avengers x male reader (requests are open)

CLINT BARTON

“You let her shoot WHAT?” you asked, stepping onto the penthouse rooftop, coffee in hand, eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Clint winced as Kate shrugged, smug as hell with a bow slung across her back. “A moving drone,” she said. “Blindfolded.”

“She nailed it,” Clint added, holding up a hand in defense.

You sipped your coffee slowly. “Let me guess. You put a knife in her other hand too and told her to spin in circles like a deadly ballerina?”

Kate grinned. “We’re working on that next week.”

You turned to Clint. “I’m going to regret letting her train with you, aren’t I?”

Clint smirked. “You already do.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You were Kate Bishop’s older brother—older by seven years, former fencing champ, part-time consultant in security tech, and full-time protector since the day your parents split and your father decided he was “more of an idea than a presence.”

When Kate had told you she was training with Clint Barton, you’d had two reactions: admiration (he was a war hero) and dread (he was also a magnet for explosions).

But seeing your little sister happy, passionate, and dangerously accurate with a bow? You kept your worry to yourself—mostly.

That evening, you found Clint sitting alone at the edge of the rooftop, legs hanging off the side like some chill gargoyle. He was nursing a beer, half-empty, and gazing at the skyline.

You hesitated, then sat down beside him.

“Mind if I join the brooding?”

He smirked. “Long as you don’t fall. I’m not catching you.”

“I’m lighter than I look,” you said, cracking open your own drink.

There was a quiet pause.

“She’s good, you know,” Clint said finally. “Kate. She’s got the stuff.”

You glanced at him. “She’s also impulsive, reckless, and a chronic overachiever who thinks ‘danger’ is just a suggestion.”

“She reminds me of me,” Clint said, voice tinged with something softer than pride—maybe guilt.

“That’s what scares me.”

Clint gave a quiet laugh.

“Hey,” you added, “for what it’s worth… thanks for watching her back.”

His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. “Always.”

You sat there a while longer, the city buzzing beneath your feet.

Eventually, Clint broke the silence. “You know, she talks about you more than anyone.”

You raised a brow. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s usually stuff like, ‘my brother could beat you in fencing’ or ‘my brother says you dress like a retired gym teacher.’”

You smirked. “I do say that.”

“She cares a lot. About you. About being good enough.”

“She doesn’t have to be anyone else,” you said, a little too quickly. “She’s already more than enough.”

Clint looked at you—really looked at you—for a beat longer than was comfortable.

“You’re kind of intense,” he said.

“You’re kind of scruffy.”

He grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

Two Weeks Later – Bishop Penthouse Training Room

You weren’t sure how it happened.

One moment, you were showing Kate how to shift her stance in close combat. The next, Clint was stepping in to “demonstrate” something, and before you knew it, you were sparring.

It started as playful—banter, teasing, a little shove here, a sarcastic jab there.

But then?

Then it got quiet.

Just you and him.

Blocking, countering. He ducked under your arm and pinned your wrist, and the breath caught in your throat—not from the move, but from the way he looked at you. Eyes locked. Close. Too close.

“You sure you don’t train?” he murmured.

“I do.” You tried to ignore the heat rising in your face. “Just not with guys who flirt while they’re trying to win.”

Clint smirked. “Who said I was trying to win?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t play the charming rogue card. That only works on—”

You didn’t finish. Because suddenly, you weren’t sparring.

You were kissing.

He kissed you like he’d been meaning to since that rooftop. Rough and real, no pretense. Just hands and heat and want.

You pulled back, breathless. “You really gonna make things complicated, Barton?”

He rested his forehead against yours. “With you? Probably.”

“Kate’s gonna kill us.”

“We’ll dodge.”

You both laughed.

And for the first time in weeks—no, maybe years—you didn’t feel like you had to be anyone but yourself.