Making It Home (Playing House: Part 2)
Characters: Clint Barton x Reader
Word Count: About 2,300
Warnings: SMUT OMG SO MUCH SMUT. Like, it’s all smut. Unprotected sex (wrap it up, kiddos). And there’s swearing.
Author’s Note: Picks up pretty much where Playing House left off. I’m still new to writing smut so I always appreciate feedback! Also, I don’t know where this gif came from (credit to whoever it belongs to!) but can we just take a moment to appreciate this man? Anyway, enjoy!
“You’re amazing, Y/N, you know that?” Clint’s voice was hushed, coming from the passenger seat. The two of you had just welcomed his cousin Mandy and her husband Jeff home to a very clean house, much to their surprise. It was nice to meet them, since you’d never met any of Clint’s family before. The couple had been sure their kids would destroy the house under Clint’s supervision, and while they were surprised to see you, they had quickly guessed that you had been much of the reason why everything was tidy. In just about an hour of cleaning, not a thing was out of place and there was no trace of a mess anywhere. The only evidence left of the disastrous night was the broken vases, which they had not been upset over at all. With three small kids, you guessed that they frequently ended up with damaged household items.
You glanced over at Clint for a moment before turning your attention back to the road. He had taken a cab to his cousin’s house earlier in the night, so you had offered to drive him home, hoping that his previous offer of “later” still stood. It was past two in the morning, nearing three now, and it was so dark in your car that you could barely make out his profile. You took one hand off of the steering wheel, placing it in his lap. His fingers found yours, weaving them together.
“I wouldn’t say ‘amazing,’ just remarkably gifted at cleaning up your messes,” you finally said, and Clint’s low chuckle sent a tingle up your spine. Shit. In the shadowy confines of your car—so close to him, yet not nearly close enough—everything seemed so much more intimate. It made concentrating on the road significantly more difficult. You squeezed his hand once before releasing it, returning yours to the wheel. Wrecking your car because you couldn’t stop thinking about Clint’s hands on your body would not be a good end to the night.