lying on the ground and bleeding

Savor Printessa \Pietro Maximoff Imagine/

Bullets flew everywhere around the Sokovian streets hitting anything it could. Robots were everywhere trying to attack the Avengers but they were smashed or completely obliterated by. I was flashing around from here to there knocking out the robots easily avoiding their bullets. I tried my best to help everyone out but I couldn’t seem to find Piertro or Clint anywhere.

Flashing onto another street taking out some more robots I could see Clint. He had a child in his arms with a robot standing over him gun raised shooting at a whim. Then there was a blur of blue and silver. Pietro. He swept up Clint and the child and they were gone in a moment. Flashing to the robot I smashed it to pieces then I flashed over to Pietro. I saw him and Clint lying on the destroyed ground. Pietro was hunched over holding his chest breathing heavily. I was at his side and pulled his hands away seeing multiple bullet wounds bleeding out of his shirt. His eyes were welling up seeing my face. But his lips curled into his signature smirk.

“You didn’t see that coming?” He said. Those were his last words before he fell to the ground.

Clint and I took a moment to take it in like the world slowed down. My chest began to heave heavily as I tried to contain my anger. He can’t do this to us. He can’t do this to Wanda- oh god she’ll hate us all over again. He can’t leave me alone. But I but my lip and looked at Clint.

“I’ll be right back, keep on fighting,” I said.

Clint looked at me confused. I grabbed Pietro’s hand feeling it still warm and felt my eyes begin to water. In an instant we were in Stark tower’s laboratory.

My body began to weaken almost instantly, traveling with another person takes a lot or energy. A sharp pain in my chest shy through like I had been shot I looked down to see that I wasn’t. I had felt like I had fought 100 robots at once. But I looked at Pietro and refocused on my cause.

There was a chamber that I knew was Tony’s cell regenerator and powered it up. I took a deep breath and heaved Pietro to the machine pushing him inside and closed the door. Pressing the start button his body was encased with green. A whizzing noise filled the almost quiet room making it very calming.

I sat down against a table keeping my eyes on Pietro. My heart rate began to slow down my breathing getting slower. But I kept watching Pietro’s bullet wounds heal. It really does work. What do you know. I couldn’t help but grin seeing Pietro’s eyes open and his body begin to move. The machine stopped making noises and the door opened. Pietro stepped out slowly looking very confused then he saw me.

His face lit up and he was by my side holding my face in his calloused fingers.

“You don’t look so good printessa,” he said quietly.

My eyes began to close but I could see his face become very worried. He began tapping my face with his hands trying to keep me awake. He knew what I had done, I could tell in his eyes the urgency of keeping me awake. He knew that my power was extremely energy consuming.

“Why did you save me? You didn’t have to do that, you need the energy!” He said his accent very thick and frantic.

It sounds like such a beautiful thing.

“I didn’t want you to leave Wanda alone,” I said taking a shallow breath, “A sister needs her brother, the Avengers need you… I needed you.”

His shocking blue eyes were wide and glazed over with water. His arms wrapped themselves around me, his nose pressing into my hair. I could feel his chest moving as he breathed heavy breaths.

“I couldn’t let you die Pietro, it wasn’t your time.”

He pulled back his face very close to mine. The smallest smiles was on his face. “You shouldn’t have risked your life for mine Y/N.”

I smiled at him feeling my body beginning to rapidly weaken. “It was my pleasure to save you Speedy.”

Tears fell from his eyes and I raised my hand wiping them away. “Hey don’t cry, don’t cry dragul meu, I just need to rest.”

Pietro seemed shocked I spoke another language. More tears fell from his eyes and he held me close.

“Don’t stay here, go help the Avengers. Go help your sister. I’ll be here when you get back,” I said brushing my hand through his silver hair.

Pietro nodded his head and in a flash he was gone. And with that my eyes shut and my breathing shallowed.

***

My eyes opened to see my own room surrounding me. The sound of machine’s beeping filled the room. I saw Natasha sitting in a chair beside mine reading a book. She picked her head up and smiled at me closing her book.

“Good morning sunshine,” she said giving me a big smile. “You’re looking better already it took you a while.”

I tried to sit up but my body wouldn’t cooperate so Natasha helped me sit up. “Thank you Nat, how long have I been out?”

“About half a week,” she said, “But that’s not so bad, you missed Tony’s victory party.”

“Oh what I pity I hope he wasn’t disappointed,” I said grinning.

Natasha smiled and patted my head brushing my hair down. “He wasn’t. He’s more focused on your watch dog.”

I narrowed my eyebrows. Watch dog? Natasha walked to the other side of my bed her eyes wondering down. I followed her gaze and saw Pietro sleeping soundly on a mattress lightly snoring. His hair was a mess and his shirt was fresh and clean.

“He’s been there since the battle was over. He pulled the mattress from his room in here and fell right asleep. Wanda tried to get him out but he told her no,” Natasha explained. “He said he wants to protect his savor.”

I could feel my chest tighten at his gesture. He truly was a good person you just had to force it out of him. I had the biggest smile on my face and tried to cover it from Natasha, she would tease me for it.

“Well,” Natasha said,“ I’ll let you get some more rest. Not another mission for you till you can teleport again.”

“Is that the only reason I work here?” I asked raising a brow.

“Well it isn’t because of your cooking skills,” she said and left closing the door behind her.

After giving it a moment I slipped out of my bed going to Pietro’s mattress. Carefully sliding onto it I laid down beside him taking his outstretched hand in mine squeezing it. Pietro’s eyes opened revealing the vibrant blues I’ve come to love. He blinked and his eyes widened a true smile coming onto his face. He sat up and wrapped his arms around me putting his nose into my neck.

“Thank god you’re awake. I was terrified that you had died by saving me. I couldn’t let that happen everyone needs you,” he said.

“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,” I said lacing my fingers into his hair. “I just had to take a small nap.”

“You’ve been sleeping for 4 days printessa,” he said pulling away pressing a hand to my cheek. “I was afraid that you had died trying to save me and I couldn’t let that happen.”

I held him tighter pressing myself to him. “You would do anything for the people you love.”

Pietro looked at me his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Does that mean you love me printessa?”

“I did what I could to keep you alive didn’t I?” I asked grinning.

Pietro’s lips curled into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen him have. He looked genuinely happy and he looked amazing having it. Our faces were close together now eyes focused on each other’s.

“Dragul meu, I love you,” Pietro said and pressed his lips to mine.

Everything around me seemed to disappear as we kept in sync with each other. Nothing mattered it was just me and Speedy sharing the most passionate kiss I’ve ever received. We broke away what seemed too soon and Pietro laid me down next to him pulling me close nuzzling his nose into my neck kissing my shoulder. His pure warmth flowed onto my skin and I could help but sigh, the world seemed all right.

“I will be in your debt till the day I die Y/N,” Pietro said.

“No need, just love me for as long.”


———-

Translation:
dragul meu: my love
printessa: Princess

First imagine I’ve ever done and it was crafted at 5 in the am with a 20% battery so excuse sloppiness xx

anonymous asked:

Hey Lora! Do you have a poem about anger? Or just overall really strong feeling? Thanks!

i’d like to think that every poem i write is about very strong feelings, although maybe that’s not true - i do have some poems about quietly collapsing into a pile of ash in a grey corner 

but…anger?
sure. these are some poems i wrote while shaking.

  • the joke is that i’m not all that angry 
  • whatever  (this is that quiet sort of anger, when you’re picking at your nails until they bleed, when you’re scratching at your bug bites until skin’s broken, when you’re tapping your foot on the ground harder and harder and harder, when you’re in your bedroom lying on the floor and you feel so restless and incapable of speaking and then you open your mouth to scream and all that comes out is a gasp) 
  • the wound 
  • trained silence (i can taste your name in my mouth - come closer to me and i swear to god i will take out this knife that is my tongue and slice your head off)
  • is it really my fault 

Allegory of St. Agathius and 10,000 martyrs (1551). [x]

Three bleeding figures in an acacia tree with sharp thorns. Bottom left, lying on the ground, there is a crown - which probably refers to the Emperor Hadrian. At the right, there is the painter or some donator. Hanging from the tree there is a shield bearing a mark, probably the brand of the donator. Both above the tree and on the right side of the composition are belt rollers bearing Middle Dutch texts. In the top center appears the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove.

anonymous asked:

Candy Hawke was on her way home when she saw somebody lying on the ground in the dark alley. She would have probably walked pass, but something had caught her attention. White hair, pointed ears... "Fenris!" she rushed to his side, gasping at the sight of a terrible wound. "Fenris, can you hear me?"

“H-Hawke….?” Fenris weakly opened his eyes, a hand pressed to his heavily bleeding gut. There had been too many hunters. He tried to fight, but had to run when he was injured. He’d thought he could make it to Anders, but it had been too far.

Mercy ll Closed RP

“You bitch!!”

The man hissed in pain as he crumbled to the ground, hands tightly pressing onto his thigh as he tried to stop the massive bleeding. She was somehow caught, after so many days of keeping a low profile in this town, a few of the bandits spotted her, and weren’t that friendly of her intrusion. Adina was lucky that none of the three men she ran into today had a shooting weapon, or she would seriously be dead already. 

She watched as the person before her was lying in a pool of his own blood, she severed a major artery with her knife, there was nothing left for him other than death. She was never comfortable with killing another human being, but at this point, it was either her or him.

She nervously gathered the new supplies she got and made a run for it, keeping her body low and praying to whatever entity that was around that she wouldn’t be spotted. Of course that would be impossible, with how loud that man screamed when she sliced at his thigh…

The red head spotted what appeared to be an opening and no one around, it was too good to be true, but she needed to get the hell out of this place if she wanted to reach the city. She stopped just behind a large school bus to hide and catch her breath. 

disquiet-and-madness

3

Allegory of St. Agathius and 10,000 martyrs (1551). Details. [x]

Three bleeding figures in an acacia tree with sharp thorns. Bottom left, lying on the ground, there is a crown - which probably refers to the Emperor Hadrian. At the right, there is the painter or some donator. Hanging from the tree there is a shield bearing a mark, probably the brand of the donator. Both above the tree and on the right side of the composition are belt rollers bearing Middle Dutch texts. In the top center appears the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove.

mermaidsdontmeow asked:

you are my sunshine ((soRRY))

Sj.in’s eyes grew wide as he noticed a familiar body lying down on the ground, bleeding.

He ran over to him and placed an arm under his neck, pulling him up against his chest. “Oh my god Nil.esy, who did this to you?” He asked with a shaking voice as tears ran down his face.

“It’s going to be okay….I-I won’t leave you okay? Just stay with me.” He cradled Nil.esy in his arms, brushing Nil.esy’s hair from his bloody face.


(CNN)In front of a white building, with a Belgian flag flying high in the yard, a black man in a striped t-shirt and shorts is being strangled with a chain.

Nearby, another black man is lying face down on the ground, his trousers pulled down to reveal deep bleeding cuts in his buttocks. Above him stands another black man, smartly dressed in a colonial police officer’s uniform, whip raised above his head, ready to strike. The guard looks furtively over at a white man, in a white uniform with the Belgian flag sewn into his lapel, and a white pith helmet on his head. He smokes a pipe and has one hand in his pocket. The other hand casually directs the violence in the yard.

This scene is from one of the paintings in a new exhibition, 53 Echoes of Zaire, which opens on 27 May at the Sulger-Buel-Lovell gallery in London. The painting, titled “Congo Belge II,” was made in the 1970s and depicts a period in the history of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) (previously know as Zaire), a former Belgian colony.

The Kingdom of Kongo rose in the 1300s, and part of it became Congo Free State, the private holding of Belgian King Leopold II, in the 1880s. Speaking of that colonial history, Christian Sulger-Buel, who co-founded the gallery says: “Belgian Congo is an extraordinary exception to the colonial norm. It was dramatically exploited by one man, King Leopold (II), who treated the people and the land like his private property. He owned Congo the way you’d own your car.”

Political art

The artist, T. Kalema, was part of a group that came to be known as the “Lumumbashi Movement,” artists living and working in the southeastern city of Lumumbashi. The work of the Lumumbashi Movement served as a way to document Congo’s turbulent history.

The political nature of the art created in Lumumbashi in the 1970s is particular to the city, which is the copper mining heartland of Congo. “In Kinshasa (the capital of the DRC) the subjects of art were typically social, lighter and with a lot of humor,” says Salimata Diop, head of programs at London’s Africa Centre, and the exhibition’s curator.

By contrast, artists who were part of the Lumumbashi Movement painted scenes from the slave trade in the 16th and 17th centuries, through to the brutality by the colonial masters and right up to their contemporary struggles: miners strikes, independence, the secession of Katanga, and hope in Congolese independence leader Patrice Lumumba that turns to despair as he’s arrested and later killed.

“These artists were not making ‘airport art’ – art for foreigners or tourists to buy,” says Diop. “They saw themselves as artisans and were making art for local people.”

Among these visual historians in Lumumbashi a sub-genre called “Colonie Belge” became popular. “These paintings typically depict a white man – the colonial master – impeccably dressed, doing nothing except watching a black man flog another black man, often while his family look on,” explains Sulger-Buel.

The images are striking not just for their graphic content but also for their use of color, a remarkable achievement considering the poverty in which the artists lived. “They had access to only basic primary colors and despite the fine lines in some of the paintings, only worked with large brushes,” says Sulger-Buel.

'The demons of Africa’

Tshibumba Kanda-Matulu, the lead artist in the exhibition with over 30 works, had aspirations to be a teacher but became an artist. He was already prolific when he met Etienne Bol, a Belgian man his age with whom he struck up a friendship. Between 1971 and 73, Bol commissioned Kanda-Matulu and four other artists to paint the images displayed in the exhibition.

Diop says: “Paintings (usually created on canvasses made from flour sacks) sold for very modest sums. Kanda-Matulu lived in a small one bedroom house and found it difficult to make a living from his art. He was very poor.”

Despite his contribution to popular Congolese art, Kanda-Matulu’s life is shrouded in mystery. He met Etienne Bol in 1972, 10 years later, in 1982, he disappeared. People he knew thought he had gone back to his village, others speculated that he may have moved to neighboring Zambia. Given the political nature of his art, could his disappearance have been politically motivated?

Diop doesn’t think so but says: “Tshibumba was easy to find – he was always working from home. But suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore. In the troubled times (under the autocrat Mobutu Sese Seko) it was not uncommon for people to move a lot in search of a peaceful life. We don’t know if he’s alive or dead.”

The exhibition, which closes on June 30, the day Congo gained independence from Belgium 55 years ago, is overall a portrayal of what Sulger-Buel calls “the demons of Africa – forced labor, civil war, violent repression of student protests,” which still haunt Congo today.

Whether seen as a retelling of the past or a perspective on its present day, the art and artists of the Lumumbashi Movement deserve a place in Congo’s national history and on the global art scene.

The boy hunter

I used to kill birds in my boyhood,
Blackbirds, robins and wrens. 

I hunted them up in the hillside,
and I followed them down through the glens. 

I didn’t think it was sinful,
I only did it for fun,
and I had rare sport in the forest,
with the little birds and my gun. 

Then one fine day in springtime,
I spied a Brown Bird in a tree,
merrily whispering and chirping,
as happy as bird can be. 

I picked up my gun in a twinkling,
I fired, my aim was too true,
for a moment the little thing fluttered,
then off through the bushes it flew. 

I followed it quickly and softly,
and there to my sorrow I found,
right next to a nest full of young ones,
the little bird dead on the ground. 

Poor birdies for food they are calling,
but now they can never be fed,
for the kind mother bird who had loved them,
was lying there, bleeding and dead. 

I picked up the bird in my anguish,
I stroked the wee motherly thing
Who could never more feed its dear young ones,
Nor dart through the air on swift wing.

I made a firm vow at that moment,
with such anguish my heart was stirred,
that never again in my lifetime,
would I shoot a poor innocent bird. 


- Source unknown.
- My Uncle sent this to me in a letter when I was a kid and I think his dad sent it to him. 

Blasters, screaming, the ship shaking around him. This was it; they were going to die. 

That was the last thing to cross his mind before he started to become aware of his surroundings again. He was lying on the ground, but someone was holding him up. There was a sharp pain on the side of his head and judging by the warm trickle down his cheek, he was bleeding. Groggily his eyes opened, taking a moment to recognize Lee and his surroundings. “J-Jordan? What happened? Is everyone alright?”

reonhxto asked:

“You are my sunshine”

Cloud didn’t want to believe this. His friend.. was lying on the ground.. bleeding out. There was too much blood and too little time to do anything worthwhile. He instead held him, tears in his eyes as he looked at him. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” His voice cracked and he tilted his head forward. He couldn’t believe this. Cloud began to cry softly, holding onto the body of his dead friend. This was it. This was the end of that. Cloud reached up and cupped his warm face, knowing that it wouldn’t last very long because the blood had stopped, his heart stopped. Cloud didn’t know what to do from here. It felt wrong to leave his body. “I’m sorry, Leon..” He didn’t knew what to do.

anonymous asked:

Perhaps you should look closer at yourself...

“It is often thought that twins share two halves of a single soul, but I would be lying if I said I felt that he was still with me.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “It feels as though someone has ripped my very being into two halves and simply left me to bleed out upon the ground on which he fell… but I won’t. I will live one with an open wound.” 

Paintings show the casual violence of colonial masters



(CNN)In front of a white building, with a Belgian flag flying high in the yard, a black man in a striped t-shirt and shorts is being strangled with a chain. Nearby, another black man is lying face down on the ground, his trousers pulled down to reveal deep bleeding cuts in his buttocks.

via cnn.com - top stories

See, they tell you that you can be anything you want when you’re a kid, if but you put your mind to it. That if you have the passion and the drive, then nothing can stop you from doing what you want, what you really truly desire.

Then you become an adult and the freight train of the real world hits you.

The world has less than no interest in giving you a fair chance, and suddenly it starts to look stubborn to think that by fighting and trudging on you’re somehow going to come out on top.

Life isn’t a movie. You don’t get a montage, or deus ex machinas, or a fucking end credit sequence. There is no comic relief, no dynamic duo or reliable sidekick to pick you up off your feet. You’re going to get your ass kicked and the world is going to laugh at you and spit on you while you’re lying on the ground with your nose bleeding like Niagara falls.

And then somebody has the audacity to say “walk it off” or “it’ll get better”.

No shit it’ll get better. But then it gets worse. A lot worse.

And then you die.

God damn it? God already did, the smug fuck.

It wasn’t a short journey before I was met with some explanation to what this place was. The torch in my hand was a sign to the activity in these halls. Someone was here, and I might meet them soon. The end of the hallway was growing near. The room ahead had pillars cast along the wall. A table sat near the doorway. There were papers thrown around; logs of productivity. Ink was bleeding through them all. A spilled tankard beside them. It gave off a foul odor as if it were rotting. The room itself was small. The ground was still muddy, but this area had been patched up with fairly new wooden boards. The room had been shaped up as someone’s living quarters. The bunk was carelessly dressed. Clothes were stacked on the several crates in the room. The place hadn’t been touched in a couple days. A chair was left lying on the floor, and a couple pillows had been left in the dirt. I decided to leave. There was another exit, hailing my attention. The door was left wide open with a rock propping it there. It made way to a crowded staircase.

The pillars from the room above struck through to this floor. They guarded a ledge with a vast view into the caves ahead. Large paths were tangled together, each leading to different places. I stared in awe at the massive spire in the middle of the room.  Each of the paths seem to exploded out of the mass. Lights were scattered across. You could make out houses and venues. I started to see activity on the paths. Shadowy characters were hauling supplies across them. I decided to climb down the ledge. It seemed to be an improvised set of stairs. Only darkness below.