Clint had known full well that this was going to be a massacre. Hell, he’d said as much to Stark when the fucker mouthed off about taking bets. It seemed watching Natasha kick ass once inside a ring hadn’t been quite enough for him to figure out that she was a legitimate badass.
And it wasn’t that Clint wasn’t a healthy specimen of a badass himself, but hand to hand combat wasn’t his specialty. At least not like it was her’s.
Still, he could pull off a draw with her occasionally, which was better than half the other head cases on this team. But he knew damned well he couldn’t beat her.
Clint stretched carefully and tried not to get distracted by the catcalls when he stripped off his shirt, not wanting even that slight restriction to his movement.
Then he stepped out onto the mat and sighed. This was going to hurt.
Approximately 4 moves later (and it might have been more like 5-6 but he just couldn’t be sure with as fast as Natasha moved), he was flat on his back on the mat. He groaned, and thought that at least he’d been right about one thing: it had definitely hurt.
He forced himself to roll over and struggle to his feet. He just had to get up three times, and then he could give up and get the hell out of dodge.
At least, he was pretty sure that was the bet he’d told Darcy to make for him. Fuck if he could be sure of anything after that last blow to the head.
Training Sessions and Placing Your Bets - did not end up shippery in the slightest - sorry?
And it wasn’t that Clint wasn’t a healthy specimen of a badass himself, but hand to hand combat wasn’t his specialty. At least not like it was her’s.
Still, he could pull off a draw with her occasionally, which was better than half the other head cases on this team. But he knew damned well he couldn’t beat her.
Clint stretched carefully and tried not to get distracted by the catcalls when he stripped off his shirt, not wanting even that slight restriction to his movement.
Then he stepped out onto the mat and sighed. This was going to hurt.
Approximately 4 moves later (and it might have been more like 5-6 but he just couldn’t be sure with as fast as Natasha moved), he was flat on his back on the mat. He groaned, and thought that at least he’d been right about one thing: it had definitely hurt.
He forced himself to roll over and struggle to his feet. He just had to get up three times, and then he could give up and get the hell out of dodge.
At least, he was pretty sure that was the bet he’d told Darcy to make for him. Fuck if he could be sure of anything after that last blow to the head.