Irresistible

A/N: Hello, my loyal readers! Apologies for the delay in this update, especially to Schwaerze, who I know has been going out of her mind with impatience for more Yazoo/Miyavi hotness. Well, wait no longer, my dear, because here it is! (Dedicated to you and everyone else who likes this pairing and has left me lovely comments)

Now I shall sit back and wait for the excited reviews and general fangirling squees to roll in. XD

…………

Part three.

Since the boy isn’t trying to climb the chain-link fence in fear and has given him a silent sort of permission to invade his personal space, Yazoo steps right into it. Instead of going for the boy’s face again, Yazoo begins lower, extending his hand towards one long, slender arm, moving slowly and cautiously, mindful of not startling the skittish creature it’s attached to. Watching him performing up on the stage, Yazoo thought the singer was small and short but now, standing right in front of him, he realises that the second male is remarkably tall. Around six foot, actually. Of course, Yazoo is taller but only by a couple of inches and the boy can look him square in the eye, no problem. What makes this musician appear tiny in comparison to Yazoo is the much leaner build of his body, which is thin and delicate in design and makes him seem almost fragile. Ordinarily, Yazoo does not care about being tender or gentle with his lovers but he feels compelled to be careful with this one in case he breaks him so when Yazoo touches his slimmer partner, it is very lightly, fingertips skimming over silken, warm flesh. The young man’s complexion is a few shades creamier and more sun-kissed than Yazoo’s much paler, moonlight-white one, and is clear and unblemished, apart from the numerous tattoos. Yazoo is pleased to see goose-bumps rise on the other’s arm as he slides his palm along it, past an elbow, over the number ‘4’ etched on a small bicep, past twin rings of inked words on the upper part of the arm, and finally, arriving at a narrow shoulder. There’s a large tattoo on that too, another word symbol. The fascinated remnant moves inward and brushes his thumb over one embellished collarbone, thick letters of black pigment staining the skin over it, and then brings his fingers up to the side of the finest-looking throat he’s ever seen. There’s no tattooing work done here and the unmarked arch is long and elegantly curved, holding Yazoo’s interest much longer than a neck normally would have, his bewitched eyes playing over the statuesque flawlessness of the creamy column. He can’t stop staring at it. Then Yazoo realises why it’s so strangely captivating.

There’s no Adam’s apple.

None. Not a lump or bump to be seen. For an alarming moment, Yazoo believes he was mistaken in assuming the musician’s gender and that he’s actually touching a feisty young lady and not a boy. A quick glance downwards at a very flat chest does nothing to assist Yazoo because if this /is/ a woman, she could just be one of those naturally skinny ones who didn’t grow breasts or hips. Lack of cleavage doesn’t prove anything.

But neither does the absence of a prominent larynx.

Still confusingly undecided, Yazoo carefully tips the brunette’s head back a bit, arching that swan-like neck even further, until suddenly, there it is. A tell-tale bulge emerges under the skin, sitting unusually high in the throat and hiding there until exposed, small but indisputably present, proving once and for all that this stunning waif is not female but masculine, just as much as Yazoo is.

Reassured that he hasn’t turned hetero after all, Yazoo tilts the boy’s head back down, moving aside his long dark fringe so he can gaze upon that strikingly feminine face, the slim singer observing Yazoo’s reactions from behind half-lowered lashes, as if curious about what the other man is thinking. Keeping his thoughts to himself for the moment, Yazoo’s fingers trail up the side of the second male’s throat and skim under a cute ringed ear, moving to the back of his neck. Beneath his ponytail the rocker has an undercut – where the underneath and sides of his hair have been shaved or clipped extra short – and it is beginning to grow back. The new hair has the fine softness of ebony rabbit-fur, particularly on his nape and he visibly shivers when Yazoo stokes over it, as if that part of his neck is especially sensitive.

Yazoo’s exploring touch shifts across to an angled jaw line, fingertips gliding along it to reach a small chin and a delectable pout, the remains of glittery iced-pink lip gloss still sparkling on the musician’s mouth. He rubs the pad of his thumb over that mouth, making it part a fraction, Yazoo touching the silver spiral implanted through the full lower lip, seeing it move within the soft flesh. The Sephiroth remnant continues gazing at his charming captive’s features, drinking them in and imprinting each on his memory to dream about later.

Eyes tilted up mysteriously at the edges, exotically-coloured irises like burnt chocolate or black coffee, highly-arched brows in light brown, cheekbones perfectly shaped and sculpted, perfect little nose, perfect pouting lips. Some people would think it a crime to pierce holes through such exquisite perfection but not Yazoo. The metal facial jewellery draws the focus to those areas and only enhances the boy’s beauty, certainly doing nothing to diminish it.

The fidgety guitarist can’t keep quiet any longer, finally enquiring, “What exactly are you looking at?”

“You. Gods, you’re so beautiful,” Yazoo answers, his voice awed and reverent. “In truth, I think you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen.”

After saying that Yazoo experiences a weird sense of déjà vu, realising that’s exactly what people say to /him/ when they’re trying to get in his pants. He never thought he’d meet anyone prettier and more seductive than himself but it’s finally happened.

And here he was thinking it was going to be a dull, boring night.

“Oh, the wicked things I’m going to do to you, my little one,” Yazoo murmurs promisingly and sexily, rubbing his thumb over the urban urchin’s full, ripe lips again. “I’m so glad we met.”

Sounding slightly nervous, the boy swallows and confesses, “I have a girlfriend, you know.”

Pausing, Yazoo raises a brow at his colourful companion. “Are you telling me that you’re straight?”

The brunette shrugs abashedly. “Usually.”

Smiling in complete understanding, Yazoo offers, “It’s okay. A lot of people are straight until they meet me.”

Yazoo might not have Allure at his command right now but apparently it’s not required. The kid seems to find him just as attractive without it. At least, attractive enough to want to cheat on his girlfriend, even though he feels guilty about it. This knowledge appeals to the vainer side of Yazoo’s nature.

“You don’t have to worry about anyone finding out what we’re doing,” he assures the uneasy performer, squeezing him comfortingly on the shoulder. “What happens in this alley, stays in this alley. All right?”

The boy nods, looking thankful and relieved. Yazoo thinks it’s adorable how the kid actually has a conscience.

Putting both hands on his partner’s upper arms, the silver-head begins to lean down, intent on sampling that lush, sparkly mouth for himself. Unexpectedly, or perhaps not so unexpectedly, the indecisive singer pulls back, preventing Yazoo from doing so.

“Now what?” Yazoo sighs in extreme patience, noting that the wary expression has returned to the other’s eyes. “I already swore that I wouldn’t hurt you. Why are you still flinching from me?”

“Because.”

At the frustratingly undescriptive answer, Yazoo presses, “What? Am I not good enough for you? Don’t you find me pretty?”

“Sure.” The kid shrugs. “Pretty enough for me to think you were a chick.”

“Then what’s the problem? Why won’t you kiss me?”

“I don’t /know/ you.”

“I see.” Thinking of the performer’s blatant tongue-tangling session on stage, Yazoo remarks with the mildest hint of jealousy, “That man in your band - the blond one. You kissed him. Why?”

The other male shrugs again. “Oh, that. It’s just something we do.” Smirking, he says, “The audience goes crazy for it.”

Recalling all the squeals and screams earlier, Yazoo gives a dry ‘Hmph’.

“It looked like you were rather enjoying it to me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend or anything, if that’s what you’re getting at,” the brunette insists. “I’m not attracted to him like that.”

Cocking his smoky-grey head in a challenging manner, Yazoo proposes, “Well, if you can kiss someone you have no intention of sleeping with, then surely you can kiss me. Or despite your swaggering attitude, are you too scared to?”

Reacting to Yazoo’s purposeful provoking, the vexing vocalist angrily lifts his chin and dares, “You wanna make out? Fine, then. Let’s do it.”

Each of them tries to be the dominant, assertive one and initiate the act but they both collide at exactly the same time, Yazoo yanking the kid towards him while the kid lunges forward, their mouths crashing together in the middle, the sharp plastic points of the musician’s metal piercing digging into Yazoo’s lower lip and chin, the two males growling a little in their throats at the savagery of their first kiss. Every single one of Yazoo’s cells electrifies as he finally gets to sample those sinful lips for himself, feeling how cushiony and supple they are, how easily they meld to his. Rushing with sexually-charged adrenaline, Yazoo sucks and bites at those lips, licking at them and probing at the seam between them, insisting entrance to the wet cavern inside. Not allowing Yazoo to be in charge yet, the slender singer roughly pushes his tongue into the remnant’s hot, demanding mouth, showing that he can give as good as he gets. It starts off as a rough duelling battle to begin with, Yazoo wanting to erase the blond guitarist’s taste from the boy’s mouth and replace it with his own while the boy attempts to prove that he’s not afraid of this, or of Yazoo, boldly pressing up against the remnant’s leanly-muscled shirtless body while their tongues twine and twist together, heatedly and hungrily, the small spiked hoop at the corner of the singer’s mouth a sharp but titillating object between them.

Gradually, the two men soften their contact, not so much battling for dominance any longer, as they are both equally determined and neither is going to win here, but rather slowing down and experiencing the moment, getting to know each other’s flavour and individual kissing style. Taking time to enjoy the event of seducing a new lover, Yazoo prefers to kiss deeply and unhurriedly, his tongue-stokes penetrating and intimate, much like having sex is. The hyper rock-singer is more impatient and excitable, his tongue quick and eager, darting more than stroking, but with quiet murmurs and gently chastising nips on his bottom lip, Yazoo coaxes him into settling down and matching his slower, more measured pace. When they are completely and thoroughly acquainted with each other’s mouths, Yazoo ends the kiss, placing one last peck on the edge of the youth’s puffy lips, right where the ring is.

Gazing at the boy with heavily-lidded eyes of desire, Yazoo caresses his tattooed upper arm, murmuring, “Mmm. I must say, you taste even better than you look.”

Drawling, the kid replies, “You haven’t seen /all/ of me yet.”

A smirk starts to curve across Yazoo’s now-flushed lips. “Is that an invitation?”

“What do you think?”

“I think yes. Now, stand still while I get you undressed.” In a warning tone, Yazoo adds, “And if you try to run I WILL stop you. By any means necessary.”

Surprisingly, the punk does as he’s told, remaining motionless and cooperative as Yazoo takes hold of the bottom hem of his black crop-top, rumpling it upwards.

“Be a good boy and raise your arms for me.”

As the brunette complies and lifts his hands above his head, Yazoo notices that his armpits are smooth-shaven and can’t help but ponder if anything else down further is too. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, Yazoo idly thinks, pulling the musician’s shirt off and lapping up the much-anticipated sight of his now topless torso. Despite his above average height, the second young man really is a wispy, willowy thing, so lightly and slenderly formed with hardly any muscles to speak of but it doesn’t matter because he’s oh so sexy and svelte to look at. His little nipples are flat and caramel-coloured. They are unpierced and untouched but there are more tattoos on the centre of his chest, on his ribs and beneath his belly button. Each must have its own meaning and Yazoo is interested to know what they all are but now is not the time for asking. Questions can wait until later. He needs to claim his conquest first.

Allowing the sleeveless shirt to drift to the cobblestones on top of his own discarded coat, Yazoo grips the boy by the shoulders, firmly holding him in place so Yazoo can walk around behind him to see what other bodily decorations there are to behold. The remnant’s cat-like eyes widen at what he discovers under the lamplight and he releases a slow breath of awe. The guitarist’s whole back is covered in lines and lines of words, like the page of a book, the tonal contrast between the clear-cut black symbols engraved upon soft creamy-gold skin both stark and artistically arresting. Trailing a fingertip down one row of letters, Yazoo can’t help being tremendously impressed by the boy’s pain-tolerance levels because getting needled in so many places must have hurt like hell, especially right over the bony areas, like the shoulder blades and spine. This kid is like a walking piece of artwork and one that Yazoo would gladly own and keep around the lair, if Kadaj would allow it. Which he wouldn’t, of course. Nobody is allowed back to their secret hideout. It’s best if Yazoo doesn’t bring the boy back there anyway because Kadaj would only end up getting envious and trying to steal him away.

And Yazoo will not have that. This irresistible little fairy-prince belongs to him. Or he will...very, very shortly.

Walking back around to face the first male, Yazoo lets his fingers sweep across from shoulder to collarbone, the taller man continuing down the middle of the boy’s flat chest, reaching one nipple and grazing over it, watching it pebble before his eyes. Stooping his tall form, Yazoo cradles the young man by the waist and lowers his head down to lick at the miniature nub of flesh, feeling it pucker under his tongue, the slight involuntary movement making his groin tingle. Softly moaning at how erotic this is, Yazoo shifts to the other nub, enclosing it with his mouth and coating it in his saliva, awarding it a gentle bite before drawing back to lightly blow air onto the area.

“Uh, hey,” the boy interrupts reluctantly, tugging on Yazoo’s hair. “Sorry to stop you there but...um... You’re kinda wasting your time.”

Halting, Yazoo lifts his head and stares at him from beneath his fringe, ashy brows beginning to pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t feel a thing when you do that.”

“Really? Nothing?” Yazoo must confess to being bewildered. His own nipples are very receptive to touching and stimulating. He just assumed this femme-boy’s would be too.

Glancing at the kid’s erect peaks, he points out, “But they’re hard.”

“It’s cool out here. That’s all.” The singer gives a casual shrug. “That’s why I don’t have them pierced. It wouldn’t do anything for me.”

“Well, what /does/ do it for you, then?” Yazoo inquires, needing to know how to please this unique elfin creature in his arms. “What parts do you like touched? Or kissed? Apart from the obvious.”

“Oh, you know. Bits,” the other vaguely replies, gesturing to the front and sides of his neck. “Like around there.”

“Your throat?”

The gender-bending guitar player affords a nod and then turns his forearm over, displaying slightly paler skin beneath and the subtle network of blue veins running under it.

“Or here,” he continues, almost shyly sweeping two fingertips down from the underside of his wrist to his inner elbow.

Pulse points, Yazoo notes interestedly, already keen to nibble on them.

“Even here is good,” the boy carries on, describing an oval around his flat belly with one black-painted nail. He quirks one groomed brow at Yazoo. “That give you enough options?”

“Plenty,” Yazoo purrs, pulling him close, intending to put what he’s learned into practice, beginning with lifting the first male’s arm to his lips and pushing down the many bracelets, kissing the tender inside part of his wrist. The boy’s fingers curl automatically, polished ebony nails coming to rest on his palm. His breathing hitches a little as Yazoo’s mouth commences following the largest vein in his forearm, stopping every few millimetres to place a soft, sucking kiss along the path, long silvery hair brushing across the singer’s skin, heightening the sensitivity there. Sensing the kid’s slight shiver, Yazoo introduces his tongue and slowly licks the rest of the way up, finishing in the crook of the boy’s elbow. The pony-tailed performer arches his sylphlike body, a short whimpering noise escaping him seemingly without his will. Now, that’s more the response Yazoo was looking for. Briefly smiling, the green-eyed man lavishes another lick over that responsive elbow-crease, getting exactly the same reaction as before.

“You like that a lot, don’t you?” he comments murmuringly, carrying on further, up over the boy’s bicep to his shoulder, nibbling as he goes. He doesn’t expect the boy to answer and it’s really not necessary because it’s quite evident by the way he sighs and shifts nearer that he likes what Yazoo is doing.

“What about you?” The songwriter ventures, tentatively resting his palms either side of Yazoo’s ribs. “What do you like, man?”

“Don’t worry about me. I like everything,” Yazoo mutters distractedly between kisses. “Especially you, my beautiful brown-eyed bishie.”

The other male grins at that lavish flattery but Yazoo is too busy devouring his shoulder and collarbone to notice. The convincing cross-dresser moves his long-fingered hands up Yazoo’s sides to his naked chest and arms, mapping the firm contours there, as if enjoying the feel of all that muscle – something the thinly-built boy does not posses himself. Yazoo’s body is much bigger, harder and stronger than his. Sometimes, when he’s standing next to Loz, Yazoo feels small and effeminate in comparison to his older brother’s impressively large frame but next to this skinny kid, Yazoo is like a god. He feels powerful and manly. After being mistaken for a woman most of his life, Yazoo likes that feeling. Very much. Reasserting his manliness, he slides one arm around the boy’s lower back and yanks him closer, tipping his smaller partner’s head back and starting to nuzzle and kiss at that lovely curved throat. The brunette allows him to, closing his eyes and sighing in rapture, reaching up and sinking his delicate hands into Yazoo’s contrasting pearl-grey locks, finding them silken and fine as spider-threads. When Yazoo brings out his tongue, sliding it up and across that salty skin, tracking the pulsing arteries just beneath, the guitarist gives a husky groan, holding Yazoo’s head right there, never wanting the sensual attention to end.

Gaining an equal amount of pleasure simply from doing this, Yazoo continues licking his pretty partner’s throat, every now and then sucking gently at it, the vocalist’s head falling backwards in bliss, his long multi-coloured mane almost reaching the base of his spine, the warm weight of it draped across Yazoo’s bare arm. Keeping one hand around the nape of the boy’s neck, Yazoo uses his other to stroke along lean girlish hips and an incredibly tiny waist, rubbing over a slightly soft little tummy and tracing around an adorable, half-popped out navel, Yazoo feeling the boy’s body tense and respond positively to his touches. Yazoo’s own body is responding rather positively too, his dick having been hard in his pants for quite a while now.

Dragging his mouth away from that delicious vanilla-latte skin with much difficulty, Yazoo queries in curiosity, “What’s your name?”

Showing that defiant streak again, the performer stares at him and rebounds, “Why do you need to know?”

“I don’t /need/ to,” Yazoo admits. “But I’d like to know it.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you.”

“What if I say please? Will that change your mind?”

Seeing Yazoo’s polite but persistently questioning expression, the exotic artist sighs grudgingly. “Oh, all right. If you have to call me something, just call me M.”

Grateful for receiving an answer, even if it is only one measly initial, the tall remnant reveals, “I’m Yazoo.”

“I didn’t ask,” the youth known as M returns in a distracted mutter, grabbing Yazoo’s hand and moving it down lower, onto his vinyl-covered crotch. “Touch me here now.”

“Not just blunt – bold too,” Yazoo remarks in a mix of amusement and approval. “I suppose I’d better do what I’m told, hm?”


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To be continued... (look guys, you’re now getting 4 chapters! Aren’t you happy? XD)