Whirlwind | W.M.

19

I much definitely prefer being shot over being stabbed.

Not that any of the two are pleasant sensations, they both feel absolutely agonizing but something about the sharp pain of a blade tearing through my skin— and staying in, irks me on a whole different level. Bullets usually go through, they leave a scorching trail and pack a nasty punch but at least I don't feel my skin trying to weld back together and ripping all over again because a blade was still embedded in my body.

So to further back up my point, I was not only sleep deprived, hungry and overwhelmed, I was also incredibly annoyed at an obnoxiously talkative british man repeatedly trying to stab me in my own hotel room because apparently, that's a normal thing in my life. He was closly matching up to my frame, had about the same height but he did have maybe a few pounds of muscle on me under those messily tattooed arms.

"Who— the fuck— are you!" I huff in between dodging his jabs, his blade slicing my shoulder by a hair as he chuckled amidst staggered breaths.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He tries again, wincing as I deliver a punch to his side and a quick kick to his sternum, sending him stumbling back and regaining a bit of distance in that already trashed room.

"That's why I asked!" I seethe, eyeing him as he keeps that same arrogant smirk plastered on his already bloody lip.

"You are good. They told me you'd be." He breathes, taking a moment to catch his breath as he wipes the thin coat of sweat forming upon his forehead.

"Who is they? You work for HYDRA?" I question sternly, watching as he grimaces at my words.

"HYDRA? Oh god no, they're wretched little leeches with a superiority complex." He dismisses, talking as though we were catching up over coffee and not, quite literally, fighting to the death.

"Then why the fuck are you here? What are you— some sort of thief? You want money or something?" I prod as he begins to approach again, shaking his head amidst a small, breathy laugh.

"You think that low of me, darling?" He asks, going in with another jab that I dodge, but he gets a solid punch in with his free hand that lands right on my jaw.

He takes the opportunity to throw in more punches, sending me staggering back until i'm pressed against the door when he buries his dagger right into my shoulder. He was a lot better than I had expected, professional even. In only a few minutes of fighting, he was able to expect and predict my choices and direction, which is not something a measly theif is trained to do.

I cry out in pain, leaving the blade in as a surge of anger soares through my veins. I catch his head between the palms of my hands, clashing mine against it as the impact dizzies him severely. At this, I pull the knife out, instantly feeling my wound heal as— in a fit of rage, I grab the handle and take a jab at his face. I watch as the crimson traces from his upper eyebrow, above the bridge of his nose and down to his lower cheek, narrowly missing his left eye.

He gasps at the sudden action and I drop the dagger to deliver blow after blow to his head, kicking him down to the ground and climbing on top of him. Flashes of what happened merely days prior plague my mind like a ghost, haunting me from the depths of my memories as I land punch after punch to his skull, feeling his bones crack under my knuckles at the impact. This time, when his hands stop trying to claw at my face and drop to the carpeted floor, I find it in me to let up.

I move off of him, falling to sit upon the ground with my back pressed to the television stand as I try to catch my breath. He was bloodied, his nose gushing uncontrollably as he struggled to prop himself up. He looks at me through hooded eyes, one of them already swollen shut as I stare back at him.