It started a week ago. The night was young, and Jiraiya would admit he had been in the "red light district". A place where the slum – girls stayed, and where his muse often came from the dirtiest places. But despite the young and curious men and their babble, despite the girls that would ever so – seductively rest their palms in the crook of his elbow and mutter soft promises – he saw her.
She was not like the other girls, who offered themselves so. No, she simply stood back, and with hauntingly blank eyes stared into a world that was only attainable by her. Her pale skin seem to be unearthly in the moonlight, and the black silken robe that was lazily wrapped around her body, only made her to - creamy white skin stand out more. Her brown hair pulled up in a lazy bun only held together by chopsticks. The way her dark lashes seemed to rest against her cheek when she would blink slowly . . . and those eyes, those milky white eyes that merely had to come in contact with his, seemed to know what he was thinking.
She did not stare, nor did she bore into him, she simply regarded him for a brief unwavering glance, before disappearing into the whore house, for him, her slave, to follow.
He had found her. The flower amongst weeds - in a place that might have been filled with Muses, Jiraiya, had found his goddess.
He went after her, looking at all the harsh women in the building, the men who were paying their whores, and the last door on the left, where she, in the same causality was waiting. " Hello sir," she said in a soft voice, her eyes were half – lidded to the point those dark lashes almost caressed her skin. It took a moment for him to remember to breathe.
"How much for your companionship m'am?" Jiraiya asked in an equally soft voice. The moment in this whore house, was all to surreal as if this girl had casted a spell on him to where he could only hear her.
"It depends sir," she said with a gentle smile, before she turned into the room and disappearing in the darkness. Jiraiya fallowed a lecherous grin on his face as he closed the door behind him. The room was that of any slum – girl, with a big bed of black fabric, a single dresser, a rather large window that allowed moonlight to spill into the room with cheap yellow frayed curtains that hardly did anything at all.
His goddess had turned to face full frontal, and even with Jiraiya's eyes mostly focusing on her to – serene face, he could not help but notice the shake in her hands as she undid her robe's belt, and despite everything, her voice was music in the silent room, "What's your name sir?" she asked. Swish went the robe's belt to the floor.
"Jiraiya."
She started walking towards him with a dancer's grace, that black robe swishing, taunting him with each step. The girl had stopped in front of him, fingers tracing his chest . . . and despite everything, her eyes were trained on the floor beneath them. "Do you have wife and children?" her musical voice filled the room.
"I do not."
He could feel the shaking in her fingers, the way they traced his chest uncertainly, as if a confused child with a new toy. Jiraiya gripped her face, tilting it upwards so he could plant a kiss on her to - pale lips. The girl snaked her arms up intertwining her fingers in his white hair, pressing her body against him just so –-- she was driving him crazy. His hands had drifted to the robe that still drooped around her shoulders and that all he had to do was push it off, and the silken item made a soft swish sound as it had fallen to the floor.
He pushed her to the bed his hands exploring her - to briefly stop at a rather long scar on her back - and then to continue. She, in her arms knew how to touch him just right, murmur sweet promises into his ears while her hands roamed and began to unbutton his shirt . . .
This is how it happened . . . this nymph who had seduced Jiraiya into coming, to her. But it wasn't for her beauty, nor the sex, no . . . it was what happened afterwards, that made him want to come back.
He remembers sitting on the edge of the bed. Moonlight making the sweat on his back glisten, but there she laid on her side, with her long brown hair hiding some of her face the rest creating a halo on her pillow, the way her hand turned upwards was curled, the way her legs crossed each other, and the way the moonlight had made her to pale skin beautiful is what he wanted to capture . . . that he longed touch for always.
This innocence that existed in this dirty place. So Jiraiya, being the Romanist, had grabbed a paper and sketched this girl in this posture, and wrote a short letter on the back. Left the note on the companion pillow, with the money for the night.
So when Hinata woke up the next morning her hair cascading down her to – pale shoulders, she would see it. And when she saw it, she would read it. And what it read was:
I would like to know your name.
Keep Tuesdays and Thursdays opened at night please.
I acquire your services.
Thank you.
The Hyuuga ex – heiress would smile gently, perhaps a real one, or perhaps a fake one (she had long forgotten whether these were her emotions or not) and would stick the picture - note in between the mattresses, knowing, perhaps for the wrong reasons, in the dirty slum world, she had made a companion.
[[ written late at night, purposes? Not sure. Just wanted to test something out. This might become a multi – chapter fic, not sure. Soo tired. Yes. Jiraiya is fifty something. And Hinata for this matter is only seventeen. Why? If I continue writing this odd out – of – order fic, well, you'll learn why. C: ]]
