Overpower You

I like your eyes

I like your shape

And I could easily overpower you

I won't say a thing

I won't tell a soul

But I could easily overpower you

It was dark. Suffocatingly dark, betrayed only by the colourless pre-dawn light that wound its way beyond the curtains, casting tall shadows on the wall. It was a little too warm, but Piccolo hadn't seemed to notice. He was curled up in a chair; chin rested on his knees, staring out into the thick, heavy dark.

"Vegeta?" Piccolo's hoarse voice deliberately sounded the name with a prolonged elegance, allowing each vowel to roll off his tongue.

Vegeta was lying on the bed, naked, staring at the ceiling, mentally drawing out patterns in the cracks. Through his half closed eyes, and the darkness, he could pretend that they were the stars. All his limbs felt heavy, so it was hard to do anything more than life flat on his back. But, when Piccolo's melodic voice entered his ears, piercing his mind, he forgot his imaginary stars and turned his head, consuming all his energy in the process.

I like your eyes

A smile snaked over Piccolo's lips when he took one look at those eyes. Though Vegeta lay broken and spent on the bed, his eyes still burned with life, glittering like lamp lights in the dark. They were as black as his own were, but Piccolo's were closed, as impenetrable as the dark. Vegeta's, on the other hand, betrayed his regal demeanour. There was a hunger in there, a yearning. Whenever he set eyes on Piccolo, the cold pride, that was normally there, seemed to soften and disappear from his eyes, to be replaced with some akin to submission. Yet, despite the weak-willed surrender, Vegeta's eyes still shone, still hungered.

More and more light began to creep into the room as dawn approached. The grey light began to turn to gold.

I like your shape

As it began to become lighter, Piccolo studied the prince's form. He was, once again, struck by the delicate beauty he possessed. The grace and poise, juxtaposed with the power and the ferocity. All in that tiny frame. And he really was tiny. When Piccolo held him, he felt like he could encompass his entire being. It was something like holding a butterfly in your cupped hands – the sheer control he felt, just to feel Vegeta melting into his arms, clinging to him as if trying to mould himself to the contours of Piccolo's body. Vegeta's desperation, and the power it gave, was addictive.

Vegeta had recovered slightly; just enough to find sufficient energy to extend a hand towards Piccolo. He reached out with all the strength he had towards the Namek, who was just beyond his reach. Vegeta's fingers trembled, and his hand began to fall back to the bed, dejectedly. Piccolo reached out and caught it before it could quite hit the sheets.

And I could easily overpower you

Piccolo unfurled himself and rose from the chair, clutching the Prince's hand. And there was no doubt Vegeta was a prince; he was Piccolo's prince. He moved closer, climbing on to the bed, knees sinking into the mattress with the added weight. Vegeta watched him carefully, as the Namek planted his knees on either side of him, and kissed his hand. Vegeta tried to crane his neck up to kiss Piccolo, but Piccolo remained out of reach, watching the exhausted Saya-jinn try to squirm beneath him.

There was no doubt that Vegeta was the strongest physically of the pair. But he was addicted to the hurt and the need as Piccolo was addicted to the control. Piccolo supposed it must all stem back to Frieza, this love of pain and submission. But Piccolo would not compare himself to that creature; there was a fundamental difference in this – Vegeta wanted him. He wanted him so much…perhaps too much.

So, he played the dutiful courtier to please his prince, but, at the same time, took delight in Vegeta's incapacitating longing.

Piccolo looked at Vegeta's expression. Oh, how beautiful he looked when he wanted him. Vegeta let out a whimper. Piccolo ran a hand down the side of the Saya-jinn's face, then back up again, into his bristly hair, coarse to the touch. Vegeta had shut his eyes, shudders of pleasure running through him, whimpering softly, kitten-like. Weak-willed. Submissive.

Vegeta struggled to reach the Namek. Despite his weakness, the little touch he received just was not enough. Could never be enough. Piccolo's nails scraped down the prince's delicate, tantalizing face. Not hard enough to pierce the skin, just enough to make him writhe into his fingertips.

Vegeta's lips caught each and every finger; desperate, desperate, desperate.

Piccolo finally took the tiny body into his arms, enveloping him, pressing his forehead against the prince's, antenna disappearing into that shock of black hair.

Piccolo rested his lips against Vegeta's own, and instantly felt his little tongue reach out, trying to taste him. Granting him the access he so longed for, Piccolo ran a hand down the length of the prince's body, each perfect curve, each perfect muscle, and felt those beautiful, beautiful shudders run through that tiny body again.

"I love you." Vegeta breathed. Piccolo closed his eyes.

Entirely drained, Vegeta went limp in Piccolo's arms, rubbing his cheek against his chest. Piccolo lay his prince back into the position he had previously occupied, flat on his back, searching for the stars.

Running a hand absently through the Prince's hair, Piccolo dressed and left the room.

Dawn burst through the curtains in all her glory.

Everyday Life Returned.

I won't say a thing

Vegeta found himself in the living room, arguing with Bulma again. The television was a constant background buzz. As were the children's arguments. The house was always a mess, it always needed cleaning, no matter if Vegeta helped out or not. Bra would always leave her toys everywhere. Trunks would always forget to leave his shoes in the hall and trail mud through the house. The carpets were stained. The Gravity Room would always suffer some damage. But Bulma still shouted. Vegeta would shout back. So Bulma would shout louder.

She'd shout about the mess he left in the kitchen.

She'd shout about how he never helped out around the house.

She'd shout about how much he trained.

She's shout about how he was never at home at night…

I won't tell a soul

Vegeta always left the house just before sunset. Out the backdoor, and then taking flight, disappearing into the clouds. By the time he arrived at their room, the sky was turning from the vibrant orange to a ghostly blue. Piccolo was usually already there, curled up in his chair, waiting for him.

Vegeta would fall by his feet, head dropping into the Namek's lap. Piccolo would place a hand in his hair, raking his long fingernails through it.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." Vegeta would say breathlessly while he still had his strength. Piccolo would never respond.

To respond would be to lose control. To allow Vegeta to see what lay beyond his cold eyes, to see that he loved the prince, and needed him just as much…how could he keep control, if Vegeta knew that? No, best not speak. The balance of power was too important.

So, Vegeta would press himself against Piccolo, as if trying to push his way inside the Namek's very being, to truly become one with him, so he would never have to be without him again. Sometimes he would sob into his gi, as he tried to remove it and slide it off the smooth, green skin.

Very carefully, Piccolo would wind his talons into the prince's hair. His fingers would sometimes tremble, but he used all his mental strength to steady them. He could strip Vegeta much faster that Vegeta could him. Vegeta had to reach up to him with quivering fingers. Piccolo's hands were steady and Vegeta was at his feet.

As the darkness closed in around them, Piccolo would gather Vegeta up and lay him on their bed. And, in the fading light, he would once again be struck by just how beautiful he was, and how beautiful the longing in his eyes was.

Vegeta's lips would reach hungrily for Piccolo's, aching to consume him, but Piccolo would lean back, watching Vegeta's beauty fade into the darkness.

But I could easily overpower you.

End.

Author's Notes: The lyrics, which appear in full at the top of this piece, are from Auf Der Maur's 'Overpower Thee'. They do not belong to me. But I do love the distressed, breathless music. And I played it quite a lot whilst writing this.

During my lapse in writing the Seven Year Itch, this came to me. Even though I am still working on the aforementioned fic, I couldn't just leave this. I wrote it in one sitting in a burst of creativity. I hope it suits.

I don't write lemons. I'll happily read them. But I don't write them. I've just never found that it suits my writing style. So, for the sake of art, innuendo and non-specifics are employed. I doubt you had too much trouble figuring out what was going on.

The characterisation may seem rather odd, but remember this takes place when they're both consumed by an obsession. That can change your character a little.

Think of it like this – have you ever wanted someone so much, yet, try as you might, you can't touch them? You have to wait for them to come and touch you. I think that could make you whimper a little bit too.