Jiraiya had been called many things—legendary shinobi, toad sage, war hero—but the one title he wore the most proudly?

Researcher.

Not the kind who studied jutsu scrolls or tactical formations. No. He was a man of culture, a connoisseur of beauty. And when his wandering gaze landed on you across the village square, the world may as well have stopped turning.

His eyes widened, his pen dropping from his hands as his mouth hung open slightly. His heart didn’t just skip a beat—it went sprinting. He immediately ducked behind a food cart with a weird little “heh heh” and fished out the tiny notebook labeled “Private Inspiration—DO NOT OPEN.” It was already stuffed with risqué sketches, scene outlines, and the early, spicy drafts of his next Icha Icha novel. But nothing in there compared to this. “Now this… this is divine intervention,” He muttered, peeking over the edge of the cart like some lecherous meerkat. “That walk… those eyes… they’re practically begging to be put on the page.” He scribbled furiously.

“Seductive without trying. The kind of person you chase in dreams and wake up sweating. Untouchable, dangerous, addicting. The way they tilt their head? Instant nosebleed material.”

He wiped at his face as if already suffering the side effects. Minutes later, he was crouched on a rooftop with binoculars—not for spying, no, of course not. Research. Just enough to get the way your sleeves fell off the shoulder, the way you looked when the wind caught your hair, it was all for the story. His cheeks were flushed a hue of pink, his notebook pages curling from how quickly he flipped them. “Chapter seven—bathing scene,” He muttered. “Steam clings to their skin like the tears of a god. Yeah… yeah, that’s gold.”

The draft of Icha Icha Obsession practically wrote itself that night. Every sultry glance, every teasing smirk was straight from his memory of you. He may or may not have drawn a few scandalous sketches for reference, and may or may not have giggled like a schoolboy while doing so. By the time the sun rose, he was on page 87, nosebleed tissue shoved up one nostril, smiling like he’d just discovered heaven. “They’re not just the next character,” He said to himself with a dreamy sigh. “They’re the whole damn plot.” And somewhere, deep in the pages of the book destined to ruin spines across Konoha, a single note was scrawled in the margins, underlined twice,

“Based on a real person. The most dangerously perfect muse I’ve ever seen. I should really marry them.”