Disclaimer: Naruto and its characters belong to Kishimoto Masashi.
Author's Notes: To be entirely and wholly truthful, I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm aware that not many people like Jiraiya (at least, not fanatically like me, indeed, I sense something is wrong with me if I'm obsessed over a perverted old man) and Orochimaru (creepy guy, creepy guy, creepy guy, cree- handsome), but I feel that Jiraiya's a bit neglected in the fandom, and this fic has been on the back burner for so long, so…
Jiraiya was not an optimistic man. He didn't get up in the morning and expect to see naked beautiful women declaring their everlasting love to him. But he was not exactly a pessimistic individual either, when he wake up he at least expected to be in the bed he had slept in the night before, unbound, and at least without tubes sticking down his throat.
Which was more than he could say for himself right now, and don't even let him get started on the pain.
Through his entire life, Jiraiya had experienced a variety of things, and learned that there were two types of pain. The slow dull aching that you could ignore if you try, and the excruciating agony that drive even the strong ones to the brink of insanity. It was the kind of pain that every shinobi experience, to a certain degree, sometimes in their lives.
His pain was of the second kind.
He could feel the needles in his skin; the way the potent liquid spread through his bloodstream making him sick. The weight of the manacles on his wrists felt unbearably heavy and coarse even through the padding of the bandages. The tiny but numerous tubes that were inserted down his throat was a source of great discomfort, keeping his mouth open and forcing him to take quick shallow breaths.
His body was in pain, and felt strangely alien, foreign. Jiraiya had to think to control his body, to make his fingers move, to shift his body, and even then, the movements came with great agony. His hands were shackled inches from his ears, limiting movements of his arms and head. His entire body was stretched over some kind of stone slab. Uneven stone slab, Jiraiya gritted as he felt the hard surface digging into his back. He could feel the distinct sensation of silk against his skin. His legs were bound as well, wrapped in something that felt like bandages.
The stench of blood just added to his panic.
Jiraiya forced down the confusion and willed the pounding headache to go away and think. Tsunade poisoned you.
Part of him was still in denial, still believed that Tsunade didn't betray the village, betray her grandfather and his ideals, still wanted to believe that Tsunade didn't betray him. It was screaming, howling in despair. What happened to Naruto? What was the deal between Tsunade and Orochimaru? Who will become Hokage? What will happen to Konoha?
Another part of him accepted it, like accepting that the sky was blue and not red, like accepting that Orochimaru was never going to turn back. That part of him was in pain over the betrayal, tormented, angered, enraged, fucking furious, that part demanded retribution timed three.Jiraiya thrived on that part, nurtured that part until he knew nothing else, until the furious tide of emotions drove the pain back.
Jiraiya felt a surge of adrenaline, and arched upward, pushing against the bindings around him and ignoring the sharp stabs of pain. Raising his head from the silken whatever he laid on, he could hear the strips of the material that blinded him rip. The blindfold fell away and Jiraiya observed his surroundings, as well as himself, feeling the anger drift away as fear took its place.
You are getting too fucking old for this, Jiraiya.
He was in middle of some kind of an operating room. Symbols and kanji drawn in blood circled around the stone slab he lay on. The walls were covered with bloodstained white silk. His hands were manacled and chained through a hole in one of the slab's elaborate designs.
His body was swathed in some kind of silk robe, with bandages wrapped around his arms and legs. This stinks of Orochimaru. Jiraiya snarled somewhat as he thrashed, pulling out some of the needles in his arms. Mustering what chakra he had left, Jiraiya tore his right hand free from the manacle, ripping out the tubes in his throat with savage glee, coughing out blood as a result.
"Now now, Jiraiya," a sinister voice called out, rich with amusement. "Try to take good care of your body, I took so long to find such a perfect fit."
"Orochimaru!" Jiraiya strained to look at the man that had, more or less, single-handedly ruined the life he had set up so carefully. He recoiled when he saw the man, arms folded against the chest, a damnable smirk on his face. Tsunade fixed them.
Then some of Orochimaru's words filtered through the anger to his brain, and Jiraiya gaped at him in horror, before glancing at his own body. Indeed, it seemed smaller and slenderer than his own, he felt for his hair, and breathed a sigh of relief, it was still there, Orochimaru was just playing wi-
Then he felt its texture and pulled a fistful in front of his face, smooth, silky white strands, so unlike his own. He couldn't have… "No." Please, if there's a god, I swear I won't ever peep again. Horrified, Jiraiya stared at Orochimaru. "You, please tell me you didn't-" He felt sick hearing the hope in his voice, it made he sound weak, sound foolish, hoping against hope. "Please tell me you didn't-"
A cruel, eerie, sinister little chuckle. "You should be grateful, Jiraiya-kun, he was from the Nakae clan, I think you know of them? Didn't you always go to them whenever you were in their village?"
Jiraiya wanted to scream, but the sound caught at his throat, coming out as a strangled choke. Blood dribbled down from the corner of his mouth, trailing down unnaturally pale skin, too pale to be his.
"I took the body of the second son for you. Tsuyoshi, I believe his name was."
Jiraiya's world crumbled.