It's like you're a drug
It's like you're a demon I can't face down
It's like I'm stuck
It's like I'm running from you all the time
And I know I let you have all the power
It's like the only company I seek is misery all around
It's him again. I really should stop pretending to be surprised every time I see him. I can taste the flavor of his mind from a mile away. . . still the taste of honey, like all the others, but with a slight difference, a little spice. . . as if someone poured some cinnamon in his brain.
It's like you're a leech
Sucking the life from me
It's like I can't breathe
Without you inside of me
And I know I let you have all the power
And I realize I'm never gonna quit you over time
Why do I keep coming back to him? Is it that difference, that spice? Is it the fact that I don't have to bother to hide my identity? With his occupation, it's not as if he can judge me anyway. Is it all that lean muscle that is generally clad in the least amount of clothing possible? Or maybe those amazingly clear green eyes that seem to have the ability to see to the center of my soul more surely than any telepathy ever could. . .
It's like I can't breathe
It's like I can't see anything
Nothing but you
I'm addicted to you
Even with easily a hundred bodies out on the dance floor, my eyes are inevitably drawn to him, and once there cannot leave. It is not a matter of choice. Who could look away from him, when he is applying all that deadly grace to making sure no part of his body is out of synch with the techno music pumping through the absurdly large speakers overhead? He is so entwined with the music that he almost seems to be a part of it; synth, bass, and Yohji, all blending together in a musical masterpiece.
It's like I can't think
Without you interrupting me
In my thoughts
In my dreams
You've taken over me
It's like I'm not me
It's like I'm not me
So are you going to watch all night, or come join me? a challenging voice sounds in my head. I've never understood how he can send thoughts so directly at me without me consciously reaching for them as I must with most people. . . but on nights like tonight I cannot bring myself to care about the details.
It's like I'm lost
It's like I'm giving up slowly
It's like you're a ghost that's haunting me
Leave me alone
And I know these voices in my head
Are mine alone
And I know I'll never change my ways
If I don't give you up now
He has called to me, and I cannot resist him. Every time it is like this; he sends his thoughts like an arrow into my brain and locks those piercing eyes onto mine, and I am helpless to resist him. I could not stay here by the bar if I wanted to, I realize as I push away to join him on the dance floor. He has a magnetic pull to him that renders me blind to anything else around me. For a moment as I push through the crowd, I stop and try to resist the pull. Why should I make myself a slave to this man's will? What right does he have to ensnare me as he does. . .
And then I'm in his arms again and I just don't care.
It's like I can't breathe
It's like I can't see anything
Nothing but you
I'm addicted to you
The arms wrapped around me are slicked with sweat from dancing for too long, and the breath being panted into my face reeks of beer and cigarettes and other less legal pleasures, but these things are minor annoyances in the face of the sheer pleasure I gain from just being near him. Half of the pleasure is anticipation of what is to come, I know, but I am content for now. I stubbornly block out all the noisy, drunken minds around me and align myself completely with the man before me, making my presence in his mind known to him as I do every time I use his dancing ability to infiltrate my own reflexes. I'm no slob on the dance floor myself, but oh, to move like he does, and to move like that with him, against him. . . there is a pleasure I will not deny myself.
It's like I can't think
Without you interrupting me
In my thoughts
In my dreams
You've taken over me
It's like I'm not me
It's like I'm not me
I need a break, babe. I'm not sure how long we have been dancing when his thought breaks my reverie. Time seems to lose all meaning as each song melts into the next while we all but writhe against each other on the dance floor. Sometimes things progress a bit farther than publicly necessary out there, but what can I say? I don't always use my head -- the correct one, at least -- especially where this particular Weiss is involved.
We head over to the bar, where Yohji orders a beer -- one of those nasty American beers, yech -- and all but inhales the thing. Even as he drinks, though, his eyes never leave mine. I know what is coming. I know from past experience what he is planning before he ever tilts his head towards the door and cocks his eyebrow in a sort of challenge. As if such a challenge is necessary. . . . surely he knows the power he holds over me. It likely didn't take him as long to figure out his power as it took me to learn that he already held me in thrall.
I'm hooked on you
I need a fix
I can't take it
Just one more hit
I promise I can deal with it
I'm not even sure where we have ended up tonight. I'm much more interested in the lips skimming down my ribs than I am in our location. All I know is that it is not at either of our homes; that was our silent agreement long ago.
Lips long used to maneuvering around cigarettes and fingers accustomed to the manipulation of wires are put to better use tonight; either or both can easily make me forget, even if for a few moments, the life I lead, the home I must return to.
This is why, I realize as I knead his shoulders encouragingly, running my hands down his back as his mouth finds mine, tongues tangling and battling for dominance. This is why I can never resist him, never pull away. His ability to make me forget. Then I lose all ability to think at all as his mouth moves lower and I gasp, threading my fingers through silky hair.
I'll handle it, quit it
Just one more time
Then that's it
Just a little bit more to get me through this
Every time this happens, every night I catch his gaze across a crowded room, I swear to myself that it is the last time. But once we get here, wherever 'here' may be that particular night; once we get to where we are in each other's arms and clothes are slowly disappearing, all that resolve goes out the window.
I'm hooked on you
I need a fix
I can't take it
Just one more hit
I promise I can deal with it
Tonight I fight it longer than usual; I fight the rising urge to simply surrender and allow him to do with me whathe will. If only to prove that I do have some will of my own left, that I can resist him if I truly wish to. . .
And then I somehow find myself beneath him, his face hovering above mine wearing that trademark smirk of his. His eyes shine with his victory as he leans down and nips at my neck, using lips, tongue, and teeth to convince me that perhaps my loss is not such a bad thing, after all. I stubbornly cling to my faux anger, glaring up at him when he raises his head once more. I find myself wondering if I am angry at him for winning, or myself for allowing him to, but then his lips find mine and his hips grind forward against my own and I can do nothing but groan as stars explode in front of my eyes.
I'll handle it, quit it
Just one more time
Then that's it
Just a little bit more to get me through this
By this point I don't care who won the battle for dominance, who is on top or who is on bottom; what does it matter who plays which role, as long as we move, as long as we can touch and feel with hands and lips and tongues until nothing matters but that he is filling me and moving, and I'm moving against him, without any power to stop it.
It's like I can't breathe
It's like I can't see anything
Nothing but you
I'm addicted to you
It's like I can't think
Without you interrupting me
As I lay in his arms and try to regulate my breathing, I try to tell myself that this time, it really is the last time. This really cannot continue any longer. Eventually Crawford will find out, and then there will be Hell to pay. He would never stand for any of my other addictions; he will show no mercy to this one, either.
They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step on the road to recovery. But somehow I know, even as I promise myself that this is the last time I will lie in his arms, slicked with cooling sweat and more relaxed than I can ever be at any other time, that this is one addiction I will never be able to kick.
In my thoughts
In my dreams
You've taken over me
It's like I'm not me
It's like I'm not me