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[Jun. 10th, 2013|01:57 am]

tousaki_ryouma
Well, he hadn’t been. There was never any harm in seeing where things went, though. “Is it working?” Ryouma inquired.

Kakashi cast an assessing gaze around them, studying dripping trees and soggy grass and sodden shinobi. “It’s wet,” he said, flatly. “There’s an audience, and we’re auditioning. But sure, let’s sneak behind those bushes. You can talk more decomp to me.”

That was a fairly good one, as Nos went.

Ryouma dug up his best expression of caring concern. “Hatake,” he said, very gently. “I’m sorry to break this to you. But I think you need to seriously reconsider your standards in seduction.”

“Hmm,” Kakashi said. “You’re right. I should go for someone more classy.” He tipped his head, single eye narrowing against the rain. “You think Owl-mask would still give me a chance?”

“He’s ANBU vice-commander,” Ryouma said. “I’m sure he likes assassination attempts in bed.”

“I’m contemplating a certain kind of little death right now, Tousaki.”

Ryouma was on his feet and reaching for a kunai he wasn’t carrying before he’d even fully registered the words. The low, gravelling voice was the same one that had been shouting candidates’ names for the last hour; the empty-eyed owl mask gleamed cold in the grey rain. The ANBU vice commander stood with one hand on his hip and the other resting very casually on the hilt of his ninjato.

How the hell had he gotten behind them?

Ryouma forced himself out of battle-stance and into parade rest. His mouth kept moving, without thought—or sense—to guide it. “Glad to hear it, sir. It’s been a long day. You look like you could use—”

His tongue thickened. The short hairs rose on the back of his neck. Muscles shuddered and twitched. The vice-commander hadn’t moved, but killing intent seeped through the air like poison.

“Two words, Tousaki,” the vice-commander said very quietly. “Yessir. Nossir. I hear more than those from you, and you lose your tongue. Do you understand?”

His killing intent didn’t fade. Challenge, from one jounin to another.

And weakness in his stance, unbalance, that fisted hand too hard on the hip, the booted feet planted too firmly in the wet grass. He’d slip if he stepped too fast. If Ryouma went left, shouldered into the blow, caught him off-guard with a surge of his own killing intent—

Ryouma set his jaw. “Yessir,” he said.
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