Chameleon Knights

Chapter 3- No smut yet

Whetstone was thoroughly enjoying the collision he caused when the German youth froze in the doorway causing the Japanese girl and the scrabbling American to crash into each other with jarring force.
The silver-haired teen was the first to spit him with a glare, throwing his nimble body around to snarl, “Are you fucking threatening us you …you…”
“Bastard? Prick? Insufferable, cold-hearted son of a bitch?” He offered a charismatic smile. “I’m not threatening, I’m simply stating consequences should you fail to comply.”
The girl was much calmer as she turned to arrest a thin, leather braced arm, “Enough, Jaz,” she hissed jerking her friend hard enough to cause him to stumble into Treize who was in the midst of maneuvering himself around the two younger bandies intent on cutting them from Whetstone’s eyes. He caught the boy by the shoulders and righted him on his feet, thrusting him gently back into the girl’s keeping. “Let Treize handle it for now. You get too hot headed over stuff and don’t think.”
“Like hell I do…” the drummer groused, anger affectively redirected at the gangly female beside him. A single heather eye rolled to the ceiling, demanding aide that would never come
The tactic did not escape the proprietor. The whole scene was amusing, like puppies scrabbling for a grasshopper in the cane fields. The snarky pout that Kort placed on his lips on partially hide his amusement at their antics; the little piss ants had no idea what they were barging into. Meeting the tall, aqua-eyed blonde’s direct eyes, he gave a languid shrug. “I can make you or break you. The decision is totally within your power to make.”
“Who the hell are you to demand such a choice?” Treize growled, hard put to keep his voice in an audible register instead of the animalistic snarl it so needed to become.
The man was sitting, knees wide, leather pants gripping the cradle of his hips above the deep depressed hue of his shirt. “Ich bin Ihr Woden [I am your Woden].” The auburn-haired devil flashed an even toothed grin as the German registered the words.
The youth seemed puzzled by the reference, and the teens behind him had paled, cut off from their fate by the language barrier. Feeling charitable, he threw the dog a bone, “Ich nehme an, daß Sie mit Skandinaviermythologie vertraut sind [I assume you are familiar with Norse mythology]?”
“Woden?” the name rolled strangely over the bassist’s tongue. He was still unsure of the significance of the allusion. His confusion broadened the smirk on Whetstone’s already predatory visage.
“He’s the Norse god of music, poetry and-- death,” Rin supplied quietly drawing the attention of the two men. She shuddered under the appraising troll of the oldest’s burnt umber view. It’s one thing to be undressed with another’s eyes, but to be flayed alive…her chest constricted fearfully and a shudder ran the length of her spine pulling an even more disquieted frown from Treize.
“Ohhhh yeah!” The sheer volume of Jaz’s voice by her ear was enough to make her heart drop a few beats, stealing her breath for precious moments, “That’s the crap our English teacher’s been getting her panties in a grind over the last week. That is some dull, boring bullshit. Now, what the fuck is your point and you assholes oughta talk English! This involves us too after all!”
“You are a demanding little cur,” Whetstone chuckled, a throaty masculine sound. Of the three, the drummer was the most promising—mindless, impotent flame, burning brightly but without heat. “Are you willing to offer your services to your new God?”
“Take him to the car, Rin,” Treize snapped hoping to avoid the inevitable explosion from Jaz. The agnostic drummer was a lung’s breadth from losing any semblance of propriety.
“God?” Both pencil thin, silver brows flew into his hair, his glossy lips spreading in an incredulous round. “Aren’t you a freaking psycho?”
Artic cold eyes dared him to continue. God or the Devil this was still his world and no puny upstart was going to challenge him in his own domain.
“Get him out of here, Rin,” Treize snarled at the still immobile girl. She was sucking in shallow pants of air, her eyes wilding out as the teen beside her warmed to his tantrum. “God damn it!” Feeling helpless and incompetent in front of this bastard was not what he needed right now. It was that moment that Rin dropped like a stone into a dead faint.
“You fuuu—“ Jaz had been on the verge of tearing into that sadistic, arrogant sack of bull when he heard the sound of a body hitting the carpet. Turning, he found Treize dropping to his knees beside her. “Rii? Rin?” Her chest was rising and falling steadily when he hit his knees on the other side, not remembering his decision to go to them. It was instinctual, had been for three years now, where they were is where he belonged.
Whetstone watched the drama he had incited play out from the comfort of his favorite chair. The girl had simply folded under the stress, crumbling like a puppet with its strings sheared. Weak constitution for someone with her past, he mused watching the two men scrabbling to check her vitals. He noticed the way the blonde’s throat worked as he sighed with relief over his diagnosis. The blue-eyed teen with his silvery, multi-colored streaks simpered like a worried puppy, rocking on his heels and running frantic fingers down her arm. He mumbled, a stumbling mantra, “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“She’s going to be okay,” Treize told him softly, shooing him back to scoop her into his arms. “Just control your temper around her. You know better.”
Rising easily to his feet under her weight, the bassist fixed stony eyes on the incubus still reclining at his leisure in the chair. He ignored the smaller boy who arranged Rin’s arms over her chest, smoothing her hair back over her eye like she preferred and stooping to gather her things from the floor. “Wir sprechen über dieses morgen. Sie und ich alleine... [We will speak on this tomorrow. You and I alone…]”
“Ich erwartete kein kleiner. Neun Uhr hier und sind nicht spat [I expected no less. Nine o'clock here and don't be late].”
A canted nod dismissed them, the sneering petulance of his expression turned Jaz’s stomach. What the hell had they just said? The expression on his companion’s face told him it was nothing encouraging.
“Get us to the car. The keys are in my front right pocket,” his blonde friend instructed him as Jaz barley kept from slamming the door behind them, shutting the bastard out of their lives.
There is no frickin’ way we are ever coming back to this freak show. That man is psycho, a real fruit basket; the eighteen year old drummer seethed catching sight of Rin’s sleeping face. She was so small and cuddly. But that guy made her freak and he pissed me off and Treize definitely hates him. He barely tolerates me straddling the fence and I’ve never offered to make a pass at him. That Whetstone guy was just begging for an ass kicking if he comes sniffing around us again. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought.
“Are you going to stand there all day or unlock the doors?” Treize bitched his patience for the day past its end. It had been one thing to have to steer Jaz out of the club, professing a string of yelled apologies when he nearly ran people over in his daze, but Rin was starting to get heavy.
“Huh?” The big hunter green box sprang into focus as the veil of his thoughts was ripped aside. “Yeah, ohhhh, yeah,” he barked reaching for the handle, a jerk hard enough to rock the Jetta reminded him it was locked.
“Keys, right pocket,” when his hands were empty he was going to throttle the Dummkopf [fool]. Turning to support their combined mass on the hood, he leaned back, keeping his abs taunt to allow for more slack in the material spanning his hips. Rin was a warm, soft weight on his chest.
“Oh, okay,” the teen lowered his chin letting his bangs fall to cover the wicked grin that he couldn’t bite back. What an opening! Pulling the hem wider, he eased his hand into the tight crevasse of Treize’s pocket. The skin beneath the thin fabric of the pouch held a moist heat from their time on stage. Angling deeper, he brushed against the other man’s sex, half-hard and trying to rise. The trapped length nudged him as he twirked his wrist more than necessary earning a stunted hiss for his conniving.
He really was going to wring his neck, der Hahn necken [cock tease]. “Get the keys now. I have to put her down sometime,” he warned, forcing enough air into his lungs to sound threatening. He did not need any more frustration than he already had. He wouldn’t sleep as it was. He would assume it was an accident and ignore the impish grin that preceded the keys jangling in front of his nose.
“Keep yer pants on, man,” Jaz quipped using the keyless entry to pop the locks and open the back door. Be just as happy if you didn’t actually, he knew Treize would not appreciate the news so he kept it to himself. He slid in first, helping lower Rin to the seat, supporting her head against his chest.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” Treize bit back, eyes unrelentingly on the younger teen as he folded the girl’s slender legs into his rear seat. He didn’t appreciate it and at the moment it would only hurt Rin to be further molested.
“No problem, maaan,” the southerner drawled hotly, snugging an arm around his slumbering friend’s shoulders to secure her in the seat for the road racer’s drag back to her ‘home’. She sighed and rutted her nose into the open neck of his shirt tickling the skin with her breath. It was going to be ten minutes of eternity in loaded silence and sexual frustration.
The door slamming, and engine turning over negated the need for speech as he knew it would. The German, still convinced there was no speed limit worth following, laid a trail of rubber as he burned out of the alley.
+++++++
Kouga approached the office quietly, a stack of phone messages in hand. It was normally not in his job description to be errand boy, but he was interested to see how the ‘meeting’ had gone. Rapping loudly, he waited for the barked order to enter mindful not to tempt his fortune.
Kort was reclined on the black leather couch inside the door when the Triad scion entered, a magazine propped against his chest and his shirt slung over the edge of the glass table. His booted feet were denting the arm, the scuffed heel putting divots in the upholstery.
“What do you have for me?” the recumbent man asked not tearing his eyes from the pages.
He seemed so disinterested at the moment; it made Kouga a bit anxious. “A message from Eisenberg, the drop location has been moved. They think there is a leak. Theirs or our’s, Omanovic swears it must be us and of course Eisenberg says otherwise.” An elegant, indifferent shrug ended the relay, already understanding that their demands were clear. Kort would find the leak and deal with it no matter whose fault it was. “A call from Krause as well, he congratulates you on the latest project, says he enjoyed the souvenir.”
Kort sighed bored with the exchange. He couldn’t count the number of trophies he delivered on both hands and feet. “Anything important?”
“The usual. Should I be expecting any special deliveries for you over the next day or so?” His lips quirked as the magazine was finally lowered, tired eyes bleary behind their posh lenses told him to shut up and leave. “Should I have the work men on call?”
It was simpler to answer and have him gone than get up to retrieve his silencer. “I’ll have what I want come morning. Now leave me, the next person to bother me will be the last,” the edict was less threatening than he would like, interrupted with a toe curling yawn. He would need his strength for the encounter; the man would take some taming he was sure. Liquid aquamarines would pour for him just because he could cause such a thing and the other would deny it.
“Should I ready one of the rooms?”
Considering, the auburn-haired demon raised onto his elbow, cracking his neck audibly, “Why not… something creative. Truly fear inspiring.”
“It shall be done,” Kouga bowed, his sherry colored eyes alight as he backed out the door, leaving his employer in peace for the night. How he adored his work.