#clingyreader

The neon sign for the roadside motel buzzed faintly in the night air, casting the parking lot in pink and blue. Bucky pulled the truck into a spot and killed the engine, glancing over at you.

You were already half-asleep, cheek pressed against the window, hair a little messy from the nap you’d stolen against his shoulder. When he nudged you gently, you only groaned.

“C’mon, doll. We’re here.”

“M’not moving,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “I’m eepy.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Eepy, huh? That’s a new one.”

When you refused to budge, he just sighed, rounded the truck, and scooped you up like you weighed nothing. You curled into him immediately, arms looped around his neck, nose tucked against his throat.

“Better,” you whispered, already drifting again.

Bucky carried you through the lot, into the lobby, up the narrow stairs, all the way to the room. By the time he got the door shut and dropped your bag by the wall, you’d stirred—eyes fluttering open, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

“Hi,” you whispered, gaze hazy but mischievous.

He raised a brow, setting you carefully on the bed. “Thought you were eepy?”

You stretched like a cat, arching your back, your shirt riding up just enough to tease him. “Changed my mind.”

The look in your eyes told him everything—wide awake now, mischief humming in your veins, need curling hot in the pit of your stomach.

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“Mmhm.” You tilted your head, grinning. “And you love it.”

The bed dipped under his weight as he crawled over you, his mouth already finding yours, heat sparking all over again.

Sleep could wait.

The motel room smelled faintly of old carpet and lemon cleaner, the kind of roadside stop that promised nothing more than a bed and a lock on the door. But with Bucky’s weight caging you in, it felt like the most luxurious suite in the world.

His mouth was on yours before you could tease him further, hot and hungry, tongue sliding against yours as his hands found your hips. You giggled against him, tugging his shirt up, desperate to feel his skin.

“Thought you were too tired for trouble,” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as his metal hand slid beneath your shirt.

“I’m never too tired for you,” you whispered back, breath catching as his thumb brushed the underside of your breast. “Besides, you carried me all the way up here—you’re asking for it.”

He growled low in his chest, pulling your shirt off in one motion and tossing it aside. His mouth found your collarbone, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses lower and lower until you squirmed beneath him.

“Bucky…” You whined, rocking your hips up against him, feeling the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans.

“Patience, doll.” His teeth grazed your nipple, making you arch. “Gonna make you feel good first.”

And he did. Fingers sliding down, tugging your shorts aside, finding you already slick and needy for him. His knuckles brushed your clit and you gasped, clutching at his shoulders.

“Please,” you begged, eyes wide, your bratty edge dissolving into raw want. “Please, Buck—”

That was all it took. He pushed his jeans down just far enough, lined himself up, and slid into you in one deep thrust.

The sound you made was shameless, high and broken, your legs wrapping around his waist to drag him closer.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, hips driving into you slow and hard. “Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

You clung to him, nails raking down his back, your voice a steady stream of moans and pleas. “Harder, Buck, please—faster, I need—”

He gave it to you, pounding into you with enough force to make the headboard rattle against the wall. Sweat slicked his chest, your body bowing under his, the cheap mattress squeaking in protest.

You were close—he could feel it in the way you fluttered around him, in the way your cries grew sharp and desperate. He reached between you, thumb circling your clit, pushing you over the edge.

You came with a cry, squeezing him so tight his rhythm faltered. He followed you down, hips stuttering, pleasure clawing up his spine.

And then, before he could stop himself, the words ripped free:

“Marry me.”

The world seemed to hold still—just the sound of your ragged breathing, your wide eyes staring up at him, your body trembling around his.

Bucky’s own eyes went wide, realization crashing into him even as his climax hit. He groaned your name, burying his face against your neck, spilling inside you with a shudder.

For a long moment, there was only silence, the air thick with sweat and sex and something new. Something heavier.

When he finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed crimson, his expression somewhere between sheepish and terrified.

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “That wasn’t— I didn’t mean like that.”

You blinked, dazed but smiling, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You just asked me to marry you while you were inside me, Barnes.”

“I know,” he groaned, collapsing beside you, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. “Had a whole plan. Ring in my pocket. Was gonna wait until tomorrow, in front of that big creepy statue you’re obsessed with. Real romantic, you know?”

You turned onto your side, propping your chin on your hand, watching him with a grin that made his chest ache.

“Honestly?” you said softly. “I kinda love this way better.”

His head snapped toward you, brows drawn. “You do?”

You nodded, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s so us. Messy, a little inappropriate, completely unforgettable.”

Bucky huffed out a laugh, still pink, still rattled. “So… is that a yes?”

You smiled, wide and wicked, your eyes sparkling. “Obviously, yes.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh, rolling onto his side to kiss you again, deeper this time, relief flooding through him.

The Mothman could wait.

Bucky was still trying to catch his breath, the flush slowly leaving his cheeks, when you rolled suddenly and straddled his waist, hair wild, skin glowing.

“Give it to me.”

He blinked up at you. “Uh… what?”

“The ring, Buck.” You poked his chest for emphasis. “Now.”

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Doll, I had—look, can’t we at least shower, get dressed—”

“Nope.” You grinned, reaching for the pocket of his discarded jeans. He tried to stop you, but you were quicker, triumphantly fishing out the small velvet box.

“Sweetheart—” he groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. “You’re impossible.”

You popped it open, eyes going wide and misty all at once. “Oh my god, it’s perfect.” Without hesitation, you slid it onto your finger, wiggling your hand so it sparkled in the dim motel light.

And then—before Bucky could so much as sit up—you grabbed your phone off the nightstand.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late. FaceTime was already ringing.

Nat’s face filled the screen first, but you could hear the chatter of voices in the background—the whole damn team crammed together somewhere.

“What’s up, troublemaker?” Nat started, smirking—then froze as you thrust your hand right into the camera, the ring gleaming.

“Guess who’s engaged!” you squealed, voice shrill with glee.

The phone erupted with chaos—Sam yelling “No way!” Steve’s shocked “Buck?” Wanda clapping her hands, Nat covering her mouth with something dangerously close to tears.

Bucky groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “Kill me now.”

You laughed, bouncing on his hips, waving your ring at the screen like you’d just won the lottery. “He asked me while he was fucking me, can you believe that?!”

The line exploded. Sam was howling. Clint shouted “Barnes!” in mock horror. Nat just cackled, eyes gleaming like she’d won some kind of bet.

Bucky yanked the pillow down just far enough to glare at you. “Really?”

You beamed down at him, still holding the phone high so the team could see his mortified expression. “Best proposal ever.”