Irresistible

Title – Irresistible. (Part 1 of 2)
Author – Rina
Rating – MA, for Mature Adults only.
Pairing – Yazoo/? (no incest)
Warning – Slash, Yaoi, eventual M/M sex
Disclaimer – I do not own the Final Fantasy domain or any of its characters, like Yazoo. I am not making any money from this story, just a few people happy. All other characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is coincidental. Mostly... ;)

That said, enjoy the fic and don’t forget to give feedback!

Dedicated to my friend schwaerze for her recent birthday. Love you, mein lieblich!

(This fic was recently shifted from the AC 'General' area to here so sorry if your review has been lost! Feel free to leave a new one!)

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Chapter one.


Yet another night. Yet another bar. Yet another round of endless stares and unwanted invitations.

Yet another reminder of why Yazoo hates being around humans. Everyone gets urges from time to time – himself included - but unlike everyone else, he can usually dismiss them, particularly if they are not necessary for survival. The only basic urges he normally pays attention to in this world are the ones that remind him to eat, to drink, to sleep and to protect his own life. Most humans have those urges too but they also have other ones. Pointless ones. Senseless ones. Humans are weak and disgusting and can’t help but act upon those urges, no matter what they are – booze, drugs, gambling.

Sex.

It’s this last one that bugs Yazoo the most because when people want sex, it’s naturally him that they try to get it from. Damn Allure. It’s not a gift – it’s a curse. Yazoo never asked for it. He didn’t want it. Yet, he’s the one that got lumped with it and as such, has to deal with all the staring and the leering and the endless requests for blow jobs, hand jobs and other kinds of sleazy ‘jobs’ he has no desire to participate in. That’s not to say he is unfamiliar with the concept of desire or sexual attraction but when he feels the need to get naked with someone, /he/ is the one who chooses his lover. He is the one who approaches them, who seduces them. Not the other way around. He’s never accepted an offer from anyone who’s made an uninvited pass at him. And it will be the same here tonight. If anyone gets any brilliant ideas of coming up and talking to him, Yazoo will swiftly shoot them down - not with Velvet Nightmare but with an icy green glare, stopping them in their tracks and letting them know in no uncertain terms that attempting any form of conversation with him is something they should rapidly rethink. Being treated like a prostitute for sale… not only is it highly insulting to Yazoo but it’s tiresome and tedious and he’s so not in the mood to deal with it tonight.

Really, the only reason he comes to these raucous, reeking, smoke-filled pits of sweaty, horny humanity is because his brothers want to be here. Where they go, so does he. That’s the way it is and always will be. Loz and Kadaj seem to enjoy the whole bar scene and as long as it makes them happy Yazoo will keep quiet and tolerate it. Since he doesn’t drink alcohol (one of those pathetic worldly urges he loathes so much) it’s become his responsibility to watch over his siblings and make sure they don’t get too drunk or cause too much trouble - especially Loz who tends to start fights wherever he goes, Yazoo generally having to drag his brawling older brother away before he gets tasered, arrested and locked in jail for the night. While Kadaj relishes the chance to whip out Shadow Blade and show off his advanced swordsmanship skills, it’s not violence he actively seeks on evenings such as these, but mindless pleasure; usually winding up in the toilets screwing someone or snorting narcotics with them. Sometimes both. When his youngest brother disappears and it is time to leave, the public restrooms are the first place Yazoo looks for Kadaj and frequently finds him in. While he’s zipping up Kadaj’s half-undone jumpsuit and wiping the white powder off his nose, Yazoo feels more like a male nanny or an unpaid minder than the middle brother of the household. Then again, taking care of other siblings is typically the middle brother’s duty and it’s one that he performs without complaining simply because Kadaj and Loz are all that he cares about on this doomed planet, apart from Mother, of course. But even they can’t search for her all the time. Besides, it does Loz and Kadaj the world of good to blow off some steam every now and again. If they didn’t, those two would probably end up murdering each other and Yazoo cannot allow that.

So here they all are.

This particular establishment is one they haven’t visited before but for Yazoo, one bar is much the same as the other. Dim lighting. Clouds of cigarette smoke that seep into his hair. The unsavoury stink of beer. Tacky floors that the soles of his boots stick to. Jostling crowds. Shouting. Shattering glass. Loud jarring music. Sounds that will leave his ears ringing by the end of the night.

While Loz is leaning his bulky frame over the counter, ordering drinks for himself and an impatient Kadaj, Yazoo glances at the stage set in one side of the large, rectangular room, where most of the noise seems to be coming from. There’s some kind of pop/shock-rock group up there, judging by their Goth-punk style clothing, heavy makeup and spiked hairstyles. He turns to get a better view, ivory gunblade slung comfortably across his back like a sleeping child, silky strands of light-grey sliding over his armoured shoulder as he angles his head inquisitively. From all corners of the tavern he can feel people staring at him, admiring his shimmering hair and lusting over his body, but Yazoo ignores them, focusing instead on the band currently performing. He doesn’t care much for the music, which is quite simply strange and terrible in his opinion, but the lead singer, however, instantly catches his attention. It’s a slim, stunningly pretty young woman in a tight black tank top cropped above the navel, knee high boots and red vinyl pants...

Wait - make that a slim, stunningly pretty young /man/, Yazoo corrects himself, taking a second, more scrutinising look at the lack of curves between hip and waist and the complete absence of any breast tissue on the flat chest beneath the tank top. It’s easy to mistake this boy for a girl, though. Aside from the slimness and ambiguous clothing, he is wearing shadow and liner painted around his dark exotic eyes and has long black hair pulled up into a high ponytail, similar to a samurai, only with a lengthy fringe falling over one half of his delicately-featured face.

As the young man is singing impassionedly along to the energetic music, the husky timbre of his words enthrals Yazoo, sounding raw and raspy, almost like he’s about to lose his voice, like the tone of someone hoarsely crying out during hard, rough sex. Imagining that very scenario causes a tingle of anticipation to begin in Yazoo’s stomach. Hm. Curious. He’s never responded this way to the mere sound of another’s voice before.

Becoming more and more interested by the moment, Yazoo’s green gaze trails over the musician’s other features, trying to take them all in, not sure what to look at first. His figure is very slender, even more so than Yazoo’s, the other male lacking the upper-body strength that Yazoo has; strength gained from practicing and firing Velvet Nightmare as well as the intensive combat training he does with his brothers. This boy’s arms are thin, like a female’s, and covered in tattoos - mainly numerals and word symbols, some running down in a line from shoulder to elbow. There are more ebony letters curving across his collarbones and around his wrists, as well as numbers permanently inked on a few of his fingers. His nails are short and painted with black polish.

The androgynous singer’s brunette hair has coloured streaks in it – blue, red, pink, purple. A brow ring sits haughtily above one eye with another circular piece of jewellery embedded through his nose and a third pierced through the right side of his bottom lip. He also has earrings and plugs in both ears and is wearing necklaces, rings on his fingers and bracelets around his wrists. Yazoo can’t remember the last time he saw someone so…decorated; all these little ornamental details both fascinating and difficult to absorb all at once purely because there’s so many of them. And those are only the tattoos and piercings he can /see/. The Gods only know what others lay underneath the clothing. That’s something Yazoo will have to discover for himself; the tall, silver-haired remnant already having chosen this boy as his lover for the night, whether the boy realises it yet or not.

Yazoo supposes not. Unlike a lot of others here tonight, this kid hasn’t even noticed his presence, the tattooed youth too busy owning the spotlight and basking in it, his every move watched by a sea of spellbound ladies – and more than a couple of guys. It seems that those in the tavern who are not looking at Yazoo are looking at this boy. Understandably, too. Apart from being a breathtaking beauty, he’s an extremely eye-catching, colourful and engrossing entertainer, with tons of bouncy liveliness - racing across the stage as he sings, jumping up and down and stomping his boots, showing off funky, loose-limbed dance moves. He does not stand still for one moment, his behaviour bordering on hyperactive, even crazy, clumsy and geeky at times, but this does not diminish his appeal in the slightest. He plays up to the adoring audience and gives them waves, smiles and mischievous winks, even grazing their outstretched hands with his. He fools around with the other members of the band too; laughing and dancing with the guitarist or the bassist as they’re playing, slinging his arm around their shoulders for a duet, gazing flirtatiously into their eyes, even daring to steal a quick kiss from their cheek before impishly grinning and running away, all the to the delighted screams and squeals of the girls watching.

This must be what they call fanservice, Yazoo muses interestedly, having heard of such things: semi-homoerotic acts performed between fellow musicians during live shows purely to please and excite the fans, some of whom believe certain band members to be involved in a gay relationship, or like to /think/ of them as being involved in one, regardless of whether it’s true or not. Examples of those acts could be dirty-dancing, touching, kissing or even simulated sex – not that this slimly-built boy is going that far. What he’s doing with his friends seems quite tame and innocent, more affectionate and playful than anything explicitly smutty. Fanservice notwithstanding, it’s clear that the lead singer of this group enjoys what he does and gets energised by all the attention, possibly even a bit turned on by it. Aside from having a lot of fun onstage, he’s also a very sensually expressive performer; lifting his top and touching his bare belly as he’s singing, then sliding his hand down into the front of his pants, giving a suggestive little wriggle of his hips.

He’s this extraordinary mix of goofball and sex-god and Yazoo, like everyone else facing this direction, cannot look away from him. He’s utterly mesmerising. Yazoo barely even blinks; too absorbed in what he’s seeing and too afraid he might miss something. The hyper punk-rocker finally spots Yazoo observing him in the crowd, responding with a knowing smirk, his dark gaze quickly flicking up and down Yazoo’s own leather-coated elegant figure. Without taking his eyes off Yazoo, the boy turns his head to deliberately lick at his own bare shoulder with a pointed pink tongue, the erotic move giving the gun-slinging remnant an immediate jolt to the groin, something he hasn’t felt for weeks now, at least not with this sort of intensity. Yazoo vaguely realises that he’s somehow moved forward and merged with the audience, nearer to the stage to see better, but he doesn’t even remember walking over here. If anyone tried to talk to him as he went past, he didn’t even hear them. He can’t even really hear the atrocious music. All he’s fixated on is the samurai-kid’s sexy, husky singing and the way he moves his gorgeous body, Yazoo feeling as though he’s stuck in some kind of trance – a pleasant dream-like state that he’d rather not come out of, actually.

Mid-song, the boy saunters up to one of his band-mates - a blond guitarist - leaning in close to him as if he’s about to whisper a secret or share a private joke. Suddenly, the boy grabs the other male and kisses him full on the mouth, resulting in much gasping and squealing from girls in the audience.

Yazoo’s convinced that the kid is using tongue; those pouty, pierced lips opening easily against the other’s, his long mascara-coated lashes lowered as he abandons himself to the moment. Even if it is just an act, Yazoo can’t help becoming incredibly aroused by the sight of this beautiful boy kissing another man. Thank the Gods he wears a long flowing coat and not tight leather pants like Loz or everyone in this stinking bar would see him growing uncomfortably harder by the second. Another curious thing - him getting hard without being touched by someone else. Or his own hand, not that he indulges in such time-wasting pursuits often. He has better things to do than masturbate in bed like a randy teenager. Unlike weaker, more easily excitable humans, his superior bodily system doesn’t normally react this way on its own just with visual stimuli alone. The powerful effect this cross-dressing youth has on him is quite remarkable and one that Yazoo would very much like to explore further.

The young man finally breaks the hypnotizing kiss, though it was only a relatively short one in reality. He grins and cheekily sticks his tongue out at his friend, then spits onto the floor and continues to sing, wandering over the stage again. The blond guitarist is also grinning as he resumes playing, not minding the surprise attack at all, as if this is something they do often during shows.

From seemingly out of nowhere, Loz appears beside Yazoo with a glass of amber liquid in his gloved hand. He could have been standing there for a while but Yazoo just didn’t notice until now, too immersed in the spectacular show he’s watching. Kadaj has also joined them, stopping on the other side of Yazoo, sipping some type of sweet-smelling liquor from a bottle. Yazoo knows both of his brothers are there not by looking at them but more by feel, his cells recognising their familiar presences in much the same way as a wolf can recognise its pack-mates by scent alone.

“Dude. That chick’s hot!” Loz comments enthusiastically in his trademark deep, booming tone. “I hope she’s not a dyke.”

Rolling his head to slant Loz an amused look, Yazoo replies, “That’s a /boy/, Loz.”

“No way!” Squinting at the pony-tailed performer in the knee-high boots, Loz asks dubiously, “Are you sure?”

Turning back to the singer on the stage, Yazoo murmurs, “I’m sure. No hips. No breasts. No girl.”

“Oh.” Looking distinctly uncomfortable as he comprehends what that means, the bigger brother blurts out, “Anyone want some ice? I want some ice. I’m gonna go over here now and uh, get some. Okay, bye.” With that hastily stammered excuse Loz barrels through the crowd and vanishes, not keen on having Yazoo tease him for finding a guy attractive. Yazoo chuckles after Loz as he goes, his older brother’s naiveté rather entertaining at times.

Kadaj is being very quiet – suspiciously quiet - and so Yazoo finally glances at him, discovering his smaller sibling also staring fixatedly at the beguiling young man with the microphone, a gleam in his green eyes that could possibly develop into full-blown obsession if not halted immediately.

“Don’t even think about it,” Yazoo warns him coldly. “I saw him first. He’s mine.”

Swinging his head around, Kadaj returns with a sharp glare, irritated at his brother’s arrogant tone but when he sees the determined set of Yazoo’s face, he sighs in resigned disappointment. Kadaj knows that his quiet brother doesn’t desire much in this world but when he does, Yaz will do whatever is required to obtain it.

And Gods help anyone who gets in his way.

“Fine. You can have him,” Kadaj grudgingly answers Yazoo, knowing that it’s not worth getting into a duel with his deadly gun-slinging sibling over a piece of ass, no matter how hot it is. “I’ll go find someone else.”

“You do that,” Yazoo advises loftily.

Just as loftily, Kadaj replies, “I will.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

There are a few moments of tense silence between them and then, sounding bored, Yazoo drones, “Are you /still/ here?”

Giving an infuriated ‘humph’, Kadaj turns and leaves, conceding defeat to his elder. Yazoo smirks to himself, knowing that Kadaj won’t be mad at him for long and will soon find another pretty face to obsess over which means his biggest competition in the room for the femme-boy’s affections has now been neutralised. Kadaj also possesses a portion of Allure, though not nearly as much as Yazoo does, his younger brother relying more on conscious, overt sexuality to entice his victims.

Watching someone else with an abundance of sexuality keeps Yazoo fully engrossed for the next half an hour, the long-haired remnant not budging from his perfect position in front of the band, Loz and Kadaj considerately staying away and neglecting to bother him again. He’s not sure what questionable antics his two brothers are up to but doesn’t really care. All he’s occupied with is this wild he-vixen shamelessly strutting all over the stage, the red vinyl pants he’s wearing showing off his small shapely backside beautifully, Yazoo dreamily wondering what it would feel like to hold in his hands. At one point the boy gets out an acoustic guitar and performs unaccompanied, singing while sitting on a stool (and being unusually still except for the nodding of his head and rhythmic stamping of his foot), the sound and tempo of the songs a complete and total contrast to the appallingly trashy noise that’s been polluting the air thus far. Yazoo has very particular musical tastes and what he’s heard coming out of the speakers tonight does not make the grade in his book, not by a long shot.

On the other hand...Just the brunette boy, the huskiness of his voice and his unplugged guitar are much more agreeable to the ears, Yazoo notes with appreciation, the style of the tracks leaning towards bluesy-rock, the lyrics possessing substance and depth rather than consisting of throwaway pop nonsense. The dark-eyed musician is amazingly good with his instrument, his skilful painted fingertips skimming up and down the fretboard and strings, plucking them with easy expertise, the boy clicking his fingers and slapping and tapping the hollow face of the guitar to provide a unique percussive accompaniment to his acoustic tunes. It’s very different to the way Yazoo’s seen anyone else play a guitar but very cool and catchy nonetheless. Yes, Yazoo decides. He likes this unusual sound. If the kid produced a solo album of songs like these he would definitely consider buying it.

During the remainder of the performance, Yazoo is afforded a few glances from the boy perched on the low seat who’s still noticing his attendance in the crowd, and his continued interest. This pleases Yazoo. Every time those heavily made-up, almost-black eyes connect with his glittering green ones it’s like getting a little electric shock and one that runs right down to the tips of his toes, leaving him tingling and somehow more aware and /alive/ than he’s been in a long time. After the show eventually comes to a close, the boy thanks everyone for coming and supporting him and the band, his speaking voice low and quiet, nearly shy; the audience rewarding him with a deafening combination of clapping, whistles, screams and cheers. He laps it up with a huge, cute grin, modestly saying, “Thank you,” one last time before setting his guitar aside, wiping his sweaty brow with a thin arm and gratefully receiving a well-earned drink from one of his band-mates.

Staying back and observing, Yazoo watches the young man welcoming and chatting to his fans, signing a few autographs on CD covers or photos of his own face, even allowing a couple of pictures to be taken with some hysterical, nearly-hyperventilating girls, just about causing Yazoo to roll his eyes and snort in derision. Sure, the tattooed boy is a superstar and he understands the infatuation but Gods, that kind of fangirlish display really isn’t necessary. He freely admits that he’s just as taken with the pretty musician as those other fanatical females are but he prides himself on having more restraint and class than them so it is with a great deal of patience that Yazoo waits in the background of the tavern, seeking the appropriate moment to make his approach.

When that moment comes, and the last fangirl retreats clutching her precious signed photo, Yazoo doesn’t hesitate, striding up to the smaller male, long silver tresses swaying softly about his face as he walks.

Standing by the edge of the stage, the slender singer in the cropped tank top turns and meets Yazoo’s gaze, tilting his chin up at the taller remnant, one pierced eyebrow rising expectantly. The boy is even more striking up close, his skin like creamy butter and his black hair burnished with glossy highlights.

“Hello,” Yazoo greets him in a smooth, rich tone, a flirty smile dancing on his pale lips. “I enjoyed your show. It looked like you were having fun.”

The boy stares at him, not saying anything in return. Yazoo knows his own beauty can overwhelm people when they are face to face with it and as a result, is used to this stunned reaction and indeed, anticipates it. Something he doesn’t anticipate is when the young man abruptly whirls around and bolts, slipping through the crowd to get away from him, just about running in haste, leaving Yazoo surprised, to say the least; his green eyes widened and his mouth slightly opened in disbelief.

Well. That was unexpected.

He didn’t say anything to offend or alarm the boy. In fact, he was going out of his way to appear friendly and non-threatening. Why would the kid just up and leave like that? Hm, perhaps he’s just playing hard to get, Yazoo ponders, angling his head and furrowing his brow in thought. Perhaps he wants Yazoo to go after him. Or perhaps he’s just incredibly bashful, in spite of his on-stage shock-antics. Whatever the reason, the very fact that he ran makes Yazoo want him even more.

And what Yazoo wants, Yazoo always gets.

Always.

Smiling seductively, he begins heading in the same direction as the fleeing boy, commencing the chase.