After The Threesome
(Mature; sex, no other warnings apply. James Barnes/Natasha Romanoff; James Barnes/Natasha Romanoff/Clint Barton; Clint POV; 2,400 words.)
Summary: After the threesome, both Natasha and James take Clint home.
Notes: I asked CloudAtlas to beta read a fill for her own prompt, heh, and she very kindly did but I've made some changes since so any remaining mistakes are mine.


Natasha is driving and James is in the passenger seat, because Clint had hung back, not wanting to interfere with whatever their usual arrangement is. It’s easy when there’s just two people; whoever isn’t driving takes shotgun. Clint doesn’t usually hook-up with more than one person at the same time - which is to say, he never has before – and he has no idea what the etiquette is when you sleep with a couple and then the pair of them drive you home after.

It’s probably for the best though, that James is in the front, since it puts him closer to the heaters. He’s only wearing sweatpants, a t-shirt with a cartoon robot and ‘CTRL + ALT + DELIGHT’ on the front, and flip-flops. Clint’s cold just looking at him.

And that’s kind of Clint’s fault, since he’d used the bathroom first. Natasha had been right behind him, because she’d already told him she would take him home, and both of them had been dressed when James had heaved a sigh, rolled off the bed, grabbed some clothes, and thrown them on as he followed them out of the apartment. Natasha hadn’t said anything, like this was perfectly normal and expected behaviour, so Clint hadn’t commented either.

When Clint leans forward between the front seats to give Natasha his address she smells like fruity body wash. James still smells like sweat and sex and a little of those two craft beers he’d indulged in at the bar earlier, since Natasha was - is - tonight’s designated driver.

Natasha isn’t wearing a bra. It isn’t obvious; her tits are two perfect handfuls, but they’re not, like, huge and they’re covered with a t-shirt, sweatshirt, and waterproof jacket. It’s just that Clint is very conscious that she doesn’t have one on. She’d gotten dressed in front of the two of them as confidently as she’d stripped earlier, but somehow watching that - watching the flexing muscles of her back as she’d pulled on a top; watching her tug her jeans up over her hips; watching her tie back her messy hair - had felt twice as intimate.

Clint had frozen, unable to look away.

“You know I can just get an Uber, right?” he’d said, when he’d regained his senses and resumed his search for his jacket.

Natasha had rolled her eyes. “Designated driver,” she’d reminded him.

His brain had stuttered again watching James; how he’d grabbed Natasha’s keys from where they’d been tossed earlier and handed them to her with a familiar kiss to her cheek.

“I don’t sleep that well without Nat anyway,” James had said when Clint had awkwardly tried to point out that he didn’t need to come as well, “and least I can keep her awake on the way back.”

All of them have to be up for work again in maybe four hours. Clint had assumed that James would at least take the chance for a bit more sleep, but no, here they both are, taking him home.

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