amusement, curved his lips into that trademark grin.
He tilted his sake cup in your direction, then rose with surprising grace and sauntered over, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The scent of him hit you first—warm skin, faint ozone from jutsu practice, and a deep, masculine musk that made your stomach flutter.
“Evening, little lotus,” he rumbled, voice like warm gravel laced with sake, sliding into the seat across from you without invitation. His knee brushed yours under the table, a deliberate press of firm muscle. “Ink on your fingers, fire in those pretty eyes. Fellow wordsmith, aren’t you?”
Heat flooded your cheeks, spreading down your neck. Conversation ignited like dry tinder. Sake flowed—sweet, burning warmth sliding down your throat as you talked rhythm, tension, the delicious drag of anticipation on the page. His laughter vibrated through the wooden table, low and infectious, while his gaze lingered on the curve of your lips, the rise and fall of your breasts beneath your simple top. His knee pressed more firmly against yours, the heat of his leg seeping through fabric. Hours blurred in a haze of shared stories, filthy innuendo, and building electricity. When he offered to walk you “safely” back to your inn, the air between you crackled.
The moment the rickety wooden door to your modest room clicked shut, Jiraiya had you pinned against it. The cool, rough grain of the wood pressed into your back as one large, calloused hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up. His mouth claimed yours—hot, demanding, tasting of sake and pure masculine hunger. His tongue swept in, velvet-rough, coaxing yours into a heated dance while his other hand braced beside your head, caging you in with solid muscle and the faint scratch of his coat against your chest. You whimpered into the kiss, the low groan that rumbled from his chest vibrating straight through you.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting on yours, his breath warm and ragged against your lips. “Been wanting to taste you since I saw you scribbling away like the world might end.”
Your fingers trembled as they clutched at his coat. When his hand slid down, tugging at the hem of your shirt, reality crashed in.
“Jiraiya… wait.” Your voice was a shaky whisper, cheeks burning. “I need to tell you—I’ve never done this. Any of it. I write every filthy detail, but I’m… still a virgin.”
Silence stretched for a heartbeat, broken only by the distant murmur of the bar below and the heavy thud of your heart. Surprise widened his eyes, then melted into something darker, hungrier. A slow, predatory smile curved his lips as his thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip, eyes gleaming in the low lantern light.
“A virgin erotica author?” His voice dropped to a rough purr. “All those dripping-wet words pouring out of you, and no one’s ever shown you how they feel? Fuck, sweetheart… that’s poetic justice. Consider me your personal research assistant tonight. I’m gonna ruin this sweet little virgin cunt so thoroughly you’ll have material for a dozen books. Hands-on. Slow. Every slick, gasping detail.”
He kissed you again, slower, savoring—deep and languid, his stubble rasping deliciously against your softer skin. Then he peeled your clothes away like unwrapping something precious. The cool night air kissed your heated flesh as your shirt whispered to the floor, followed by your pants. Calloused fingertips skimmed your sides, raising goosebumps in their wake, tracing the dip of your waist and the flare of your hips. He drank in the sight of you in just your underwear, growling low in his throat, the sound sending a fresh rush of wetness between your thighs.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, the word hot against your skin as he dropped to his knees with surprising grace. He hooked one of your legs over his broad shoulder, the coarse fabric of his coat brushing your calf. Open-mouthed kisses trailed up your inner thigh, his hot breath ghosting over your core through damp fabric. The scent of your own arousal mixed with his musk filled the small room. He dragged your panties down slowly, then buried his face between your legs.
The first broad, wet stroke of his tongue over your clit ripped a sharp cry from your throat. Jiraiya devoured you—messy, enthusiastic, utterly shameless. His tongue licked broad stripes, then flicked with precise pressure, sucking your swollen nub between his lips while two thick fingers circled your entrance. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the room alongside your broken whimpers. He pushed those fingers inside, stretching you with a delicious burn, curling them to stroke that hidden spot that made your vision spark white. “So sweet… tight little pussy tasting like heaven,” he groaned against you, the vibration shooting pleasure straight up your spine. Your hands fisted in his wild white hair, hips rocking desperately as the coil in your belly tightened unbearably. You came hard, thighs clamping around his head, a gush of wetness coating his chin and tongue as stars burst behind your eyes.
He rose, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, eyes feral in the dim light. Clothes shed in a rush—revealing battle-hardened muscle: powerful chest dusted with hair, ridged abs, and a thick, heavy cock that made your mouth go dry. Long and girthy, veined, the flushed head already slick with pre-cum. The musky scent of him intensified. He stroked himself lazily, the wet sound of skin on skin making you clench.
“Like what you see?” His smirk was pure sin. “Don’t worry. We’ll fit perfectly.”
He lifted you effortlessly, the heat of his bare skin searing against yours, and laid you on the futon. The mattress dipped under his weight as he crawled over you. He lavished attention on your breasts—sucking one nipple deep into the wet heat of his mouth, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to sting sweetly while his fingers pinched and rolled the other. The dual sensation sent jolts straight to your core. His free hand returned between your legs, scissoring gently, spreading your slickness as he prepared you.
When he finally positioned himself, the blunt, silky head of his cock nudged your soaked folds. He pushed in inch by torturous inch, groaning deeply at the vise-like grip. “Shit… so hot. So fucking tight. Taking every thick inch like you were made for me.” A sharp sting bloomed as he stretched you; he stilled instantly, murmuring soothing praises against your neck, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubbed slow, slick circles on your clit. The burn melted into overwhelming, throbbing fullness as he bottomed out, hips flush, heavy balls pressed against you. The room filled with the sound of your mingled panting and the faint creak of the futon.
“Move,” you whispered, voice wrecked.
He did—deep, rolling thrusts that dragged deliciously against every sensitive nerve. The wet slap of skin on skin, the slick glide of his cock inside you, the heat of his body blanketing yours—it was overwhelming. Sweat slicked your skin where you pressed together. Jiraiya’s pace built, powerful yet controlled, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks while the other braced beside your head. His eyes, dark and intense, never left yours.
“Look at me when you come,” he commanded, voice strained with effort. He angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot relentlessly. Your second orgasm crashed through you harder, walls fluttering and clenching rhythmically around his thick length, a gush of fresh slick coating him as you cried out.
“Fuck—yes, milk me just like that,” he growled. His rhythm faltered as he chased his release, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural moan. Hot, pulsing jets of cum spilled deep inside you, filling you with liquid warmth as his hips stuttered through the aftershocks.
He stayed buried deep as he rolled, pulling you onto his broad chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat filled your ear, his big hands stroking soothing circles over your sweat-damp back, your ass, your hair. His softening cock still twitched inside you, a warm, comforting fullness. The room smelled of sex—musk, sweat, and spent arousal.
“Chapter one complete,” he chuckled breathlessly, pressing a lingering kiss to your damp forehead, his stubble scratching pleasantly. “How’s that for sensory research, little author?”
You smiled against his heated skin, already aching for more, mind swirling with vivid new paragraphs. “Incredible… but my next scene needs much more detail.”
Jiraiya’s cock twitched back to life inside you. His grin turned wicked in the lantern glow. “Greedy girl. Good. Round two starts now.”
Synopsis: A traveling shinobi arrives at your roadside teahouse, as war stirs on the borders of Fire Country.
One night of passion, a lifetime of chance meetings, and Jiraiya reveals to you, piece by piece, the true faces of love, freedom, pain and loss, and the hope that burns bright in spite of it all. [Jiraiya x Fem Reader]
CW: Explicit sexual content, canon-typical violence, implied character death.
WC: 8966
Banner art by Ikenaga Yasunari
A gift fic for the beautiful, talented @valleyofwater ! Here's to the roving Toad Sage who lives eternally in your heart ❤❤
The first time you laid eyes on him, the broad brim of his hat caught the dying light of the afternoon, scarlet and gold wound through the pale swathe of his hair.
He had arrived along the gentle upward rise from the river below, and when you turned to welcome him, the air seemed to still around the teahouse, caught between the brushstrokes of the chestnut trees.
You'd never seen him before in these parts, that was certain.
If you had, you'd have remembered him.
Tall, broad shouldered, a shinobi-issue mesh shirt visible beneath the sweeping lines of his dark haori, he cut a distinctive figure.
White hair, swaying across one shoulder, thick and bristly as some woodland creature, and two short red lines beneath each eye, completed the ensemble.
You stepped forward to offer him a greeting, raising an eyebrow as he came to a dramatic stop, one palm outward as if to ward you off, a classic kabuki pose.
"A young maiden, in the prime of her beauty. What rare sight greets me on my travels?"
Ah.
He was one of those.
A pity.
You'd found him intriguing to begin with.
Bowing politely, you greeted him.
"Welcome traveler. Would you like to see our meal sets? We also have rooms available."
"The name is Jiraiya! Well, well, most business-like is she. What an enchanting - "
"We have seasonal hot pot, tempura, grilled fish with miso soup and dango."
"My, how her voice resounds with the natural charm of these soft bowers - "
"The room will cost you extra, of course, with an additional charge if you intend to stay for breakfast."
To his credit, he remained undeterred, sweeping off his hat with a gallant air and stepping forward onto the deck.
"I'll take the room. Perhaps, if I'm lucky enough, you'd join me for tea?"
In response to your unimpressed glance, he hastily clarified.
"I'm only after some pleasant company. Conversation. Nothing more."
The corner of your mouth lifted slightly.
"All right. It isn't very busy right now, and I could use a small break."
"Excellent!"
His wide, beaming smile seemed playful, especially on an otherwise imposing figure.
You wondered about your initial impression of him. After all, shinobi were notoriously good at disguising their true natures.
Judging from the Konoha engraving on his hitai-ate, you'd receive no trouble from him.
The teahouse you'd inherited from your parents lay close to the border between Fire Country and Rain Country, and traders and travelers passed this way often enough to generate a steady income.
Jiraiya was shown to one of the more comfortable rooms with its own kotatsu, maintained in these colder months.
It was always more chilly near Rain Country, some persistent dampness always pervading the air, apart from the summers.
Having received his meal and the accompanying tea, he didn't ask you to join him again, but eyed the empty seat opposite him with such a hopeful demeanour, that you couldn't help but relent.
"So, you're finally joining me?"
"No pressing duties at present, so I don't see why not."
You reached for the pot to pour him a cup, but his hand was already covering yours, warm, roughened, steady in its gentle prying of your fingers away from warm clay.
"Allow me."
He was courteous, you'd give him that.
Leaning back, you considered him, that wild sweep of hair, the strong features beneath tempered by good humored charm, his skin darkened by sun and the gleam of his eyes, diamonds that had not been polished and were all the richer for it.
"So what brings you to these parts, traveler?"
"Please, call me Jiraiya. As to that ... many things. I'm on my way back to Konoha."
"I've heard news from Rain Country. Should I be worried?"
He sipped his tea with relish before answering.
"I think you already know the answer to that. Have any plans to relocate?"
Your gaze traveled to the window beside which the table was situated.
Out there, beyond mist and the purest of sunrises, beyond reaching boughs and the sweet scent of spruce and plum, there was war, and ill tidings.
You'd known for a while now that things could not stay as they were. The shift of shinobi politics never ground to a halt for the small folk who made a living off the land.
You had relatives in Konoha who you could find safe refuge with, but what would you come back to when it was all done?
Would your solitary teahouse stand sentinel by the road, just as it always had, or would you return to smouldering ashes amidst the burned out husks of orchards, the river fouled and the pathways littered with the victims of violence?
When you turned back, Jiraiya was watching you, those keen eyes missing nothing.
"So? Any safe place to go?"
"Konoha, I suppose."
He clapped his hands, the sound of it ringing through the teahouse with finality, even as he beamed across at you.
"What do you say to making the journey with me? I can wait until you're packed and ready."
Laughing, you shook your head.
"This place is my life. I can't just ... close shop and be done with."
"I know."
His voice had dropped an octave, and suddenly you were faced with the man who, in all probability, had been traversing the darker edge of the world with far greater familiarity than you ever had.
"If you've seen what I've seen ... this place might seem like a dream waiting at the end of a long nightmare. I came up the hill, and there it was, between the trees. A small gem in the countryside."
He gestured around, at the cosy space.
"You've kept it well."
"It belonged to my parents."
"And I guarantee that your life is more precious to them. All things can be rebuilt."
You took a long sip of your tea, eyeing him over the rim of your cup.
"I know that."
"Knowing isn't always enough."
Outside, the swallows began to trill, swooping low as they returned to their nests.
You stood, abruptly, your smile almost a challenge.
"Would you like some sake?"
"Oho. So you've been holding out on me?"
"It's only for valued guests. Not sure who that might be now. So, I might as well bring it out, right?"
His expression had shifted to amusement once more, and he raised his chin in cheerful aquiescence.
"No better time, I suppose. I'll never say no to good sake."
As you headed into the storage room, humming lightly, your heart hammered in your chest.
For all of this time, you'd been entertaining the pleasant idea that the danger was still far off, that you'd probably be safe as long as you kept to the familiarity of these hills and watched the roads for new messages.
You'd seen it in his face, though, the clear warning that lay beneath hardy cheer. Jiraiya was no ordinary shinobi, and his advice was not lightly given.
The thought of such imminent change sparked a certain recklessness within you, one you might regret, but didn't care to acknowledge.
What was life without risk?
The sake in hand, you made your way back to the main room.
______________________________
The evening passed in pleasant company.
You both paced yourselves well when it came to drink, savoring the earthy flavour and dry aftertaste, as if autumn itself had poured with rich, molten ease into the bottle before you.
There was talk of many things, steered carefully away from war and all its trappings, treading light footed through the territory of favourite pastimes, the best seasonal foods, Jiraiya's foray into writing a book and your own love of art and calligraphy.
Old flames, shinobi training, team missions, hearts once crushed by rejection, the village between the leaves and its wide, busy streets, all passed through your little teahouse through the vivid pictures drawn by Jiraiya's hands in the air.
Night closed in, bringing with it the comfortable silences that drew themselves like many golden threads through the floorboards, through the shutters, past the lit lamps and the weighted warmth of the blanket draped over your lap.
You were laughing at something he'd said, leaning forward over the table, and in a single moment, his eyes dropped to your bared shoulder, then back up to your face.
The naked desire you'd expected to see there was not quite present.
He looked at you with tenderness, as if you were the shining heart of the small refuge he'd found, as if the exposure of your skin was as natural as the slow shift of the trees in the wind outside.
Warmth rose unbidden in your throat, and his eyes follow the burning line of its path.
When he rose and offered you his hand, there was no awkwardness or obligation.
It was simple, so simple, as you met his gaze squarely and nodded.
Perhaps it was the threat of change looming over your life, the easing of its edge with the sake, the remnants of safety between these walls that you treasured so much, spent as you desired, that drove you to follow him back to his room.
He let go of your hand before the door, glancing playfully over his shoulder at you.
One last concession, one last chance to step away and go about your night.
You crossed the threshold, and suddenly, you were aware of how tall he was, the heat that radiated from him, the intimate wash of his breath over your skin, the way the light illuminated the stark red stripes beneath each eye.
On impulse, you reached up and touched one of them, dragging the pad of your finger gently down to the corner of his mouth.
He caught your finger between his teeth, lightly, still with that edge of teasing humour, but the shudder that passed through you echoed the brief darkening of his gaze.
Now, you were more than stranger and traveler, or host and guest, beyond even the soft twine of friendship birthed over drinks and conversation.
Man and woman, wrapped in the flickering glow of the lantern, your shadows cast high and wild over the walls.
The thought drove you closer, watching as he leaned down towards you, fitting his lips to yours as if they'd never known another place to be.
You'd expected this encounter to be fraught with some kind of tension, the awkwardness of intimacy with someone you hardly knew, shot through with the heady excitement of the unknown.
It wasn't quite like that.
Jiraiya's hands in your hair, his soft-throated whispers of encouragement, the open-mouthed heat of him on your neck, the slow span of his hands along your hips, waist, up, up, to the curve of your breasts, the way he slid your garments from your shoulders, and his small, almost boyish laugh of delight at the sight of you, all amalgamated to something far more intimate than it should have been.
It felt as if you were lovers, with none of the weight of expectation, or the burden of iron-clad vows.
There was tonight, and there was him, and you, and your knees were giving way under those calloused palms that caught slightly on your nipples, the way he pressed you close so that you could feel the swelling firmness beneath his trousers.
Your hands slid over his shoulders, ridding him in turn, of clothes no longer required.
The soft thump of garments hitting the floor was lost amidst the sound of your faint gasp as his arms came fully around you, hoisting slightly.
The disparity in height was all the more evident now, and you could tell that he was enjoying it, the sight of you lifted and held against him, lips slightly parted as your arousal made itself known.
Jiraiya left you no quarter to catch your breath, swooping down with you to the futon spread out below, his laughter bright and sly in your ear as you uttered a short shriek, pummeling at his arm.
"Watch out!"
"Don't trust my shinobi reflexes?"
You weren't given much chance to answer as your sharp reply was cut short by his mouth lowering over yours again, and this time, he was thorough, taking his time, tasting every inch of you.
You did have all night, after all.
Throughout it all, he never rushed you, watching your reactions as he explored you to his heart's content.
He took note of the way your back arched when his fingers grazed your inner thighs, finding the sensitive heat between.
Eyes glazed over, he stroked, circled, penetrated you with his fingers until your fingernails dug hard into his shoulders, shuddering in the fitful throes of your first orgasm.
You were not to be outdone, exploring him in turn, mapping out with delicate touch the firm, solid lines of his powerful frame, eliciting groans and more soft words of gentle, explicit encouragement.
His thighs parted, hard planes and the wiry bristle of the thatch at the apex scratching delectably at your cheek as you pressed kisses there, a secret curve of the lips as he jerked and growled.
Even as enthralled with each other as you were, there was no element of rushed urgency, no time limit beyond that which you gave to each other, passing slowly through a haze of skin, sweat, the slow turn of naked bodies within a room that misted over with the intensity of what occurred within it.
When he entered you, a slow, heated parting of your flesh under a greater force, one that didn't revel in its own firm sheathing, but melded to your own will, you felt all the air in your lungs leave in a rush.
A pause of utmost stillness, your heartbeat in your ears, every nerve on highest alert, and then you were uttering drawn out gasps, clutching onto him like a sailor would the last rock before the rip tide claimed them.
He was, indeed, like the sea, every swell and beat of his body against yours a homage to the timeless and ceaseless dance of nature.
Chipping away at your control, at your hold over sanity in the face of pleasure, at whatever composure you still possessed, Jiraiya took you until there was truly nothing left to give.
There were times, when you came back to yourself, your eyes flickering open to behold the ceiling, the rumpled sheets beneath you, the crooked angle of the futon from the way you'd both moved it across the floor, when you'd pause and take stock of what was happening.
You'd expected excitement, enjoyment, a night of free-spirited joining, but nothing had ever prepared you for this.
It wasn't as if you were some naive youngster, ready to surrender her heart to the man who'd worshipped her body, and in doing so, conquered her favour.
It was more a dawning realisation that perhaps, you'd never experienced a lover like this before, and that physical bonds that generated a certain unmatchable alchemy held their own weight.
For now, you lost yourself in him, and he in you.
Here there was no war, a suspension of time beyond the hidden forest of boughs, your limbs and his, casting secret shadows on the walls.
Some secrets were never meant to see sunlight.
________________________________
The next time you saw him, it was six months later.
After that night, he'd left early, and you'd arisen to find a pot gently simmering on the stove, awaiting your awakening.
The kitchen was neat, the dishes washed, a sign of consideration, or perhaps, a simple facet of shinobi training.
Leave no traces.
There was the pot of rice porridge, though, hot and well-seasoned. There was also residual soreness in your muscles, unused to the kind of exertions he'd put you through the previous night.
As you'd packed the necessities for your now imminent trip to Konoha to escape the encroaching war, there was less heaviness or melancholy than you'd anticipated.
He'd changed things, undeniably so.
And thus it was, all these months later, as you wiped off the surface of the last table before closing time, the chatter and bustle of the streets filtering down as evening approached outside your new place of residence in Konoha, you found yourself almost unsurprised when you spotted his tall figure approaching down the side road that branched off from one of the main thoroughfares.
Your relatives were also in the hospitality trade, and you'd found stable employment, assisting them with the running and the finances of their small restaurant.
He paused on the steps below, examining you with a fond look, one that could only be bred by familiarity, however brief.
Throwing down the towel in your grasp, you offered a half smile in return.
"Would you like to see the menu?"
"So proper is she. Lost none of your touch, I see."
He was wearing the armour befitting a Konoha shonobi on the frontlines this time around, and you noted a new weariness to his posture, the exhaustion evident in the shadows beneath his eyes.
Jiraiya had the face of one perpetually in a state of mental youth, warm, carefree, lines of humour extending themselves into the furrows of his cheek and brow, so seeing him like this was sobering indeed.
Of course, you'd learned more about him since you'd arrived here.
It was common knowledge, among the citizens of Konoha, that he was one of the famed students of Sarutobi Hiruzen, the other two being Tsunade and Orochimaru.
When you'd first heard of this, you couldn't help feel rather disconcerted, as if you'd stepped into a world far larger than anything you could have anticipated. That notion was quickly banished by the harsh reality; war knew no ranks.
The powerful and the ordinary shed blood alike.
You owed him your thanks for giving you fair warning.
Among other things.
Waving your hand at a table receiving the comforting rays of the setting sun, you gave a small welcoming gesture.
"Supper is on me."
"You're too kind."
You knew, somehow, that there would be money left in excess of what the meal cost, either way.
The restaurant was empty save for one other table at this time, the lunch rush long over.
As you poured him a drink, you examined him carefully.
"You look tired."
"Do I?"
His tone was light, but beneath there was some raw quality that could not be concealed. You couldn't imagine the things he'd seen and done, the choices he'd had to make.
"Here, let me pour for you."
This time, he let you, eyes wandering over your fingers, wrists, the curve of your arm.
You wondered if he remembered that night as vividly as you did.
"I see you've found a place here."
"It's temporary. I'm hoping there's enough left of the old place to go back to."
You made to lower the sake bottle, but his grasp enclosed your wrist, holding you gently and firmly within his view.
"It's not safe yet. There are things back there, things that are - "
He cut off, and you knew, instantly, that he didn't want to cast the net that far, drawing shadowy horrors so close within the small, warmly lit space you shared on the terrace.
"I know," you reassured him, relaxing into his touch. "I won't make rash decisions."
"And yet, you took a wandering shinobi at his word."
This time, you raised your eyes to his, as earnestly as he had, all those months ago.
"And I'd take your word again, and again."
He laughed, and you wanted to touch him back, run your fingers over the bristly hair, the brow that should possess less furrows, trace across the lips that should not allow such a hollow sound to escape their bounds.
"Aren't you too trusting?" he queried.
"No. I wouldn't have lasted long in this business if I had been. I trust you, Jiraiya."
You deliberately omitted any title, as he must by now know you'd come across his relative fame in the shinobi world.
Your trust had nothing to do with that.
It seemed he understood your meaning, as his hand slowly slid from your wrist, the residual, roughened heat of it more familiar than it had any right to be.
Taking the opportunity, you went to fetch him a tray of the heartiest meal set on offer, bearing it back to the table.
In that time, it seemed he'd regained some of his composure, and eyed the loaded dishes with amusement.
"You didn't have to go that far."
"I told you, it's on me."
You watched him eat with chin on palm, gaze wandering at intervals to the soft light of the lanterns, the gentle movement of the trees, different from the ones back at the roadside teahouse.
Konoha may have been the shinobi centre of Fire Country, but it was somehow tamer than the routes criss-crossing the countryside.
Out there, far from shinobi influence, there was more risk, the safety of these walls almost a fallacy for the impressions of impregnability they gave.
And yet ...
You weren't foolish enough to play fast and loose with your own life, but you hoped there was something left to rebuild, or by some miracle, the teahouse remained untouched, as pristine as you'd left it.
War, like the ebb and flow of this evening's conversation, must also come to an end.
When it did come time for him to leave, there was something different about his posture, not quite so burdened. It made your heart lighter to see it.
He reached into his coat and removed a small notebook, filled with many scribblings and childish sketches.
Jiraiya didn't possess your own steady artist's hand, apparently.
Raising an eyebrow, you took the offered book.
"And this is?"
"My newest venture. Always wanted to try my hand at penning something, and I suppose I've finally gone and done it."
Fascinated, you turned the pages, a small drop of something like sunshine reverberating, spreading through your chest as you beheld the tale of the young shinobi fighting against impossible odds.
"The Tale of the Utterly Gutsy Shinobi," you read from the margin of one page.
He'd obviously spent much thought on the title, judging from the number of crossed out attempts that had littered the previous pages.
"A work in progress. Inspired by some ... things I've seen on the road."
His voice lowered as he watched you handle the book with care, stroking gentle fingers over the cover.
"And things I hope to see, in the future."
"Times like these make us hope for many things, Jiraiya."
When you passed the book back to him, he took it with a kind of reverence, as if by turning the pages of this little dream, you'd made it all the more precious.
____________________________________
Time passed.
The war came to an uneasy standstill, pockets of unrest being doused like many small fires by Konoha strike teams.
Jiraiya was seldom seen within Konoha, his duties excluding him from constant visibility on the home front.
Once again, the sannin, as he was now known, the wandering Toad Summoner, had long passed through the imposing gates and beyond the reckoning of most who weren't privy to the secret dealings of Konoha.
Three years had come and gone, and you certainly hadn't wasted them.
Working for your family had allowed you to stow away a tidy amount, enough to ensure you'd be able to commission some repairs if necessary once you headed back.
You'd entertained the idea of staying more than once, though.
Konoha had an appeal of its own, the wide, bright and safe streets, the security of shinobi presence, the proximity to the hub of all commerce and information.
It could be addictive, in its own way.
A lover or two had come and gone, each parting on cordial terms.
It wasn't that you were waiting for Jiraiya, or expecting anything at all from him. As much fondness as you had for him, and all that he represented to you, naivety was never on the cards in your intermittent association with him.
Occasionally, you'd hoped that he'd drop by again, or thought about him briefly as you listened to the sounds of breathing beside you in a temporarily shared bed, and smile to yourself in secret.
Wherever he was, you simply hoped that his company was as pleasant as yours, and that he'd have no end of people to care for and assist him on his travels.
Yet, your heart still called for your old life, the one you'd always felt so much more at ease with, the only place you'd ever truly call home.
You set a deadline for yourself, one you adhered to strictly.
Soon, that time arrived, and with an escort you'd paid good money for, you headed back to your old haunt on the riverbanks between Rain and Fire Country.
Much had changed, that was evident, but to your delight, the teahouse remained standing, the old post beside the front verandah a little more chipped and worn than when you'd left it.
The garden was overgrown and unruly, the small stone water feature long since run dry, and clogged with dead leaves.
The inside had been ransacked, as you'd half expected.
Traveling shinobi parties often went through abandoned buildings in search of ready supplies or shelter.
None of your old stores remained, but that was more than enough to work with.
You could clean, you could repair, you could scrub, purchase, restock and make this place as good as new.
During all of this, your mind was fully occupied with the stresses and minutiae of starting over, and Jiraiya barely crossed the threshold of your thoughts.
That was soon to change.
___________________________________
Approximately five months after you'd re-settled and opened for business once more, he arrived in the dead of night.
Since the war, Konoha shinobi had been posted with increasing regularity along the main roads, and one such outpost was comfortingly close to where you were situated.
The loud banging at the front door shocked you out of sleep, bringing you to the entrance where a shinobi in the regular combat fatigues regarded you with a panicked expression, the arm of the man he was half-carrying draped over one of his shoulders.
"He needs help, quick!"
It took you a single moment to identify the badly injured shinobi as Jiraiya. You'd recognise that wild, white mane anywhere.
In another moment, the seriousness of his injuries broke past the temporary stupor the sight of him had placed you in.
"Get him inside. There, by the stove. Do you have a medic kit?"
The shonobi nodded, following your instructions to move Jiraiya with as much care as haste allowed.
"Got it. In my pack here. Just need boiling water, some clean cloths, a bucket."
Rushing through to gather the materials he'd requested, you cut off the rising tide of fear and anxiety that threatened to rob your hands of the steadiness they required.
Jiraiya needed you, and that was all there was to it.
Over the next few hours, you paid careful attention to the treatment of the many gouges and deep lacerations that littered his form, some with clear burn marks around the edges.
His breathing was heavy, remnants of some toxin present based on the dark tracery of dying blood vessels surrounding some of the worst marks on his flesh.
These were no ordinary wounds, even you could see that.
Some shinobi jutsu was responsible, and a powerful one at that, if the battle had taken such a great toll on someone as skilled as Jiraiya.
Diverting your thoughts once again to assisting the medic shonobi who worked tirelessly to save him, you were struck by the strange coincidence of it all.
He'd been this badly injured, but somehow, he'd landed here, in the middle of nowhere, at your teahouse.
As poison was drawn and torn skin knitted back together, you couldn't help but marvel at the skill of the medic shinobi.
As Jiraiya's breathing slowly eased, and the violent shades of his wounds faded to the reddened soreness of regular healing, you rose to prepare refreshment and a futon for the medic.
Soon, he leaned back on his haunches, shirt drenched with sweat, hands trembling with the exertion of excess chakra use.
"He'll survive. I've done ... everything I can."
"I know," you answered simply, placing a cup and large pitcher of water before him.
He drank greedily and deep, and you studied him, noting how young he seemed.
Probably passed the chuunin exams just a short while before.
Even though he'd seemed rattled by the state of Jiraiya at the outset, he'd certainly rallied himself to treat him effectively.
"I've left some food out for you. Help yourself. There's also hot water if you need to bathe. I'll watch over him, so get some rest."
Nodding heavily, he rose, stretching out stiff limbs, and ambled over to where you'd directed him.
In the doorway to the kitchen, he paused, looking curiously back.
"Does Jiraiya-sama know this place?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Well ... I can't be sure, but it seemed like he'd been injured some way away from here. Inside Rain Country, or closer to the border, if I had to make a guess. When he came by the outpost ... I said I'd treat him there, but he insisted on coming up this way. Said there was a place he had to go, right before he passed out."
Even after all this time, after life had taken its course and separation had bred a welcome and easy fondness of intimacy once shared, those words cast a bone-deep lance, so narrow, keen and exquisite, down through your heart like a shaft of golden lightning.
__________________________________
As a shinobi of his power would, Jiraiya healed with astonishing rapidity.
Within three days, he was conscious, and within four he was speaking, daring to provoke your ire by joking about his sorry state.
Beneath it all, there was an evasiveness that concealed something of great magnitude, and as you continued to help him mend, you began to recognise it for what it was: the kind of emotional hurt that no medicine could help with.
The young shinobi, Ichimura, who had played such a pivotal role in the sannin's recovery, soon returned to the outpost where he was meant to keep vigil, but returned every alternate day to check on the progress of his healing.
On one afternoon, when Jiraiya was well enough to be up, you sat on the porch with him, a blanket tucked over both your knees, watching the young chuunin make his way back down the road after a visit.
Unprompted, Jiraiya offered up information that was new to you.
"He studied briefly under Tsunade. She told me about him, back in Konoha. Showed a lot of promise, but once the wanderlust set in, he couldn't help himself. Took up postings far from home."
You considered this for a moment, smile growing.
"Does he remind you of yourself?"
He barked a laugh.
"In some ways. I love the road myself but ... that's not the only reason I sought it out."
You waited for an elaboration, one that took its time coming.
"To travel is to embrace freedom, and I've always valued that. The idea that I can go anywhere, and pursue my work the way I want. But freedom always has a price."
"What kind of price?"
"When you're alone, you can't escape from yourself. From everything you've done. The things you've failed to do. The road ahead looks so tempting. Full of promise and adventure. It's when you stop to look at the route back home that you ... well, it looks an awful lot like all the things you've run away from."
The words simmered between you, such a fragile bridge to a connection that neither of you had ever intended to run deeper.
You pressed your fingers into the blanket.
"Running away? I don't believe that any of us ever really run away from our mistakes."
He eyed you dubiously.
"Never heard that one before."
"But we don't. Not really. You, as a shinobi, should know better than anyone. We each try to find our place - No, that's wrong. Our purpose. And whatever choices we made in the past will always be at the back of our minds. They tell us what we can do next."
He tilted back his head.
"Ah, so that's what you meant."
"You think I'm wrong?"
You weren't prepared for the tenderness of the look he sent your way.
"No, you're not wrong. But you're also ... ah, what does it matter? The less you know of the world of shinobi, the better for you. The better for anyone."
You reached over and prodded him, taking slight satisfaction in how he winced and uttered a childish protest.
"Are you calling me naive?"
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"And this world of shinobi you keep going on about ... I'm better off staying out of it?"
This time he took your hand.
"That's not it. There are so many shadows I want to keep from your door. And yet, here I am, again and again. I suppose ... that the shinobi world is part of my world, and now, so are you."
_________________________________
Perhaps you'd contracted his fever, some form of diffusion of the weakening poison in his blood, since being with Jiraiaya meant that your thoughts were always slightly out of order.
The days he spent recovering with you were drawn out, sunset-hued tranquility layered over the hazy warmth of a never-ending summer.
Each day was a slow, meandering pathway to new forms of perfection, whether lying beside each other on futons spread out on the central floor, listening to the song of the cicadas, or wandering about the garden, steadily making headway against the weeds that had supplanted your herbs.
You touched him without the boundaries set by some defining relationship, whether stroking his hair as he lay in your lap, feeling the comforting weight of his back pressed to yours as you read together in the afternoons, or the quick jerk of your ankle out of his grasp as he made to slyly tug you down beside him.
Where was the quick passage of time, when you needed it most, to tear you away from the dangers of this sweet, sweet, unfurling blossom?
The internal warnings didn't stop you, though.
It never prevented you from watching him drift off to sleep, pale lashes casting shadows over sun-browned cheeks.
It never held you back from watching him engage in his morning exercises, tunic folded down to his waist, the broad, scarred width of his back shifting like sea-monsters beneath the waves, a prelude to decisive, deadly motion.
It didn't turn you away from the way his eyes would soften whenever he cast them your way, the way you would revel in such a change, one neither of you ever saw the need to conceal.
To put a name to these days of healing was to paint over their bejeweled hues with the mundane, and who could possibly want that?
Some weeks after he'd first showed up at your door, you walked with him to the large tree that stood on the hill, where you could observe the latticework of the forest below, and the faint gleam of the river beyond.
It was mid-morning, warm in the sun, and you could tell that he'd almost made a full recovery from the ease of his stride.
You both sat in the grass, the prickle of the dry blades against your calves and palms.
After a time, you lost track of what you'd spoken of, the number of times you'd turned your head towards him, laughing just because you could.
Jiraiya's fingers were in your hair, lazily caressing, your body pressed into the solid heat of his side, one leg slung over his.
Then, his lips were on yours, breaking some unspoken rule that he'd adhered to ever since he'd returned to your door.
It was a rush of fond, heady memory, the twist of a beautiful blade beneath.
This time, you lost all sense of where you were, and nothing mattered more than the sensation of his skin on yours.
There was nothing experimental about it, more a resounding statement of intent, bruised and delightful, marks raised on your skin from the urgency of his teeth and tongue.
The sun was on him, and he was on you, naked beneath the boughs of the tree, no propriety or common sense invading with their unwelcome banners.
Your legs were looped around his waist as he raised himself on his forearms, gazing down at you with misted adoration, licking a stripe along his fingers which he used to wet you further.
Your gasps were as loud and uncontrolled as your heartbeat, thundering in your ears as he lowered himself between your thighs, the weight and heat of him parting you as if he'd never left.
Wind rustled the boughs above your head, and distantly, birds called across to each other from their perches, and bees hummed amidst the flowers bordering your garden.
The heat of the day slickened both your skin and his with a sheen of sweat, driving you to new heights of thrumming, fierce pleasure as moans and cries rang out, interspersed with his throaty, guttural encouragement.
You'd certainly never made love like this, rutting out here in the sunshine like wild things caught up in nature's call.
Your eyes snapped open as he pulled out, wet heat traced across your inner thigh as the world suddenly inverted, and you found yourself seated astride him, one hand braced on his chest, eyes wide.
He grinned up at you, and there was something about that look, challenging, rakish, his lust never taking the edge off his tenderness, that had your eyelids lowering and your hips slowly canting forward.
Oh, if only the others he'd shared his bed with could see him now, mouth falling open, head dropping, heavy and helpless, to the ground behind him.
You guided him back in, tossing your hair over your shoulders, letting him take in the sight of you, breasts gleaming with moisture, the bounce of them drawing in his hapless palms.
Your abdomen coiled and shifted as you swiveled your hips, your unrestrained cries echoing his as he lodged somewhere deep, then pressed somewhere else, alternating, controlled by your wavering motions.
The grass pressed into your knees, leaving a patchwork of impressions that would serve as a reminder later, but right now your mind was wholly occupied by the way he gripped your hips, the way he ground you down onto the length of him, giving as well as you could take.
There was nothing else but the emptiness of the world at this height of joined passion, the wheeling of the sky above, the breeze on your cooling back, the man who was bringing you to the molten, quivering peak of some hidden rise, here among the sunlit, whispering trees and the birdsong.
Primal and unbidden, a white-crested wave lifted you beyond all knowing, depositing you gently on golden sands, bringing you back to the awareness of his chest beneath your cheek, his soft, broken praises in your ear.
After some time, when you shivered slightly in the cooling of the afternoon, he drew your garments closer to drape over you.
Rising, you brushed them aside, smiling wilfully down at him as you picked yourself up and gathered your hair over one shoulder, aware of the way he was watching you.
"You're going to head back like that?"
"Why not?"
You turned your back to him, making your way down the hillside, completely naked.
As you inserted some extra sway into your hips, turning to shoot him a sly look, you saw that he'd raised himself onto one elbow, the sun filtering through the boughs and dappling him in otherworldly light.
He'd painted himself onto your memory in that moment, just as he was, a reclining lord beneath the domain he'd chosen for himself, laughing even as his words reached you.
"You know I'll always catch up to you."
____________________________________
You'd always known that it would come to this.
It was a miracle that those perfect days had lasted as long as they had.
Perhaps, it was only because he'd let them.
A few days after your encounter on the hillside, you'd woken to the cool morning breeze tracing over your form, and Jiraiya no longer beside you.
Some part of you assumed that he'd risen early, set about the comfortable routine you'd both grown into so naturally, but the rational, pragmatic side of you understood in an instant what it meant.
There it was, his version of a goodbye note.
For all the ribald escapades he'd penned, this was one he'd never quite been able to form words around.
A pot of porridge, hearty and seasoned, bubbled on the stove.
You closed your eyes for one moment, tracing the lines of his tall form in your mind's eye, a fantasy in which he turned and beheld you standing there on the threshold, laugh lines already carving their way beside the red adornments that painted bold tracks along his cheeks.
For a man who was so full of good humour, Jiraiya's markings had always looked a lot like tears.
__________________________________
Seasons passed, and then years.
The march of time never stood stationary for you.
There was work to be done, and your own dreams waiting to be fulfilled by action alone.
While business at the teahouse was the same as always, drawing in intermittent traveling parties and shinobi guests, you'd cast your sights wider.
A few trips to the nearby outposts had given you a keen idea as to what products and services they required, from dry goods like rice and dried fish, to condiments, to materials for shinobi rations and soldier pills. You made a catalogue of them all.
Using the rest of the money you'd saved from your time working in Konoha, you bought and supplied these goods, turning your small teahouse into a bustling trade centre that flourished beneath the chestnut trees.
In this time, you'd encountered whispers of Jiraiya, and his activities across the land.
Wherever he went, change asserted itself, and new talent seemed to grow and thrive.
On one afternoon, a delivery had arrived with a shipment of soybeans, a carefully wrapped parcel with cheerful toads printed all over the paper.
You knew, instantly, who it was from.
Within was a book, brand new, the welcome scent of fresh ink wafting up as you let it fall open in your palm.
Icha Icha Paradise, it was titled.
A quick glance through and you were clutching it harder, laughing even as your hand trembled slightly.
Here was his cheeky wit, his lack of proper scene structure, his tendency towards 'sweet, busty' heroines and 'playful, perverted' heroes, his knack for scandalous storytelling revealing all, while explicitly stating nothing.
It was as if Jiraiya himself had appeared on your doorstep, waving the book under your nose, loudly seeking your approval even as you held it at arms length, or threw it right back at him for his audacity.
Closing it with a soft smile, you kept your hands braced on the cover for some time, before inhaling sharply and tucking it away, now having composed yourself enough to meet your newest supplier.
___________________________________
Over time, you expanded your operations to neighbouring towns and villages.
Years had merged into decades, and old passions had been folded away with neater edges in the mind, ready for the time that you would dust them, air them out, and play them through the still-vivid recordings in your memories.
You'd entertained the idea of being married, once.
Now, you'd handed over the daily running of affairs to your trusty and sharp-eyed apprentice, Kikoru, and spent your days overseeing the financial side of things.
You also had more time to pursue that once-loved pursuit, your calligraphy, which had further evolved into a love of painting.
On most evenings, you could be found on the hill under the spreading boughs of the largest tree, the trunk now gnarly and knotted.
The sun would shine through, across the fine silver threads that now wove through your hair, the lines of a life well-lived now slightly more evident on your skin.
All things considered, you'd never come to regret a single thing about your brief time with Jiraiya, nor did you harshly tug your thoughts away from him.
He was no spectre of your younger years, rather, a swig of fine, aged sake, burning the throat as it went down, straight from the bottle.
Full bodied, earthy, bursting with remembered flavour, like that first drink you'd had with him, all those years ago.
Those memories still stirred within your fingers, and had taken up residence on your canvas, a painting of a laughing man, naked as the new shoots on the bough above his reclining form, eyes as warm as a lit hearth in winter.
He'd said, back then, that he'd always find his way back to you, and you'd chosen to believe him, wholeheartedly at that.
So, it was no surprise to you when you arrived back at the teahouse, after an afternoon on the hillside, fingers still stained with paint, and saw him, standing on the steps before the entrance.
He turned as you approached, and while his face bore the same marks of passing years as yours did, Jiraiya's smile flashed brilliant and sheepish, just the same as it always had.
_________________________________
He'd taken on an apprentice of his own, a young shinobi, Uzumaki Naruto.
You could tell, from the way he lit up when he spoke of the boy, that this was more than a fondness of master for pupil.
Naruto represented something vital to Jiraiya, a persistent flame that encompassed the hope he'd been searching so arduously for.
Amused, you'd prodded at him.
"So, you found your gutsy shinobi?"
He set down his cup, smiling, even though he held your gaze with utmost conviction.
"Yes, I have."
"And you intend to continue training him?"
There was a trace of humour in Jiraiya's expression, one that was slightly unsettling.
"I think he's reached a point where my training won't do much good for him any longer. There's a path that he needs to walk by himself, and all I can do is guide him there."
You tilted your head, eyes running over the subtle hints of greater reinforcement beneath his standard armour, the battle-ready air that had not escaped you from the moment you'd seen him standing before the teahouse.
"Jiraiya, where are you going?"
He took another sip of his drink, eyes closing briefly.
"Rain Country. There's something there. Something I need to put right."
Like a grasping hand that emerges out of the night, fear exerted a hold over you, sudden and cold.
"Why are you going alone?"
"Because all that's happened, the danger coming to Konoha, to Naruto, to you, could have been prevented if I'd only just - "
His voice, which had been rising, cut off as your fingers closed around his clenched fist.
He shook his head, slow and rueful.
"Didn't you say it yourself once? None of us can really run away from anything."
"Have you forgotten the second part of that pearl of wisdom?"
"No, of course I haven't. That's why I - "
"You have a choice to make. And that choice doesn't have to involve you paying the price for someone else's actions."
There was a moment of silence within the private room you were both seated in, the faint chatter from the stalls outside muted, a background trace of the others here who you'd both entirely forgotten.
He smiled again, and the clean, determined lines that cut across his features look a lot like finality.
"All the more reason. I have no other clear choice to make."
"Jiraiya - "
"Will you wait for me?"
He sounded rushed, almost desperate in that moment, as if speaking the words would somehow bond him to some contract with you, one that became unbreakable upon the laying down of the words.
Your grip on his hand was now convulsive.
"I'll wait for you, for as long as it takes."
__________________________________
Jiraiya stayed the night, his body curled around yours.
When you woke at dawn, he was still there, the slow, even rhythm of his breathing settling hot against the top of your head.
Someone else in your position might have taken the time to speculate that this was what you could have had if he'd never left, that you weren't going to let him go once again, but you knew better.
Jiraiya was more like you than you'd ever expected. Stubborn to a fault, resilient, a hope that sprung eternal from some unknown source.
If there was a purpose out there that awaited him, then just like you, he would not be deterred from it.
You had known, from the time he'd said it in the private room yesterday, that he hadn't really been asking you to wait for him.
Jiraiya had never been a selfish man.
He was asking a question of a different kind, with words that stated otherwise.
When the light of morning finally intruded into your cocoon of peace, Jiraiya shuffled slightly, turning over, opening his eyes to take in the sight of you, reclining within his arms.
He smiled, almost lazily, as if this were the best morning he'd ever risen into.
You had cleaned up and partaken of breakfast in companiable silence, a stark contrast from other days, in the past, when you'd woken up to that pot of porridge on the stove.
He took his time preparing, even stopping to watch you get dressed, gently taking your hairpin from between your fingers to slide through your hair.
For all intents and purposes, it was like a morning shared between husband and wife, those who had loved, and loved dearly, who knew each other's habits and foibles from long association.
When it came time for him to leave, he stood on the step outside, one lower than the one you stood on, so that you could reach him.
Tall he was, with that swathe of hair that had grown all the more wild over the years, as if some thorny shield might wrap itself about him at any moment.
The thought gave you some comfort, even though this time, he'd stayed so that you could see him off.
Fingers working as nimble archivists, you preserved his memory in their passing touch.
Tracing over his bushy brows, the slight projections from his hitae-ate, made to resemble the horns of a toad, the strong, proud nose, the supple mouth, so easily moved to humour, the red, red markings that had grown to span the length of his face, the many small pockmarks, scars and roughened patches from years of travel and shinobi battles.
All of it, all of it, committed to your memory, brushstrokes that brought forth an artwork of a different kind.
You rested your head against his chest, his hands coming around to cradle you against him, and took in the comforting vitality of his heartbeat.
Then, it was time for him to leave.
You watched him go, passing beneath the boughs of the old chestnut trees, as he'd arrived all those years ago.
He stopped, at the bottom of the path, turned to you, and waved.
_____________________________________
He'd never actually meant for you to wait for him.
This was a duty you took upon yourself, entirely self-appointed.
Therr were times when you'd eat a delightful sweetmeat, or pace about in the garden, now with a walking stick to get you to the more inaccessible areas, or when you'd deal with a particularly bothersome client, that you'd speak to Jiraiya in your mind.
A simple thought, sharp and full of humour, guaranteed to draw a laugh or a spiel of good natured story-telling from him.
He'd never returned after that trip to Rain Country.
Of course he hadn't.
He'd known that whatever battle he was heading into might be his last.
To sit back and accept his death was ... how to put it? Not your shinobi way.
Ah, he'd probably find that hilarious.
Kikoru had urged you not to strain yourself, that you needed to slow down and absorb the fruits of your labour at your current age and station, but what good was that?
You were still spry as ever, and she couldn't deny that.
Life was as full as it had always been, and that was how Jiraiya had always lived himself.
The road ahead stretched further, further, until it was no longer visible, and that was half the fun.
Perhaps you'd shed tears, when you missed him dearly.
Perhaps you'd live your long life without ever seeing him again. Then again, maybe you would.
Hope was never far from all the places Jiraiya had been, all the people his heavy hands had laid themselves upon, passing some vital, burning torch in each of those brief moments.
You'd live in hope, as he'd always intended for you to do.
Perhaps, tomorrow, you'd go up to the hill where you'd both once laid bare, your arms outstretched as if to slot the whole horizon between your ribs.
Perhaps here, you'd feel a trace of the immense warmth he'd once brought, an endlessly traveling sun across the unfolding expanse of the sky.
steeples fingers. What's up with Jiraiya's forehead protector. Like okay sure he's a spy he's a traveling shinobi technically it makes sense for him to not openly and blatantly mark himself as someone aligned with Konoha, but like. He's a fucking sanin. Anybody with a bingo book will recognize him on sight, he's got a pretty distinctive appearance.
More importantly, the headband seems to mark his loyalties as belonging to Mount Myoboku rather than Konoha, which. Has implications! Jiraiya was already a Konoha genin when he reverse-summoned himself to the mountain, right? So it's not like he got his forehead protector from the mountain in the first place and then became like, an independent contractor to Konoha.
We know that shinobi can leave their villages for greener pastures without being branded missing nin in very specific situations -- Asuma, for example, left to join the Twelve Guardians, and that's fine because it's still in service to the Fire Daimyo, so presumably there are exceptions made as long as you've got the Hokage's permission and are still acting in Konoha or the nation's best interest.
Is that what happened with Jiraiya? Did Hiruzen give Jiraiya to the toads as -- what? A gesture of goodwill? An honoring of an old alliance agreement? Is Jiraiya technically not a Konoha shinobi but instead a ninja of the sacred Toad Mountain? If so, why? I guess I can see a lot of things the toads might get out of that arrangement actually, that could make sense.
Are there other shinobi who are kind of... beholden to their summons in a similar way? It doesn't seem to be the case for Orochimaru or Tsunade, who are both depicted wearing Konoha headbands in their youth. That could be a really interesting concept to play with though, a shinobi who's loyalties are technically to their summon spirits and it's only the summon's loyalty to a village that ties them together. What would happen if the summon didn't want to work with the village? Or if the summon was allied with a village that was directly adversarial?
Is that maybe part of why reverse-summoning yourself is such a rare thing? Is it discouraged specifically to keep people from making contact and contracts with summons that won't obey the villages the shinobi belongs to?
