Irresistible

A/N: Hello and thank you to everyone who’s commented on this fic so far! I’m really, really happy you like it. It’s fun being inside Yazoo’s head for a change! This story is growing longer and longer (because I can’t friggin’ help myself when it comes to describing shit in a very detailed fashion :P) so there’s actually gonna be 3 parts now instead of 2. There is something I must point out before I go any futher, though, and it’s this: the black-haired boy Yazoo is chasing is NOT Vincent Valentine. It’s also not Tseng. It’s not anybody from the Final Fantasy universe, in fact. I kinda lied when I said my character was not based on any actual persons because he sort of is. Okay, he /totally/ is. Before you read this update, I’d advise you to go Google/YouTube this simple word:

Miyavi.

You’ll thank me later. ;)

This chapter is dedicated to BMIK/Schwaerze. Hey, sweetie! I had hoped you would be able to read this before you took off to Japan (you lucky, lucky bitch! Wish I was going with you…) but if not, hopefully you’ll be able to read it over there in some internet café where you get served coffee by cute Japanese boys in stockings and frilly waitress dresses. ^__^ Enjoy your trip and tell me all about it when you get home, okay? (and take lot of pictures of the *ahem* wildlife, won’t you…)

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Part two.

The tavern is quite crowded by this stage of the night and Yazoo has to sidestep and weave through the unhelpful civilians in his way, trying to keep his line of vision above them all and not lose sight of the shorter, smaller performer who’s attempting to elude him for some peculiar reason, the nimble boy lapping around various billiard tables, lounge chairs and high, circular bar tables, hoping that enough evasive manoeuvres will make Yazoo lose interest and call it quits. Unlikely. Yazoo isn’t the type to abandon a chase, especially not if there’s a delightful prize wrapped in red vinyl waiting for him at the end of it. Every now and again the kid glances behind himself to check if Yazoo is still coming after him. Which of course, Yazoo is. He’s not letting this vivacious little vixen get away from him, the taller male keeping pace in swift strides, his divided leather overcoat slapping against the sides of his boots as he’s in pursuit.

Predictably, some horny, half-drunk idiot in the beer-drinking crowd spots Yazoo going past, incorrectly assuming by the calf-length coat and long hair that he’s a hot chick. The guy starts to ask lecherously, “Heey, baby. Do you wanna-” but Yazoo interrupts with a flat, “Not even in your dreams,” and keeps on walking without even sparing the guy a glance. The second man that propositions him, Yazoo outright ignores.

And the third. And the fourth.

The fifth actually dares to stand right in front of him, preventing his passage through the tavern and restricting his view of the boy. He’s a heavy-set, thick-browed fellow who looks like he just crawled out of a cave, lost his tail and learned how to walk upright. By this time, Yazoo has had enough, the normally calm brother’s mood swiftly shifting into dangerous irritation. In a sharp, aggravated motion, he whips Velvet Nightmare out of its sheath, swinging the ivory weapon over his shoulder and aiming it right between the man’s alarmed bloodshot eyes.

“Whoa, take it easy, honey! Don’t get your knickers in a knot,” the guy stupidly says, evidently not realising that Yazoo is a man who, incidentally, could bust his hairy ass up in ten different and highly efficient ways without even breaking a sweat.

“I’m NOT your honey,” Yazoo growls lowly. “Now, get the fuck out of my way or I will shoot you in the face.”

Gulping, the guy backs off, colour leeching from his cheeks. “Shit! My bad, dude,” he stammers. “Sorry!”

“You should be,” Yazoo returns icily, staring at the fellow for a few more menacing moments before sheathing his weapon. He’s not being generous – it’s just that this repulsive sack of scrotal skin isn’t worth wasting even one round of ammunition on. He narrows his eyes at the other men standing around observing the scene with their jaws hanging open.

“If any of you other rock-apes want to speak to me…Don’t,” he advises in a threatening tone. “However, if you feel like having your skull shattered and your brain matter slopped on the floor like fresh, steaming dog-vomit, go right ahead.”

After that gruesome description, a wide circle magically appears around Yazoo and with a dismissive, “Hmph,” of disgust he leaves, able to cut through the crowd much more easily now, his eyes darting around the smoke-saturated room, searching for a glimpse of a dark ponytail with coloured highlights in it, the pale-skinned gunman starting to feel a little anxious that he might have lost the boy in the preceding distraction. Anxiety is not something he’s used to feeling and it doesn’t sit well with him. Beginning to get almost angry, he’s about to turn around and go back to savagely kill the fucker that delayed him when he spies a flash of pink and purple disappearing behind the back of the stage. His murderous rage instantly dissipating, something very much akin to joy fills Yazoo’s chest and with a restored sense of purpose, he heads over to the raised platform where the energetic musical artist had been performing earlier. There are two layers of red curtains draping the rear of the stage and a smallish boy-shaped bulge is passing quickly behind them; the young vocalist skilled at playing his guitar but clearly not at hide and seek.

Almost leisurely, like he knows this is a game he cannot lose, Yazoo parts and pushes through the curtaining; his nostrils assailed with an old mildewed, musty smell; the velvet material most likely not having been cleaned in years. There’s a narrow space between it and the wall and that’s what’s the boy is squeezing through, going towards the opposite side of the stage, probably to where the fire exit is located. Yazoo follows, not afraid of small spaces, his keen eyes cutting through the darkness and dusty haze. The curtained material ripples at the other end of as the boy zips out of it, sneezing with all the dust he’d breathed in. Thinking he’s safe, the kid pauses to wipe at his nose and catch his breath but then, spotting Yazoo emerging from the faded red drapes like a theatre ghost, he stiffens. Shooting Yazoo an exasperated ‘don’t-you-ever-give-up?’ kind of look, the brunette boy jogs off, shoving through the crowd once more and ducking into the men’s restrooms to hide.

As if he can really hide from someone like Yazoo, the patient remnant still smiling as crosses to the amenities a few moments later and enters the tiled room, knowing that this doorway is the only way in or out of the place. The kid can’t escape without running head-first into Yazoo and then this game will all be over. Then Yazoo will get what he wants. Some of the toilet cubicles are vacant with the doors ajar while a few are shut. Yazoo starts pushing them open, one by one. The first two are empty, the doors having fallen closed on their own. The third one is locked and Yazoo bends down to peer underneath, discovering a pair of black leather boots remarkably similar to the ones the runaway musician is wearing. The boots face away from him, as if their owner has his back to the door, perhaps with the intention of keeping it shut. Confident that he has his boy, Yazoo stands back up, turns to the side and lifts his foot, sharply kicking the door open and busting the lock with a splintering sound. The white laminate smacks into the rear of the occupant – resulting in a surprised yelp - bounces back against the doorframe and then slowly swings open again.

Kadaj’s jade eyes stare at him in shock.

His younger brother is sitting on the closed toilet-lid, legs wrapped around the thighs of another man, one with long blond hair. They’re not naked but they’re evidently getting there, Kadaj’s top zipped open to the belly button and the other man’s shirt undone. Judging by the swollen, reddened state of Kadaj’s lips they’ve been making out fairly intensely.

“Yaz, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he exclaims in infuriated outrage.

Glancing at the second, unidentified male’s knee-high footwear, Yazoo blinks blankly. If he’d seen Kadaj’s boots under the door he’d have recognised the distinctive yellow stitching around the soles straight away but these ones look almost exactly like the pair his future lover has on.

“I apologise,” he murmurs, meeting his brother’s furious green glower. “I was looking for someone else.”

“Apologise to him,” Kadaj commands, pointing to his companion. “You hit him in the back with the door.”

“I’m sorry,” Yazoo mechanically replies. “That was most rude of…”

He stops, frowning at the other man who looks awfully familiar somehow, though Yazoo is sure they have never met. Or fucked. He’s handsome in a flashy kind of way with leather pants, a studded belt and a leopard-print shirt. In fact, he almost looks like a musician of some sort…

With a sudden click, it all becomes crystal-clear to Yazoo.

It’s the boy’s band-mate. The blond guitarist. The one the boy kissed on-stage.

Realising what this means, Yazoo’s lips begin to curl into a smirk and soon he’s chuckling, folding his arms over his chest and gazing at his younger brother in entertained enjoyment.

“What?” Kadaj demands impatiently.

“You couldn’t have what you wanted so you went after the next best thing instead.” Yazoo shakes his head mockingly. “Why, brother. That’s just sad.”

Knowing exactly what Yazoo is talking about, Kadaj flushes. “Fuck off, Yazoo,” he snaps. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Yazoo’s smirk broadens as he intentionally glances at the erect bulge in the front of Kadaj’s pants-suit. “Oh, I see that. Having fun, are we?”

The blond guitarist stands there awkwardly holding Kadaj’s legs, not knowing what is going on here or who this beautiful but sarcastic silver-haired woman is that kicked the door open and whacked him in the back with it. Must be Kadaj’s sister. Though she sure has a low voice…

Growing ever more pissed by the second, Kadaj is about to repeat his impolite request for Yazoo to leave in a louder volume, when he recalls the words his older sibling had just spoken. “Wait, you’re looking for someone? Who?”

He squints questioningly at Yazoo through the white-grey strands of his chin-length fringe and then, figuring it out all by himself, a cruel grin of comprehension spreads across his misleadingly cherubic face.

“Oh my Gods. It’s HIM, isn’t it? You lost him!” Rather unsympathetically, Kadaj throws his head back and starts to laugh. “Oh, man! You let one get away. Wait til I tell Loz about this!”

“I didn’t /lose/ him,” Yazoo declares stiffly. “He’s in here somewhere, and now if you don’t mind I’m going to…”

There’s the slamming noise of a door being hastily thrown open and a blur of red and black whizzes past, the very boy Yazoo has been tracking making a rushed departure from the cubicle he was cowering in, exiting the restrooms like an alarm to evacuate the building has been sounded or a bomb threat has just been called in.

Yazoo sighs. “Terrific.”

Kadaj just laughs even harder. “Dude, what did you DO to him?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem,” Yazoo mutters, turning away and striding through the still-swinging bathroom door, leaving his laughing little brother alone to play.

Back in the bar Yazoo scans the room again, shortly locating the speedy singer trying to evade him, catching his thinner frame slipping out the fire exit, just as Yazoo predicted he’d end up doing sooner or later. Rather than dodge through all these obstructive, oafish tavern-dwellers again, he simply bends his knees and then springs up into a flying forward jump, clearing over everybody in a soaring dive, platinum hair fluttering behind him. He does it so swiftly and smoothly that hardly anybody even notices him sailing over their heads like a superhero and those that do think they’ve drunk too much and are imagining things. Crouching into a tuck and then landing lightly on his feet, Yazoo arrives right in front of the exit in a much shorter amount of time than he would have if he’d walked that distance – mere seconds in actuality. Fortunately, the old inn has a very high cathedral ceiling or he wouldn’t have even attempted such a move for fear of cracking his forehead open on the thick wooden beams above. He presumes that it would be a rather difficult task to charm someone with blood dripping into his eyes, especially an unpredictable and fickle young man like the one he’s chasing. He has to look his best and without even checking in a mirror, he already knows he does.

Pushing the door open, he steps outside into the back alley paved with cobblestones, the air much cooler and fresher out here. Two squat dumpsters full of empty bottles and cans for recycling are sitting against one wall along with a few drained ale barrels, the smell of stale alcohol no worse than the smell inside the tavern itself. A small rusty lamp hangs over the door, providing enough illumination to see partially up and down the narrow lane, both far ends disappearing into shadows. It leads in two directions; to the left is the main street that the bar is situated on and to the right is a dead end with a towering chain-link fence. Yazoo could easily leap straight over it but a mere human wouldn’t have a chance. In his haste to get away the boy turned right and has only just realised his error, backtracking and turning around. He stops still when he sees that Yazoo has found him, freezing like a nocturnal animal with a bright torch suddenly shone on it, eyes big and black, his metallic jewellery glinting in the dark. Feeling victorious in his capture, Yazoo shuts the door behind him, the noise of the tavern’s occupants muting to a dull roar. Picking up a stray bread knife that has found its way from the kitchen onto the ground, he wedges it between the door and the wooden jamb, stopping anyone from opening it from the inside and interrupting the fun he is about to have.

Standing at the open end of the alley to block it, Yazoo smiles at the frozen boy. It’s not an evil, malicious smile, just a pleasant, faintly amused one. In a light, teasing tone he says, “I have you cornered. Now, stop this silly nonsense and come here to me.”

He holds out his hand invitingly, expecting the boy to slowly walk over and take it.

Instead, the boy gives a short, defiant shake of his head. “No.”

Just like before when the kid first bolted, Yazoo is puzzled again. Nobody says no to him! Allure never fails. Lowering his hand, he takes a step forward. The boy steps back, even though he’s got nowhere to go. He’s not playing hard to get. He doesn’t seem bashful either. It’s as though he truly doesn’t want to be anywhere near Yazoo.

Hearing the perplexity in his own voice, Yazoo enquires in confusion, “Why are you running from me?”

“Why are you following me? You a stalker?” The young man asks warily, as though he’s had some of them before.

Yazoo tilts his head, growing more and more bewildered with each passing moment. “Do you believe I want to hurt you? Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” The other male lifts his chin challengingly, keeping a cagey, narrowed gaze on Yazoo’s more intimidating figure. “I saw you looking at me in the crowd, dude. Staring at me. Just like you’re doing now. Don’t you ever fucking blink?”

Frowning slightly, Yazoo suddenly realises that the boy really doesn’t understand what’s going on here. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel the magnetism, the pull, the lure. Yazoo is sending it out in waves but it’s as though the intended recipient is immune to it. Yazoo has never met anybody with immunity before. The only way this pony-tailed performer could possibly be resistant to the spellbinding siren-song of Allure is if….

“You have it yourself,” he says in an astonished murmur, his green eyes widening a fraction. Well, now. How extraordinarily intriguing. This tattooed wild-child possesses the very same power of desirability that Yazoo does. It explains why Yazoo was so taken with him upon first sight, why he was so captivated with the kid and why he could not tear his gaze away. This explains why Yazoo wants him so much, above everyone else in the bar he could have and it also provides a rational explanation as to why he pursued the boy through the tavern in such a preoccupied, determinedly purposeful manner, like a man obsessed; like a hunter with one single goal – not to slay or slaughter but to touch, to kiss, to taste and to take.

Yazoo is now the one lured, instead of the other way around.

The black-haired boy may be impervious to Allure’s potent influence but for some unknown reason Yazoo isn’t. He’s caught and trapped by it, like a deadly bird of prey entangled in the web of a much smaller and much more harmless orb-spider. The peculiar irony of the situation causes a quiet chuckle to escape from the remnant’s throat, his lips curving in amazement.

The boy looks annoyed. “What’s so funny?”

Yazoo makes a graceful dismissive motion, still smiling. “Never mind. Rest assured - I do not intend to harm even a single hair on your rather pretty head.”

Glancing distrustfully at the sheath slung behind Yazoo’s back and the large gun-butt protruding out of it, the guitarist rebounds, “Oh, yeah? What’s that for, then?”

“This is purely for my own protection,” Yazoo explains, sparing Velvet Nightmare a glance over his own shoulder, his gaze almost loving, as if it’s his pet that he carries around everywhere. “Like you, I tend to get stalked. I do understand why you’re wary of me. But I have no desire to use my gunblade on you.”

Yazoo smiles again, this time more with calculated seductiveness. “Besides, I have another… weapon…in mind for that.”

He lets his sultry gaze wander down the boy’s willowy body and then back up again, deliberately and measuredly, focusing on the youth’s thighs, trim waist and the tiny little nipple-nubs showing through his tank top, Yazoo playing with a lock of his own hair as he does so, coyly twisting it around his gloved finger like a schoolgirl flirting with her crush. He ends this visual undressing by boldly meeting the boy’s eyes, Yazoo batting his lashes and licking his upper lip for emphasis. It’s a crudely obvious ploy but it seems he needs to be obvious or the flighty musician will have no idea what Yazoo wants from him. It’s been a while since Yazoo’s had to seduce someone the old fashioned way. Allure usually does all the work for him, unconsciously and automatically, much the same way that his heart beats on its own without him having to think about it. Normally, all he has to do is smile or wink and he can make a room full of grown men trample over each other to get to him first but now he has to actually make a real effort, just to win the amorous attention of one scrawny kid. It seems to be working, though, as the boy starts to look less suspicious and more shrewd.

“You want sex.”

A silvery brow rises upwards. “Blunt. I like that.”

Since the other young man is being so straightforward, Yazoo decides to return the favour and save them some precious time.

“Yes, I want sex,” he states, gazing evenly at the brown-eyed male. “Am I someone you might consider doing that with?”

Yazoo feels odd asking this, as such doubts are almost unheard of for him, but it’s the only way to find out if he’s attractive to this boy without his regular powers of seduction. Hell, the kid could even be straight, for all Yazoo knows, despite him kissing his own band-mates. Yazoo has bedded straight men before – and quite easily too - but with no Allure…he might not be so successful. Not knowing how someone feels about him is a novel experience for Yazoo and finds it bizarrely exciting, making him uncharacteristically eager to learn the answer.

Mulling over the question posed to him, the gifted guitarist distractedly fidgets with the ring in his lower lip, using the tip of his tongue to toy with the coil of metal and wiggle it about. It’s not a proper ring; more of a spiral that doesn’t join, the two ends finishing with little black points of plastic. He does this in an absent fashion while he checks out Yazoo in much the same way as Yazoo was doing to him earlier – the boy’s dark almond-shaped eyes dropping down to the remnant’s boots and then gradually travelling upwards again, taking in the long pair of leather-encased legs, the curve of a slender waist beneath a form-fitting trench coat, the flat stomach leading up to a strong upper body and arms, the luxurious sweep of silver hair over broad, armoured shoulders, the brunette’s appraising gaze finally lingering over Yazoo’s prettily feminine face with its long-lashed emerald eyes and plush, pinkish-blue lips. Apparently finding Yazoo’s looks pleasing and acceptable, the boy nods to himself, having made his decision.

“Take that off,” he orders, indicating to Yazoo’s gun. “Then maybe we talk.”

His confidence renewed, Yazoo smiles to himself, knowing that talking is not all they’re going to do, but he does as asked, slipping the holster over his head and laying it on the ground, the second male closely watching his every move just in case Yazoo does turn out to be a crazy stalker with plans to assassinate him. On any normal night, Yazoo would not remove his weapon and put it aside so casually, especially in the presence of a stranger, but he wants the boy to trust him and the only way to achieve that is to go along with his requests.

“There.” Yazoo straightens and moves forward, away from Velvet Nightmare, hands held palm-up and open to show that he means no harm. “Is that better?”

The punk-rocker lifts his chin again, in what Yazoo is beginning to recognise as a signal of stubbornness and defiance. “You should take your coat off too. Just so I know you don’t have anything dangerous hidden under there.”

Inwardly smirking at all the sexually suggestive responses he could reply with, Yazoo tactfully keeps his comments to himself, instead answering with a compliant, “As you wish.”

While he’s unsnapping his chest-straps and reaching for the neck-zipper of his trench coat, Yazoo is mildly shocked to realise that he’s doing whatever this boy asks him to. Willingly. This must be how it feels to be a victim of Yazoo’s own allure. It’s unusual for the remnant to be on the other side. Unusual and exhilarating.

Unzipping to the navel, Yazoo slips the scuffed black leather from his shoulders, letting it slither down his bare biceps and forearms, over his hips and down his legs, pooling at his feet like a 3D shadow. He elegantly steps out of the puddled item, standing there in just his tall boots and low-waisted, figure-hugging pants. The night air is a few degrees chillier out here than inside the tavern and the warmth of his flesh reacts, the skin across his chest tightening, and his pale nipples along with it. Lifting his still-gloved hands in a cooperative gesture, he turns in a small circle, allowing the cautious kid to check him out from all angles and ascertain that he is indeed not carrying any more weapons on his person.

“Satisfied?”

Rather than react to the somewhat taunting question, the brunette gazes at Yazoo’s unclothed chest and arms, appearing surprised and impressed by how muscular and well-developed Yazoo actually is.

“I really thought you were a woman,” the boy admits in wonder. “Until you opened your mouth and spoke. That’s why I ran.”

He gives a self-conscious laugh, scratching awkwardly at his shoulder.

“Your deep voice freaked me out, man.”

“I get that a lot,” Yazoo replies with a tolerant twitch of his lips. “If it’s any consolation to you, I thought you were a girl at first too. You’re particularly pretty. But then you already know that, don’t you?”

Peeling both of his gloves off and letting them fall onto the ground next to his coat, Yazoo shifts forward and lifts seeking white fingers to the boy’s smooth cheek, drawn to feel that light-golden loveliness for himself. The smaller male flinches and pulls back, as though he thinks Yazoo is going to hit him.

“Could you stand still for five minutes and let me touch you?” Yazoo reprimands in mild humour. “If I was going to hurt you, child, I would have done so by now. However, I don’t want to do that – I only want to give you pleasure.”

His voice drops a few octaves, lowering to a resonant purr.

“Trust me. I’m an expert in pleasure. Giving. Receiving. But mainly giving…”

The purring seems to have worked because when Yazoo reaches out again, this time the kid doesn’t cringe, standing his ground and squaring his chin daringly, dark eyes glittering and fearless.

“I’m not a child,” he states in insulted insolence.

“Oh, I’m aware of that,” Yazoo replies abstractedly. “Just humour me.”

The other young man seems a little mystified by this but, tempted by the prospect of being pleasured, he allows Yazoo to move closer.


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To be continued...