[Home | Quicksearch | Search Engine | Random Story | Upload Story]

Written for the Oz Lyric Wheel challenge. Posted: July 2005.
Story Notes: Set Season 3, during the few days after the "Boom, boom, baby!” conversation, but before the beginning of Operation Andy.
Lyrics Provided By: Jane (spankmonkeyjack)
Song Title and Band: 'The Perfect Drug' – Nine Inch Nails.
Tankees to m'beta, Jean (magickslash), who I nub muchly 'cos she supports my obsessions *g*

A Lesson In Obsession

by Erin

The second Keller had woken up that morning, he had known it was going to be one of those days. One of those days where he was basically a walking hard-on, horny enough to want to hump the nearest hard surface. One of those days when the sexual frustration tied his guts in knots and his hypersensitive skin broke out in tingles whenever it so much as slightly brushed against another warm human body. One of those days when all he wanted to do was fuck, get fucked, get sucked, jerk off, *whatever*, just so long as he fucking *came*. He'd also known it was one of those days where he'd end up being severely disappointed.

Toby still hated him. Toby was still refusing to forgive him for his betrayal, refusing to believe that he was truly sorry for what he'd done. Chris could say "I'm sorry" and "I love you," until he was blue in the face and Toby would never believe him. He'd tried so hard - he'd confessed, he'd ratted out Schillinger, he'd asked for fucking `interaction' therapy from Sister Pete for Christ's sake, and what had it gotten him? A fucking *shank* in the back. A part of Chris still couldn't believe it - that Toby had *stabbed* him, and then fucked with his head - "Shit. Maybe it *was* me." Asshole. Anyone else who pulled that shit would be cold in their grave by now, but no, this was *Toby*. So Chris forgave him - fucking *forgave* him, and the asshole still treated him like the lowest kind of shit, hobbling around on his cane like the `poor little me, God fucked me over' martyr that he was.

There were times when Chris truly hated him. Would've liked nothing more than to return the shank in the back with interest. Then he would remember just how fucking weak and terrified, Toby really was underneath all his bravado - "I can't trust *myself* anymore, my fucking feelings" - and Chris's protective streak kicked in and all he wanted to do was hold him. Wrap Toby securely in his arms, tenderly stroke his skin and keep him safe from every crazy fucker in Oz.

But Toby didn't want his protection, his comfort, his love. He had once - there had been a time when Toby wanted it, fucking *craved* it; when he'd accepted what Chris had to offer . But he wouldn't take it now, no matter what Chris said or did. Toby had said it himself - he'd never be that vulnerable again.

So there were times when Chris wondered why he didn't just give up. Cut his losses and move on to the next easy fuck. After all, that's what he'd always done before. But then he'd catch a glimpse of creamy, soft skin peaking out between a waistband and shirt hem; smell the scent of freshly washed dark gold hair; hear a strong voice raised in defiance or cutting someone down with a perfectly-timed quip; or see veins rising on a sweaty forehead and on clenched, trembling hands, reminding him just how much fury and strength (*passion*) this man was capable of. And then Chris was lost again, caught up in a storm of infatuation, obsession, lust, love.

And then there were days like today. He'd dreamt about Toby again. He'd woken up grinding his hard-on into the mattress, his mouth tonguing his pillow. "Fuck," he'd muttered, spitting out cloth, as the morning buzzer chased away dream images of naked flesh.

Toby had jumped down from the top bunk, pulled a pair of pants on over his boxers, and stepped out the door for count, all without a word to Chris. Without even glancing at him. Of course.

"Fuck you, ya fuck," mumbled Chris, dragging himself out of bed, pulling on pants and adjusting his still half-hard dick so it wasn't as noticeable. He could smell Toby's musky scent, and feel the heat from his body, still warm from sleep, as they stood in line for count. In Chris's aroused state, just the feather-touch of Toby's elbow against his, and the memory of Toby's voice whimpering his name in Chris's dream, was enough to make Chris's breathing heavy.

So he'd spent the morning trying to ignore both Toby and just how fucking horny he was. Ignoring Toby hadn't been too hard, since he'd gone off to work at Sister Pete's straight after breakfast, and Chris had gone about an ordinary day in Em City, deliberately *not* thinking about the constant tingling in his groin. He'd played cards, he'd played chess, he'd had various unimportant conversations with Rebadow, Busmalis, Hill and O'Reily, he'd sat in his pod and read a couple of chapters in a library book. But no matter how hard he tried he'd still catch himself unconsciously rubbing his thighs; adjusting his crotch; slowly, barely perceptibly, rocking his hips back and forth as he sat on a chair, enjoying the oh-so-slight pressure, release, pressure, release of the hard plastic against his balls.

It was the kind of arousal where nothing seems real. Chris sat afloat on a sea of unsated desire; his chest tight, stomach tied in knots, skin tingling, balls aching. He couldn't give his full attention to anything, because half his mind was always on his traitorous body. He'd be arguing with Hill about whether Miss July or Miss August had the best tits and suddenly be hyper aware of his own nipples tightening beneath the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt, making him nonchalantly lift his arms and stretch, rubbing the material against the stiff flesh and increasing the sensation. He'd be resting his chin on his forearms which were crossed at the table, pretending to be considering his next chess move, but really reveling in the feel of his deep breaths puffing out warm over his skin, and the teasing tickle of fine arm hairs against his sensitive lips. He knew he should just jerk-off and relieve himself, but the thought of whacking off in the middle of a plexi-glass pod where everybody could see him just didn't appeal to him today. Ordinarily, he got off on the exhibitionist aspect of it, but with how desperate he was feeling now, he didn't feel like putting on a show - he wanted the privacy to be able scream and moan and completely lose control; expose himself in a way he just could *not* in this place. And he didn't feel like doing it alone; he wanted Toby, even though he knew he couldn't have him.

In short, he was a fucking mess, but in typical Keller style he managed to hide it well enough so that no-one noticed. However, by the time lunchtime rolled around, he was starting to wonder just how he could keep control, especially since he would be seeing Toby in the cafeteria. And being jostled in the warm, throbbing mass of bodies in the serving line really didn't fucking *help* his situation either.

Chris carried his lunch tray over to the tables, immediately making a beeline straight for Toby, even though common sense told him he should probably stay away.

"Hey, Beecher," he said, settling down next to the blond.

He got a curt "Hey," in return before Toby went back to ignoring him.

Chris glared at Toby's profile as the man ate, wondering again just why the fuck he was going through all this. Since when did Chris Keller waste his time on somebody who didn't want him? There were plenty of people who *did* want him - he knew he could get laid by the end of the day if he wanted to. But that was just the trouble - he *didn't* fucking want to. No matter how goddamn horny he was, he didn't want anyone touching him except Beecher. Christ, how was that even fucking possible? He'd *never* been so stuck on one person in his entire life, not even his wives, who he'd loved. If Kitty or Bonnie or Angelique had ever been pissed enough at him to hold out on sex - of course *that* hadn't happened that often - Chris had had no problem with going out and picking up a quick fuck, but now...

"Stop fucking staring at me," came Beecher's icy voice.

"I'm *not* fucking staring at you," Keller snapped.

"Bullshit - cut it out."

Chris sighed, and started to eat the disgusting slop that was supposed to pass for food in this place. After a few minutes of silent chewing, Toby's arm accidentally brushed against his. Chris felt his cock twitch at the slight contact. Oh *God*.

Keller struggled to swallow a mouthful of food down his suddenly dry throat, and looked back over at Toby. He was close enough to see the tiny details of his face - fine lines, a few pale freckles, the uneven lengths of hair in his raggedy beard. Chris inhaled deeply through his nose, bringing with it the warm, familiar smell of Toby, a scent that brought comfort, excitement, contented peace and burning desire all at the same time. He smelled almost like ... home. Only it was no home Chris had ever been to.

Beecher hadn't noticed he was staring again, so Chris looked his fill, finding Toby far more appetizing that anything on his tray. He looked at Toby's profile, taking in the beautiful blue of his visible eye, the long delicate eyelashes, the thick golden eyebrow, the perfectly shaped little nose, and the thin-lipped pout of the most sinfully kissable mouth God had ever created, that not even his latest `crazy beard' could hide.

His gaze dropped down to Toby's hands as they spooned up food. They weren't beautiful hands by any means - square, blunt-fingered, with pronounced veins running up over his wrists; they were the hands of a workman, not a yuppie lawyer, despite how smooth Toby's formerly soft life had kept them. But Chris had always found himself utterly entranced by them - by the brute strength and gentle tenderness he knew they contained, hidden by a homely appearance. He wanted those hands on him, soft touches of love, firm grasps of passion - fuck, Chris wanted it *all*.

Keller became vaguely aware that Toby was listening to the conversation between Rebadow and Busmalis a few seats away from them, and his heart started to pound, when Toby commented on something somebody had said. He didn't hear the words, but Toby's deep, throaty, fucking *sexy* voice filled his ears, the rich, warm sound, heating him up from the inside. Chris looked back up at Toby's mouth as the blond continued to speak, mesmerized by the way the act of talking filled Toby's entire face with color and life, animating his features, and making him even more handsome. That brilliant, wide smile broke out on his face, lighting him up from within, and he let out soft a laugh that went straight to Chris's heart; before licking his lips, a brief flick of soft pink tongue, that went straight to Chris's cock.

Chris stared at this utterly beautiful man who had taken command of his heart, his life, his fucking *free-will* so completely, and all he could think was, `I love you. Oh sweet fucking *Christ*, I love you.' His heart raced, his stomach churned and his dick throbbed, but he couldn't stop any of it. Just like he couldn't stop his hand from reaching over and gently wrapping itself around the soft skin and hard bone of Toby's wrist.

Toby quickly turned his head, looking at Chris's hand on his arm and then up a Chris's face.

"What the *fuck*?" he said quietly.

"Toby," Chris whispered, hating how his breathy voice held more than a hint of desperation, "I love you."

Beecher wordlessly snatched his arm out if Chris's grasp, but Chris moved with him, sliding down the bench, pressing into Toby's side. He knew it was the dumbest thing he could do right then, that Toby would get pissed off and push him away, but he didn't care. He wanted their thighs pressed together and his arm around Toby's back; he wanted share in Toby's warmth and breathe in Toby's smell, even if it was only for briefest second. Chris wanted to go home.

And he *was* home; he was in fucking *heaven* just for a moment, before Beecher shoved him so hard he almost fell off the bench.

"DON'T *FUCKING* TOUCH ME!" Beecher roared angrily, loud enough for the entire fucking cafeteria to hear. Chris tried to glare at him as the gale of laughter and jeers started up, but he knew that Toby had seen the heartache that must have crossed his face before his customary mask dropped back in place. He stood up defiantly, grabbed Toby's still half-full tray and threw it to floor with resounding crash.

"FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE!" he yelled for the benefit of their audience, before stalking out of the cafeteria, accompanied by catcalls and jibes from the inmates.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Keller grunted angrily as he lifted ream after ream of copy paper and slammed it down in piles. Ordinarily he loathed work detail, but at the moment he was glad for the distraction - it was the only thing keeping him from wringing Beecher's neck. Goddamn the fucker, humiliating him in front of the entire cafeteria like that.

`Oh shut the fuck up, Keller,' said the annoying voice in his head, `Toby's not the one you're really mad at and you know it.'

Okay, yeah. He was mostly pissed at himself. Angry - *stunned* - that he had lost control of himself so badly. His whole life he'd played it cool, protected his image, carefully determined just how other people saw him, how he saw *himself*, and now? He was completely lost. He didn't know who the fuck he was anymore. Who was this whiny, pathetic, sick-with-puppy-love bitch? It wasn't the Chris Keller he'd always been. He'd been strong, shameless, not giving a fuck about the people he hurt, always in control. But Toby ... fucking *Toby* made him lose control, lose himself. It was like being drunk or high, losing your ordinary inhibitions - Tobias Beecher was a drug.

`Yeah, baby,' Chris thought savagely, `You are the perfect drug.' Beecher made him come apart like no hit of ecstasy ever could. Made him forget himself entirely. *Fuck* - it was like his head was unraveling; he just couldn't keep control.

So maybe Toby *was* the one he should be mad at after all. It was Toby's fault he was like this, Toby had fucked up his head from the very beginning, when Chris thought *he* was the one doing the mindfuck. He'd tried to resist the pull Toby had on him, back in the early days, kept telling himself to just stick to the plan, denying what he felt. And now he followed him around like a dog, jumping at any measly scrap of attention Beecher threw his way, watching the Keller he used to be slip further and further away. Had he really said something as sappy as, "All I've been thinking about is kissing you again"? And actually fucking *meant* it? Since when did he say shit like that without it being a con?

Chris shivered in the cold air of the storage room. It was like big, dark refrigerator in there. He remembered what Toby had done to him in this very room and the shivering got worse. He had given up everything for *that*? No, not for that. For the warmth he'd felt for a second in the cafeteria. For the unbridled drunken passion he'd felt that day in the laundry room. For every second during their deceitful courtship when Toby had looked at him like he was something special and not a piece of shit. All those times Toby had cared enough to really listen to Chris, and the way he understood. He had done it for that.

`*Shit*', Chris thought, as he realized that he'd allowed himself to dwell on the good memories for too long. The anger had burned away and the arousal that had plagued him all day was coming back. He glanced around. Fuck it, he was alone; he may as well take advantage - get rid of this nagging desire before it came back as strong as before and he *really* humiliated himself.

Chris sat down on a box, unzipped his fly and eased his half-hard cock out. He spat in his palm and started up the steady rhythm he'd perfected at age twelve. He tried to focus on the images of beauty he'd looked upon earlier in the cafeteria, on the memories of their one and only kiss. But it just wasn't happening the way it should. He kept hearing Beecher's yell, feeling that shove, feeling the shank in the back, seeing Toby's face when he told him he wasn't forgiven, hearing his own desperate cry, "I did what you asked!" He was so fucking stupid - he'd honestly thought that ratting out Schillinger and Metzger would be enough. That Toby would see it for the grand gesture it was - Chris Keller, who always looked out for number one, going against every self-preserving instinct he lived by, for the first time in his life, purely for the benefit of another person and not himself. That fact was astounding to Chris - how could it not be astounding to Toby?

Jesus, he'd walked right into that pod, brimming over with happiness at being back with Toby and being forgiven, only to be figuratively stabbed in the heart and literally stabbed in the back. He'd wanted that second kiss so fucking bad - Chris hadn't given a fuck about the new beard or the toothbrush in Toby's mouth. He'd stroked the other man's warm nape and been a second away from yanking that brush out of his mouth, crushing his own lips against the ones he'd been dreaming of, thrusting his tongue inside and sharing the toothpaste foam between them like cum. He'd been so close he could almost taste the mintiness in his own mouth, feel the wet foam dripping down his chin, before Toby pushed him away. Again.

"*Fuck!*" Chris exclaimed, pulling harder on his cock; rougher, jerkier, painful movements, hurting himself, in a futile attempt to get himself off. He couldn't. He was as horny as hell, but orgasm had never seemed so far away. "Fuck you, Beecher," he whispered, brutally shoving his cock back into his pants, furious that Toby couldn't even let him fucking *jerk-off* in peace. "Who'd a believed that, huh? *Keller* can't come. This is what you do to me you fucking beautiful, miserable bastard. The more I give to you, the more I die."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Chris reluctantly walked back to Em City after work detail, not sure if he'd rather fuck Beecher or kill him when he reached their pod. But he wasn't there anyway - the tiny pod stood empty when he stepped inside. Where the hell was Beecher? It wasn't that long until evening count.

Chris sat down on his bunk, leant against the back wall of the pod, and idly glanced into the shower room through the plexi-glass on his left. Oh - so that's where Toby was. Chris wriggled around to get a better view, his eyes feasting on all that forbidden flesh. He used to be lucky enough to see this sight everyday, and stand equally naked next to it, but these days Toby never showered with him, always waited for a time when he wasn't around.

He bit his lip, longing to be closer, to see that body he cherished a little clearer. He loved the way the spray of water made Toby's back shine, the harsh lighting in the shower room highlighting every curve and dip of muscle and spine on that beautiful, perfect back.

Chris's fists started to clench as he became aware that he was once again losing control - never mind that he'd been on the verge of ripping Beecher apart just a short while ago; now he was longing to get his hands on that body, longing for the brief time when it had been his to touch, when his touch would have been welcomed. He was still angry that Toby had this effect on him, angry that Toby wouldn't forgive. But more importantly (or so his body thought) was the fact that his skin was tingling and his breathing was coming heavy, as he stared at Toby's naked body. Every feeling of desire, love, tenderness and brutal passion that he'd had since this morning was coursing through his body at the sight of what he wanted more than anything, but just *couldn't*. *Fucking*. *HAVE*.

Toby bent over slightly to wash his legs, and Chris couldn't stop himself from letting out a soft moan. His nipples stiffened as a shiver racked his body, like he'd been hit with a chilly breeze. His cock throbbed and tingled. He watched as Toby ran the soap over his body, touching himself in all the places Chris wanted to touch. The thin, lean torso; the perfectly shaped collarbones and shoulders; the sexy forearms striped with veins that made them look stronger, veins that Chris would dearly have loved to follow with his tongue; that cute, soft peach of an ass, no less appetizing for the ugly brand it bore. And, oh God, those two sweet little dimples on his lower back, just above his ass. Chris was hit by a mental image of himself dipping his tongue into those dimples, as his hand curved around the swell of that ass, kneading, grasping, feeling the baby-fine blonde hairs he *knew* were there even if he couldn't see them now, like a soft dusting of peach fuzz.

Chris didn't even think about it, he just grabbed his pillow to cover his lap from anyone outside, reached underneath and pulled his dick out. He grasped the tender, aching shaft firmly, and set a steady pace, blocking out everything but the sound of his own rapid breathing, and the visual feast in front of him.

He pictured himself in that same shower, right now, holding Toby's slippery form, hot water sluicing between their bodies. He would get that second kiss he'd been aching for, feed on that hot, wet tongue until he couldn't breathe, his greedy hands running all over Toby's naked flesh, that creamy skin like white velvet. He'd grab Toby's ass cheeks, knead those peaches until Toby was sighing and squirming, and rubbing his hard-on against Chris's hip. He'd slip his fingers inside that glorious body and revel in the tightness and warmth, that was all his, that was *made* for him, while Toby mewled and whimpered, and reached down to massage Chris's hard cock with those strong hands Chris loved so much.

Chris's heart pounded in his chest as he gripped tighter, stroked faster. Toby turned around in the shower allowing Chris to see the front view, too busy bathing himself to notice that he was the starring act in a private peep show. Oh yeah, thought Chris, as he spied Beecher's perfectly formed dick, that would be next. In his fantasy, he knelt down on the shower floor to take that big, sweet cock into his mouth. He kissed, and licked, and sucked, moaning around the tender flesh in his mouth, causing Toby to moan in turn. He took him deep, burying his nose in rust-colored curls, inhaling Toby's clean, musky scent.

Chris stared at the real Beecher as he pumped, noting that he seemed to be finishing up his shower. Oh *fuck* - he had to hurry. What would happen next in his fantasy? He'd bend Toby over that low wall in front of the showers, kiss a trail down his spine, and pull those ass cheeks apart to lick along the crease. He'd tease Toby's asshole with his tongue - he was willing to bet *no-one* had ever done that for him before - make him shiver and shake, and arch his back, pushing back into Chris's face. He'd open him up with tongue and fingers, tenderly and lovingly, the antithesis of Schillinger - he'd show him it was good - `Oh *fuck*, I'd make you feel so good, baby.' He'd enter Toby, slowly and carefully, guide him through the initial pain, until Toby began rock with his movements, and then, oh God...

Chris, who had closed his eyes at some point he couldn't remember, forced them open and was relieved to see Toby had gone to shave in front of the mirror after his shower - he had some more time. He closed his eyes again, feeling the movement of his hand like the friction of his thrusts in Toby's tight ass - *Christ*, he could picture it all so perfectly. Toby bucking and moaning, crying his name in that breathy whisper, his beautiful back spread out before Chris like a living masterpiece, muscles flexing and straining.

But the Toby in his head was just as unpredictable as the Toby in real life - without any conscious thought from him, Chris heard the Toby in his fantasy groan, "Chris. I want to fuck you. Please, stop now and let me fuck you?" How the fuck could he refuse that *voice*?

Chris continued to rub himself hard, taking his other hand off the pillow, clenching it into fist and shoving it underneath himself, so he was sitting on it, pressed directly against his asshole. The pressure made it all too easy for him to reverse their positions in his head, feel Toby pushing into him, filling him up, thrusting hard and drenching him with sensation. Chris was almost always the one in charge and on top, so this was something he hadn't felt in *years* - something he hadn't even realize he missed or craved. He felt Toby's hand on his dick, pumping roughly, passionately; the other hand squeezing and pulling at his nipples. He heard Toby's voice again - "Chris. I'm sorry, baby. I love you too."

It was too much. Chris threw his head back, felt the bunk squeak beneath him, and let out a soft cry of "Toby," as he came hard in his hand; pulsing, spurting all over his fingers and the pillow, which had mostly slipped to the side during his exertions. It was as his breathing slowed that he became aware of a presence behind him.

He slowly looked around to see Toby standing in the pod doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, looking surprised, disgusted, and ... was that a slight hint of unwilling arousal? He knew then that Toby had been there long enough to hear Chris cry his name as came, but more importantly that somewhere, deep down, Toby still wanted him, still desired him, no matter how much he didn't want to - it was there in his eyes, in the way he unconsciously licked his lips. Chris had suspected as much, but he knew for sure now. And he reveled in the knowledge.

Throwing Toby a cocky smirk, he carefully lifted his hand to his mouth, and slowly, sensuously, licked his own come off his hand. "Mmmm," he murmured.

Before a thoroughly stunned Toby could respond they heard the call for count. Chris quickly tucked himself in and hopped off the bunk. As they stood in line, he shamelessly brushed against Toby's shoulder, loving how disconcerted it made him. Beecher's eyes were shooting him daggers by the time they were locked down for the night.

Chris calmly moved around the pod, washing his hands and stripping his pillowcase for tomorrow's laundry, while Toby just stood there, still in nothing but a towel, staring at him. Finally Chris looked up at him. "Ask me, Beecher. I know you're trying to ignore my existence, but you *know* you wanna ask, so just fucking *ask*."

"Fine," Toby snapped angrily, "what the fuck was that?"

Chris rolled his eyes and stretched out lazily on the lower bunk. "If you don't know then it's been too long."

"I ... heard you ... you said ..."

Chris shrugged. "I want you, Toby. I thought I'd made that fairly obvious by now."

"You want me? Sure. You want to hurt me. Control me. It's all a scam," Toby's voice, kind of desperate like he's trying to remind himself, *convince* himself.

"That's bullshit, Toby, don't you know that by now? After everything I've done? Everything I'll *keep* doing `til you forgive me?"

His voice was a poisonous hiss now - "I'll *never* fucking forgive you."

"I love you."

"You love me," Toby muttered, disbelievingly.

"And I want you."

Beecher glared at him. "Never again. I'll never be anyone's prag *again*."

"I don't want you to be my prag." Christ, was that ever true, Chris realized as he thought back to how his jerk-off fantasy had ended.

Toby pursed his lips and exhaled sharply. "I'm not talking about this shit anymore. I hate you. I hate you for what you did, I hate you for what you are. I will *always* fucking hate you. Can you even comprehend just what you did to me? How much you fucked me up and took away whatever control I'd managed to regain over my life?"

`Yeah, `cause you're doing exactly the same thing to me, baby,' Chris thought, but didn't bother saying, knowing Beecher wouldn't understand. "I'm gonna find a way to make it up to you."

Toby snorted with disbelief, grabbed some clothes out of his locker, and climbed up onto the top bunk. "If you don't *mind*," he drawled sarcastically, "I'm going to get dressed up here. I think you've had enough of a show for one day. So stay on your bed, or I'll fucking kill you."

Chris sighed, rolled over and closed his eyes. He kept reminding himself why he was doing this, why it was worth the fight. Just to see Toby look at him with love and desire in his eyes again. He knew Toby was plotting revenge against Schillinger - he knew he was gonna help with that even though Toby had said he didn't need his help. If they both joined forces against a common enemy, maybe that would help bridge the gap between them. Who knew? But he had to keep trying. He didn't have a choice. Not when he was lying here, sleepy from long-delayed, finally-sated desire, with the Toby's warm, familiar smell drifting down from above him, potent and utterly addictive. `You are the perfect drug, Toby'.

The End

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

The Perfect Drug

I got my head, but my head is unraveling Can't keep control, can't keep track of where it's traveling I got my heart but my heart is no good And you're the only one that's understood I come along but I don't know where you're taking me I shouldn't go but you're reaching back and shaking me Turn off the sun, pull the stars from the sky The more I give to you, the more I die

And I want you And I want you And I want you And I want you

You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug

You make me hard, when I'm all soft inside I see the truth, when I'm all stupid eyed The arrow goes straight through my heart Without you everything just falls apart

My blood wants to say hello to you My feelings want to get inside of you My soul is so afraid to realize Every little word is a lack of me

And I want you And I want you And I want you And I want you

You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug You are the perfect drug, the perfect drug, the perfect drug

Take me, with you

Without you, without you everything falls apart Without you, it's not as much fun to pick up the pieces

Please send feedback to Erin.