Irresistible

A/N: If you thought this fic was finished, you’re wrong! THIS is the last chapter. More like an epilogue, really and it gives me a chance to thank:

Gslinger – “Lovely messy violent exctasy” Wow, thank you so much!! I don’t think I could have described that scene any more beautifully than you just have. Oh, I’m sure Miyavi will have to immortalise the moment in song! When he sings it on stage, nobody else will know what it’s about but Yazoo will! It can be their special, sexy secret. ^^ No, Miyavi will never, ever forget him. Yazoo has made sure of that!
Yes, you got it - Yaz is sex on wheels, all right! *revs my engine*

Everybody, I hope you like this final update, whether it’s a surprise to you or not!

And thank you, each and every one of you, for reading this story of mine and leaving your valuable reviews and comments. It means a lot! *group hugs you all*

……………

Irresistible - Part six.


“You okay?” Yazoo queries in concern as he’s beginning to pull carefully out of M’s body. M just gives a lethargic nod, allowing his tired legs to fall from around Yazoo’s waist. He’s completely relaxed now and Yazoo can slide out easily, the remnant tucking himself back into his leather pants and zipping them up. There’s dried pre-come on the leg of his biker trousers from where he was rocking into M, looking much like a snail has crawled over his thigh, but Yazoo can clean that up later and anyway, nobody will see it beneath the length of his coat, when he pulls it out from under the boy and puts it back on. Remaining bare-chested for the moment, Yazoo admires how sensual and sated M looks leaning back naked on his elbows, his thighs apart and boots dangling over the front edge of the dumpster; hair mussed up and eyes still shut in post-orgasmic paradise. He looks utterly ravished and utterly beautiful. There’s creamy jizz all over his belly, splashed across his tattoos and dripping into his navel. The scene fills Yazoo with gratification, knowing that he alone made M climax and gave him such rapturous enjoyment. Drawn to the sexy sight Yazoo leans forward, cradling M’s waist in both hands, and extends his tongue, touching it to the opaque white fluid. With slow, thorough swipes, Yazoo licks the boy’s soft stomach clean; not something he normally does for anybody else but he wants to do it for this yummy young man, to savour every part of him - inside and out - the personal act a pleasure to perform, especially since M’s semen is still fresh on his skin. Yazoo finds it distasteful when it goes cold but this is still warm and velvety, like the layer of creme skimmed off the top of a cappuccino, and the silver-haired male cleans up every drop.

Finishing with a tender kiss above M’s belly-button, Yazoo can’t resist rubbing his cheek over that luxuriously soft space of skin between the little whorl of the musician’s navel and the top of his trimmed fur.

“Damn, Yazoo…” M sighs in utter contentment from above, languorously stroking over Yazoo’s hair. “You’re the best stalker I’ve ever had.”

The emerald-eyed man chuckles quietly, moving up and kissing M on the collarbone, right on top of a large inked letter ‘n’.

“I’m not a stalker.”

M cracks an eyelid open, his gaze sliding sideways. “You wanna be?”

Yazoo draws back to look at him, feigning mild surprise. “Why, M. Are you admitting you’d actually /like/ to see me again?”

“Maybe,” the brunette replies coyly. “I’ll be here same time next week.”

Slipping away from Yazoo and hopping off the dumpster to collect his strewn clothing, he advises, “Leave the gun at home, though. Makes you look like some kind of psycho sniper.”

Retrieving his still-warm coat and shrugging it on, Yazoo throws back, “Maybe I AM one. Maybe I kill people for a living. Or because I enjoy it. What do you think about that?”

M laughs, pulling his black cropped tank top over his head. “Yeah. Whatever you say, man.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Why should I? We don’t really know each other.”

Watching in amusement as M struggles to get those close-fitting crimson pants back on over his boots, Yazoo drawls, “Oh, I think we know each other quite well by now, actually.”

M huffs, wriggling as he works his tight trousers back up his thighs and over his skinny hips. “Yeah? What’s my name, then?”

“The only reason I don’t know that is because you won’t tell me. You’re very stubborn, you know.”

“And you’re very bossy.”

“Look who’s talking. You’re lucky you’re so cute or I probably would have smacked you in the mouth by now. Repeatedly.”

M glances up as he zips his pants, uncertain if Yazoo’s kidding or not. By the faint smirk on the silver-head’s lips, it’s hard to tell. But, M reasons to himself, if Yazoo was going to hit him he would have done so by now and he hasn’t, not even when M disrespectfully pushed him in the chest. Although Yazoo could beat him to a twitching mass of bloody flesh if he wanted to, M feels strangely safe in the stronger man’s presence, especially since Yazoo has taken great care not to hurt him in any way, even during their fairly rough sex.

Which was totally, awesomely hot and blistering. Gackt will be heartbroken that he didn’t get to take M’s sought-after virginity but he’ll never know about this night, and even if he does somehow find out, the dude will just have to get over it. He’ll just have to accept that Yazoo’s hotter than him.

Now fully dressed, M locates the elastic band Yazoo removed earlier, gathering all his hair together with both hands and tying it back up into the high ponytail he had it in before. It’s not quite as tidy as it was previously but at least it doesn’t look like he’s been thoroughly shafted anymore. Yazoo also smooths his hair down; combing the tangles out with his fingers, the soft metallic strands settling easily back into place.

“Well, I better go back.” The guitarist indicates to the tavern entrance. “People will be wondering where I am.”

With a tiny smile, M farewells, “See you around, Silver Stalker.”

Yazoo blinks. Did the kid just give him a nickname? This both startles and thrills the taller male. Apart from ‘Yaz’ – courtesy of his brothers - or ‘remnant’, ‘freak’ & ‘clone’ from everyone else, nobody has ever bothered to bestow him with a nickname, and though it implies he’s obsessive and dangerous (admittedly both true), this one is still oddly complimentary somehow. Fond, even. He’d like to wallow in the pleasantness of this never-before given gift but the dark-haired musician is turning around, preparing to return inside the bar.

“Stop right there.” Yazoo’s voice rings lowly and compellingly down the alleyway, halting the second male in his tracks. “You are not allowed to leave yet.”

M stares over his tattooed shoulder, black-coffee eyes full of instant rebellion. Normally, he’d say something snarky like, “Screw you!” or “You don’t own me, asshole,” but remembering Yazoo’s threat of knocking him flying over the fence he thinks twice about it, instead asking carefully, “And why’s that?”

“Because I said so.” Yazoo’s tone is firm. “That’s why.”

“But I really should get-” M starts to protest but Yazoo is not going to let his insolent little lover escape so easily, the remnant swiftly springing up into the air. He flips over M’s head, twists his body mid-flight – long hair spinning around like a silver fan - and then lands on his feet in front of the guitarist, facing him, Yazoo blocking the door and cutting off his exit route like some kind of ninja assassin.

Glancing back to where Yazoo was only a second ago and where he’s standing now, M sputters, “You…Holy shit! How did you…?”

Yazoo smiles enigmatically. “If I tell you how I can do such things, I’ll have to snap your lovely neck.”

While M is still looking dumbfounded, Yazoo gathers the smaller man into his arms, murmuring, “And I’d really rather not do that. I like your neck.”

Tilting the boy’s head back, Yazoo licks up his throat again, tasting salt and perspiration, before covering that sumptuous mouth and kissing it deeply, possessively, until he feels M weakening against him like before, Yazoo making certain the slim singer will remember his name, even if M won’t give away his. But he will. Yazoo will get it out of him – perhaps not tonight, or even the next time they do this, but sooner or later Yazoo will find out what M’s real name is. He could stoop to asking one of those squealing fangirls inside – who no doubt know /everything/ there is to know about M including his shoe size and favourite noodle flavour – but that would only be as a last resort because Yazoo would prefer to hear the information come from M’s own lips.

The very ones he’s possessing right now – so soft and sweet and sinful, like the lips of a devil-child.

Secure that everything will work out the way he plans, the Sephiroth replica draws back and appraises his still-stunned prisoner.

“Now, was that a better kiss than the one your blond guitarist friend gave you?”

“Oh, hell yeah,” is M’s somewhat out of breath reply. “Give me another one.”

“There you go being bossy once more.”

“What – you want me to say please?” M despairs. “Again?”

“Not necessary,” Yazoo relents, cupping the smaller male’s face in his hands and sampling those luscious lips once more, delving into M’s warm, welcoming mouth, slowly swirling around and caressing the boy’s tongue with his own. Yazoo’s gotten used to the sensation of that pointy spiral-thing embedded in M’s bottom lip, and indeed likes the feel of it poking into his flesh. Tilting his head sideways, M responds to Yazoo’s coaxing kiss, sensually arching that girlish body against his taller partner’s; Yazoo knowing that the sexy singer isn’t performing for an audience this time. He’s kissing Yazoo without anyone else watching, simply because he enjoys it. Yazoo makes sure of that, his tongue-strokes slow and searching, even managing to get a muted moan out of the vocalist’s raw throat, Yazoo finding it remarkable how much M’s attitude has changed since earlier. He’s become meeker, more demure and docile, much easier to handle. And all it took was a good, hard fuck. Handy to know for next time.

When the silver-haired man finally pulls away and lifts his lashes, he notes with a rather large amount of satisfaction that M’s eyes have gone all hazy and half-lidded, the expression on the kid’s face beginning to look very much like the ones on the faces of Yazoo’s previous conquests. Dreamy. Drugged. Dazed.

So, a little of his Allure may be getting through after all. Perhaps the boy’s not completely immune. Perhaps it just took a while to work.

Or perhaps this is just the after-affect of his kiss. Besides shooting and killing, kissing is another of Yazoo’s natural talents.

“Just as good the second time, hm?” he questions, smirking at the other young man.

“Better,” is M’s impressed answer, his dark gaze widening in awe. “You’re a fucking amazing kisser, man. In fact, you’re just plain amazing altogether.”

Yazoo simply raises a thin brow. “Really? I got the feeling you weren’t that intrigued by me at first.”

“No, I was,” the musician quickly assures. “I was intrigued from the moment I saw you in the crowd. Even after I found out you were a guy, I was still into you. I just didn’t show it because I was…y’know…” The boy shrugs in embarrassment.

“Shy.”

Here Yazoo gives a laugh. “You? Shy? I find that extremely hard to believe. Especially as I have sparkling pink lip gloss on me in a place it was never intended to go.”

M peeks down at Yazoo’s crotch, now hidden by his lengthy coat. A slow grin makes its way across the boy’s face until he too is laughing and it’s a delightful sound. “Okay. Maybe I’m not /that/ shy,” he concedes, still grinning cutely.

“You have a beautiful smile, M,” Yazoo comments, his own lips curving up in admiration. He strokes one thumb gently over the performer’s plush mouth, Yazoo’s voice becoming softer, almost sad and wistful, his words tinged with a secret loneliness and longing that he does not normally allow himself to feel, let alone express.

“I have a cold heart that is not easily touched but seeing your smile warms me, like the first rays of the spring sun melting frozen foliage after a long, harsh winter.”

At the unexpected poetic praise, M looks all bashful again, glancing down, almost like he’s about to blush. But inwardly he’s incredibly thrilled and touched that someone would say such wonderful things to him, and mean it. For that, Yazoo’s definitely getting a song written about him…

In an attempt to conceal his sudden and rather uncharacteristic spurt of romantic foolishness, Yazoo drops his hand and emits a derisive, ‘Hmph’.

“But I suppose a pretty boy like you would have heard all that nonsense before a million times over.”

“I haven’t, actually,” M mumbles, more to himself than anyone else, sounding a trifle disappointed that Yazoo stopped. He was rather starting to like all this sweet-talk and gentleness, especially coming from someone who looks like an icy, dangerous, unfeeling mercenary. But isn’t. Unfeeling, anyway. Yazoo’s definitely not that. He feels. Rather intensely, it seems. The dangerous mercenary part, however, M isn’t so sure about. Especially after seeing the guy’s strong, slim frame soar and twist over head like some kind of genetically-altered gymnast. Like those slitted pupils, that’s just not normal. And then there’s the frighteningly large gun which Yazoo is currently scooping up from the cobblestones, slipping the holster back over his shoulder and lifting his shimmering hair out of the way so it doesn’t get caught under the strap. He has such grace in his movements; he’s so polished and refined, so…perfect.

Almost…too perfect. Like some kind of android created by a mad scientist, a robotic doll that has suddenly developed a personality and a will of its own. Okay, he may not be a robot or a life-size computer-chip but Yazoo’s certainly not an ordinary human. M knows that much. What Yazoo is exactly remains a mystery but it’s a mystery the curious guitarist would very much like to discover.

“So...” M looks at the platinum-haired beauty expectantly, even hopefully. “You gonna come next week?”

Back to his wicked, suggestive self, Yazoo pulls on his gloves and purrs, “Oh, I certainly plan to. Whether it’s with you or not is something I haven’t decided yet. By the way, there’s a bit of…evidence…you should probably remove before you go back inside.”

He blithely indicates to a white blob on the front of M’s red vinyl trousers, though Gods knows how it got there or who it belongs to. Then he turns, removing the bread knife jammed in the alleyway door to release it and swinging it open. Just before he’s about to step into the entrance, the second young man’s husky, hesitant voice stops him.

“Yazoo, wait.”

Hand on the edge of the door, the remnant pauses, not turning around.

“My name…it’s Miyavi.”

In a cool, disinterested tone, Yazoo returns, “I didn’t ask.”

And then – secretly smiling in triumph – he disappears through the fire exit back into the tavern in a rustle of leather and long steely-grey locks, leaving the brunette alone in the darkened lane to wipe the sperm off his clothing and wonder if the green-eyed gunman will show up again for a repeat performance.

Which Yazoo will, of course. The guitarist’s alluring appeal has him hooked in a way Yazoo’s never been hooked before. He might possibly even be falling for the brat. Quite seriously, actually. Not that M – Miyavi – needs to be informed of that. Yazoo knows better than anyone that to leave someone hanging almost certainly guarantees their continued interest. And Yazoo wants the pretty punk to be interested in him.

Only him.

Well, that was a most enjoyable diversion from an otherwise boring evening of babysitting, Yazoo muses to himself as he makes his way back to Loz and Kadaj, who are sprawled across a bench seat with empty alcohol bottles on the table in front of them, the pair of them almost certainly knowing what he’s been up to for the last half hour.

Indeed, Kadaj swings to face him as he approaches, commenting snidely, “You finally catch your little runaway, brother?”

“Why, yes I did. And he was thoroughly delicious,” Yazoo rubs in with much relish, smugly sliding in sideways next to Loz and tucking his coat underneath his thighs. “Thank you for asking.”

“Bitch,” Kadaj mutters, sullenly flicking a bottle-cap across the table at Yazoo, still sore that Yazoo got to the boy first.

Deflecting the small metal missile with a quick flourish of his hand, Yazoo cocks his head at his younger sibling, recalling the long-haired blond man in the bathroom and both his and Kadaj’s dishevelled, half-undressed state when he kicked the door in.

“I thought you found someone else to play with, Kadaj.”

“I did. But he couldn’t keep up with me.” Slumping back in the seat, Kadaj sighs. “Now I need another toy.”

Locking glances across the tavern with the drummer of the group – a cross-dressing cutie with blue eyes, orange pigtails and a schoolgirl skirt - he brightens considerably.

“Well, hello. I think I just found one.”

In a dry, faintly humoured tone, Yazoo remarks, “Going to work your way through the whole band, little brother?”

Grinning wickedly, Kadaj replies, “Why not? The night’s still young. And so am I.”

Miyavi chooses that moment to re-enter the room, having fixed his clothes, hair and lip-gloss, the boy casually strolling up to his band mates and acting like he hadn’t just gotten the screwing of a lifetime outside in the alley. However, Yazoo can detect the slight wince in his walk, something the much slenderer male will probably be feeling for a couple of days at least. After all that passionate pounding, some minor bruising and soreness is inevitable. But by the time Yazoo is here next week, adorable little Miyavi-san will have recovered so that they can do it all over again. And again. And again. Whether M realises it or not, he belongs to Yazoo now, girlfriend or no girlfriend. In fact, Yazoo bets that in a couple of weeks there won’t even BE a girl in the picture anymore because Miyavi will have become hopelessly obsessed by Yazoo and will have broken up with her.

Either that or she’ll have been introduced to Velvet Nightmare. Discreetly, it goes without saying; her body disposed of in some place no-one will ever find it, making it appear as though she simply disappeared off the face of the planet. Experiencing a rare and deadly flash of jealous possessiveness, Yazoo decides that he doesn’t like the idea of sharing his tattooed lover with anybody else and he’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that doesn’t happen.

As Kadaj is about to get up and cross the room to where the band is milling, Yazoo speedily grabs at his sleeve, halting his impatient younger brother with a firm and menacing grip.

“Kadaj?” He begins warningly.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” The smaller remnant yanks his arm out of Yazoo’s grasp and rolls his eyes. “Stay away from the singer. He’s yours. I got it already.”

“You better. I don’t want to have to kill you.” Yazoo narrows his pupils. “But touch him and I will.”

With another eye-roll at Yazoo’s unnecessarily dramatic threat, Kadaj stands up and pushes away from the table, heading towards the group of musicians with his trademark slinky, sexy walk, intent on seducing his second victim for the night. Everyone in the band stares at him as he advances, Kadaj’s sensuality and seductiveness too strong to ignore, but he smiles and focuses on his skirt-wearing target, disregarding everyone else as if they aren’t even there. The charming young man with the ginger pigtails gazes up at Kadaj with absolute awed wonder in his big blue eyes, as though seeing some kind of silvery angelic vision, though he has no idea that Kadaj is anything /but/ an angel. Standing nearby with a fresh drink in his nail-polished fingers, Miyavi also appraises Kadaj, looking his trim, fit figure up and down from collar to boots, but then the black-haired vocalist glances over to Yazoo, his dark gaze lingering and lustful, wordlessly establishing who the more attractive brother is in his opinion.

Which, of course, Yazoo already knows. His siblings are by no means ugly or unappealing but he’s the prettiest out of the three of them, by far. He’s not being conceited or vain. It’s a simple fact. He makes a small teasing kissing gesture at Miyavi and M flushes, hastily glancing away before his naughty secret is revealed to the rest of his musician friends.

With Kadaj gone, Loz turns to Yazoo, a reluctantly intrigued expression on the older one’s handsome, whiskered face.

“So, Yaz…” Loz begins hesitantly, rolling a toothpick between his fingertips. “Is he definitely a boy? The singer?”

With a smirk, Yazoo answers, “Definitely.”

“No girl bits?”

“None whatsoever.”

Looking let down, Loz mutters, “Pity.” He sighs enviously.

“You’re lucky, Yaz. I wish I could pick up chicks as easily as you do boys.”

“How are you supposed to pick up chicks, Loz? You never talk to any,” Yazoo bluntly points out.

“Well, how am I supposed to talk to any when they keep runnin’ away?” Loz tosses back. “You don’t scare people like I do. At this rate I’m never gonna find a girlfriend.”

In a gentler tone, Yazoo replies, “Don’t worry, brother. One day it will be your turn. Right when you least expect it, a cute girl in a short skirt and knee-high boots will come right up and introduce herself to you.”

Loz snorts. “Yeah. Sure. Next you’re gonna say that she’ll bang me in the bathroom too.”

“It will happen, Loz,” Yazoo predicts wisely. “One day you’ll meet the right girl for you. I promise.”

Not so sure about that, Loz just snorts again and lifts the brown bottle up to his sneering mouth, draining the rest of his beer in large swallows.

“In the meantime…you could always turn bi,” Yazoo helpfully suggests. “You double your chances of scoring, then.”

Turning, Loz gives him a sceptical look. “Doubt it. With you and Kadaj swapping teams all the time, /someone/ has to stay the straight one in the family.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind, let me know.” A seductively soft smile appearing on his lips, Yazoo shifts nearer, his thigh touching Loz’s, gloved fingers trailing up Loz's muscled arm. “I could teach you some things you don’t know about boys…”

“Yaz, don’t,” Loz mumbles uncomfortably, pushing Yazoo’s hand away, the bigger brother blushing and avoiding eye contact with his all-too-tempting sibling.

Giving Loz back his personal space, Yazoo moves aside and chuckles. “Sorry, Loz. I’m just messing with you.”

Loz scowls into his empty booze bottle. “Well, stop it. You know I hate it when you do that shit.”

Chuckling again, Yazoo reaches into his coat and then stuffs some apology money into the front of Loz’s opened jacket, against his broad chest. “There. Go buy another drink. Or four.”

Cheering up immediately, Loz plucks out the Gil, delighted by the substantial amount. “Hey, thanks! You want something too?”

“Just water, please. And you’re quite welcome,” Yazoo answers, the long-haired remnant smiling as Loz happily wanders off to get more beer, the older one instantly forgetting Yazoo’s inappropriate behaviour. Yazoo wasn’t really hitting on him; he was just making sure his powers hadn’t disappeared entirely. He doesn’t have to worry. Allure is still there, strong enough to work on his own family, as usual. Loz is suckered in by it easily, every time without fail. Kadaj is more resistant to the effects but even he can’t ignore it when Yazoo turns his charm on full-blast, Yazoo getting a kick out of making his little brother all flustered and bothered. The only person Allure doesn’t seem to work on is Miyavi. Not that Yazoo particularly needed it. He managed to seduce the kid all on his own. Yazoo got him to whimper and moan and beg, even orgasm on command. All without the use of any special powers. If his magical sex-appeal vanished tomorrow, Yazoo wouldn’t miss it. It’d be great, actually, just being seen as a regular guy, the way M saw him. Perhaps being a regular guy wouldn’t be so bad. That pony-tailed performer was a good example. As far as guys go, he’s definitely one of the better ones Yazoo has come across.

Or come IN.

Smirking to himself, Yazoo glances across the room, seeking the group of pop-rock band members and their irresistible lead vocalist. Working efficiently, Kadaj has already vanished into the bathrooms with the innocent blue-eyed drummer to play some more. Miyavi has his back to Yazoo, chatting animatedly with the bass player, giving Yazoo ample opportunity to rake his lazy, appreciative eye up the kid’s long legs and over his vinyl-encased ass, which is every bit as tight and hot as it looks beneath the shiny, skin-hugging scarlet pants. This time next week, that same gorgeous ass is going to be his. All his. Yazoo is going to be slamming in and out of it, fucking it, owning it, pushing in deep and hard, losing himself in slick, sweet heat and the boy’s breathless, broken cries of pleasure…

Hm, Yazoo ponders idly, feeling that pleasant tingle start up in his belly once again, just like it did the very first time he saw the singer on stage.

Maybe /some/ human urges aren’t a complete waste of time after all…


END