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I'm a fountain of blood
In the shape of a girl
You're the bird on the brim
Hypnotized by the Whirl…
It had happened again. Another fight, another slammed door, another weeping session. It was the same thing every weekend, but this time, there was something else, something different. This time, there was a feeling in the air; a sadness so deep that even his alien heart felt it. He tried to ignore it, tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use.
Cursing vilely in his own language, he jumped out of the tree he called home, and stalked into the house. He paused to try to remember where her room was, and heard something odd. He followed the sound into the main room of the house, and was forced to listen once more. He found her sitting curled up behind a chair, in the corner. She was rocking and crying almost silently, though with sobs so deep they threatened to break her ribs. He'd never seen her like this; she'd always seemed so
Prey Upon the Weak'Damn it, damn it, damn it!' She couldn't let Vegeta catch her, not like this. It was too easy a hiding spot, and she'd only picked it to use for a short time!
Bulma crouched down, hiding her head under her arms as she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. When she saw the small bare feet turn the corner, though, she started breathing again.
"Mom, what are you doing?" her six-year-old son asked when he spotted her crouching behind a potted plant.
She sat back against the wall. "Hiding," she simply said.
"What'd you do to the GR?" he asked with a huff.
Bulma blushed lightly. "Nothing. You haven't seen your father around here, have you?" She pushed herself up to stand.
"No, but I did just leave my room." He gave her a devious smirk, reminding Bulma way too much of both her and Vegeta. "Do you want me to call him here for you?"
"No, no, no," she said a little too quickly. "Um, if you do happen to see him tell him you didn't see me, okay?"
"Can do, Mom." Trunks started heading downstair
Blue Eyes in FlamesWhen the prince sees the flower bloom from the palm of her hand, he orders her arrest.
She is only seven years old.
He takes the flower from her and keeps it, even though he knows he shouldn't. He puts it a vase, or, rather, his servant does that for him. The flower doesn't ever die, even years later.
It's dawn of a December morning, and he's cold. But still, he stands next to his father dutifully and looks at the little girl with blue eyes that are now black from seven nights sleeping on a cold, dungeon floor behind bars. They cut off her dark brown hair during that time. She's tied to the pyre, and there are seven guards around her, holding sharper swords than normal, not that she could get away. There's one man dressed in black holding an unlit torch, with a mask over his face to prevent his death. His father raises his arm, and the torch is lit.
She locks her gaze to his, and he blinks at her. It's like she expects him to prevent it. He couldn't, though, he can't. She scares him, w
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More