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marinaaniseed · 2 years

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Quality writing, right here folks.

Fake fic title- Daylight Robbery, where thief Bucky breaks into readers house and ends up getting hit in the head with a frying pan

NONNIE.

NONNIE I‘M FUCKING INSPIRED. I decided to turn this into a 2 part fic because… it got way the fuck away from me and i LOVE it. part two will be posted tomorrow or friday!!

Title: Daylight Robbery

Pairing: Theif!Bucky x Reader

Rating: Explicit (smut in part 2)

Warnings: eventual smut, cocky Bucky, burglary, fluff, unprotected sex, Bucky being irritating as shit

This is a work of FICTION, and there will be ADULT themes and content included therein, so I assume once you’ve clicked through the link that you are comfortable with that. I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated, or posted elsewhere, even if I am credited. This work is entirely mine, and unbeta’d, so read at your own risk! MINORS, DNI!

🍳

Part one, or: The one where you break Bucky’s nose.

Working nights at the nursing home had its share of advantages. You made decent pay, and the old folks themselves were honestly pretty pleasant to be around. You had a few challenging residents, sure, but for the most part they were just happy to have someone to talk to—even if it was someone who had to help them on and off of the toilet.

“Mornings” for you usually consisted of sleepily driving yourself home, crawling up the stairs to your apartment, and then collapsing on the nearest couch or bed, depending on how far you made it inside before you crashed. But as you went to push your key into the lock, your door clicked open on its own.

Did I forget to lock up last night? No, you weren’t that forgetful. You squint at the door jamb, and your heart quickens at the sight of scratches and splinters. It hadn’t been unlocked—it had been forced open. Your heart roars in your ears, and for a moment, you consider leaving, calling the cops. It’s probably the smart thing to do—you’re not a fighter, you’re a fucking nurse for God’s sake—but you’ve never been very smart.

You push the door open with trembling fingers, wincing when it creaks. The apartment is eerily silent, but you can see the evidence of another’s passing—the mud tracked in from the rainy day outside, the kitchen drawers open and shuffled through. You swallow thickly, and reach for the nearest thing you can find—your grandmother’s skillet. The worn wooden handle is familiar, and the weight comforting as you heft it—just in case.

The living room proves empty too, and you’re about to let your shoulders sag in relief and drop the pan to the hardwood floor—neighbors be damned—when you hear it: a quiet shuffling in the other room. Your hands grow clammy around the pan handle, but you grip it tighter and ease forward into the hallway. You can hear it clearer now, the sound of papers being gone through, drawers being opened and shut—and a quiet, frustrated muttering.

“Top drawer, left side. How many fucking drawers does he have?” Something clicks shut, and you hear a frustrated sigh. “I’ll check the kitchen again.” Your heart leaps into your throat at the sound of heavy footsteps, and you move without thinking. He’s pushing open the door, and it’s now or never you decide, squaring your shoulders and setting your jaw as you make to swing. You register the sight of his black tac-gear, the ski-mask pulled over his head, and the shocked blue eyes peering at you confusedly through the cut out holes.

“What the fuck—” He has no time to move, no time to defend as you surprise him, hefting the cast

“The hell you’ll check the kitchen again!” You shout, cracking the tall man in the doorway right across the face. It lands with a heavy, satisfying clang, and you watch as his eyes roll shut as he slumps first against the door frame, and then down to the floor. The lamp on your bedside table goes with him, the baby blue porcelain exploding into shards on the worn wood floor. You’re standing over him, breathing heavily, your eyes wide.

You’d never thought anyone would break into your apartment—hell, you didn’t even have anything worth stealing. It took practically all of your paycheck just to afford rent in your over priced, upper-middle-class neighborhood, but you’d shelled it out reluctantly for the security of the nicer neighborhood. Security it seemed was utterly irrelevant, considering the unconscious burglar on your floor. You watch him for a few anxiety inducing seconds, expecting him to wake up and John Wick you, but when it doesn’t happen, you breathe a sigh of relief.

I guess I should… restrain him? And then call the cops? You’re not even sure what to try and tie him up with, before deciding to do your best with one of the many headscarves in your collection. You squat down, placing the pan within easy whalloping reach, and go for the expensive looking black gloves on his hands. At closer examination, they’re the cut resistant kind, with hardened kevlar bits over the knuckles and fingertips.

“Figures. Doesn’t bother to wipe his feet on the way in, but has knife-fight gloves.” You grumble to yourself, tossing them off to the side. Your eyes widen in shock at the sight of the metal arm—is it even worth tying him up? You wonder, lifting it gingerly. It’s heavy, and when you press your ear to it, you can hear the whirring of the machinery inside in time with his heartbeat.

He’s huge, at least six feet easy, with muscles that you just know are thick and corded under the long sleeve shirt he’s wearing. He’s heavy too, and you discover you can barely move him as you push with all your strength. You get him over onto his back, and sit astride him, holding his hands together as you wound the fabric around his wrists. You tug on your knots a few times before you’re sure enough that they’ll hold—at least for long enough for you to get out of the room if he got agitated.

If I was robbing a place and got hit in the head with a cast iron skillet, I’d probably be pretty aggy.

You sweep aside the shards of your once cute lamp with a careful foot, and then proceed to roll him over to the radiator, where you tied him with another three scarves. God this is pathetic. You’re puffing and sweating from the effort of moving him by the time you’re done, and when you call 911, the operator sighs irritatedly.

“What’s your emergency?”

“Someone broke into my apartment! I mean, he’s still here. I got him.” You babbled, looking down at the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders.

“Ma’am so you’ve apprehended the suspect. Is he restrained?”

“Yes! I tied him up. I think. I mean I think it’ll hold.” You didn’t, though, you were just trying to reassure yourself.

“Most of our responders in your area are busy. Do you think you’ll be okay for forty five minutes?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Yeah, piece of cake.”

“I’ll see if they can get to you sooner.”

“Thanks.”

The line goes dead, and you shove your phone into the pocket of your scrubs. Forty-five minutes—that’s nothing. That’s fifteen minutes longer than your drive home. It’s an episode of a show. It’s—

“Jesus, you hit fuckin’ hard, toots.” The strained, gravelly voice makes you squeak with surprise, and you scrabble for the pan, holding it out like a sword. He’s still wearing the ski mask, but when he looks up at you, you feel like he’s smirking.

“Y-you broke into my apartment!” You replied shrilly. “You don’t get to complain about how hard I hit you!” You brandish the pan again, and he chuckles.

“Alright, alright, slugger. Don’t hit me again. My head’s pretty hard, but I don’t think you’re doin’ me any favors by whackin’ me with that thing.” His voice sounds nasally, and there’s a wet rattle in his breath that makes you wonder if you broke his nose. You stare at each other for a moment, his steely blue eyes searching yours, and he sighs, leaning back against the radiator. “This is your place, huh?” He asks, looking around.

“Yes.”

“And you… So does Bruce live with you, or…?” He cocks his head at you, and you can see the furrow of his brow under the material. Your face heats at the intimacy of his question.

“I don’t know who that is.” You answer defensively, shaking your head. “I… I live here by myself. This is a one bedroom apartment,” you say, crossing your arms, the pan bumping against your hip.

“What? What do you—what apartment is this?” He asks, and you look at him in disbelief.

“What?”

“The apartment! The number!” He lurches forward, and the radiator clangs, rattling against the wall

“605,” you eye him warily, taking a step back as he looks up at you. “Why?”

“Aw shit.” He sighs. Your jaw drops open as realization dawns.

“Are you… Are you in the wrong apartment?”

“Clearly.”

“I… What are you even looking for?” You ask, and he shakes his head, remaining silent. “Oh come on. The cops are on their way, you might as well tell me.” You know it’s silly, but you can’t resist taunting him when he pouts. You’re not sure how you know he’s pouting, but you can just tell by the irritated glance he sends your way. “I mean, how good of a thief can you be? You’re in the wrong apartment.”

“I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to, toots. But if you’re feeling generous-like, would you mind taking this off? Havin’ a hell of a time breathing through this thing.” You hesitate at the request—though you suppose it’s probably true. You’d suspected the injury yourself, and it probably was hard to breathe through the ski mask…

Keeping your hold on the frying pan in one hand, you cross the room in slow, cautions steps. You stop when you’re within arms reach of him, and lean forward, snatching the mask off. You throw it onto the pile with his gloves, before turning back to face him.

Oh wow, he’s hot. Even with blood on his face and his nose at a slightly sickening angle. He grins up at you, running his tongue across his lips. “You know, you’re kinda cute.”

“Shut up.”

“Hey, you’re a nurse, right? Do you think you could, you, know?” He crosses his eyes at his nose, and you fight the smile that threatens to break over your face. No, dammit. He broke into your apartment.

“Yes, I am, and no, I could not.”

“Is it because I broke in?”

“Yes!”

“Okay, I’m sorry for that. Really. It’s just simple corporate espionage, I really didn’t mean to get you caught up in it. This hurts.” He whines, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s a shitty apology.”

“Can I try again?” He makes puppy dog eyes up at you, and pouts. “I’m sorry I broke into your apartment. Will you please fix my nose, toots?”

You heave a sigh, and turn away. “Wait here,” you reply, glaring at him over your shoulder. “Try not to steal anything in the five minutes I’m gone.”

“I’m tied to the radiator. What could I reach?” He bats his eyelashes at you, and you storm off the the bathroom. Where the hell were the cops, anyway? You stomped down the hallway. This was not how you were looking to spend the pre-sleep hours you had before you were due back at the home this evening. You snatch the first aid kit out of your bathroom mirror, taking a cursory glance at yourself when you close it.

His compliment rings in your ears again, and you scowl. Stupid burglar.

He’s waiting patiently for you when you return, and his expression brightens at the sight of the kit. “My hero.” He cocks his head. “Well, you also broke my nose, so… I guess it’s a wash.”

“Your nose would be fine if you hadn’t broken in!” You hiss over your shoulder, unpacking the kit on your bed. It’s been years since you last had to reset a broken bone, and you bend over him awkwardly trying to get a good look. “I did get you pretty good,” you admit, unable to hide the smugly satisfied smile that graces your lips.

“Told you, toots. I’d be surprised if there was any bone left to fix—you probably pulverized it.”

“It was the pan.” You snap, standing up frustratedly.

“I think you need to get a little closer, toots.” He purrs, and you narrow your eyes at him. You can tell he’s trying to look as innocent as possible, a difficult feat with his misshapen nose and bloodied face, but somehow he’s pulling it off.

“This better not be a trick.”

“No, no. You caught me fair and square, dollface. Thieves honor.”

“Or complete lackthereof.” You mutter. The pan is within easy reaching distance if he needs another lesson, and you squat reluctantly between his thighs.

“Come on, don’t be shy. I don’t bite.” He flicks his tongue across his lips, and your face heats as his eyes drag down the little bit of cleavage exposed by your scrubs.

“Hey. Eyes up.” You grit your teeth and reach forward. You’re trying to touch him as little as possible, angling your body over his so that the only part of you that’s making contact is the hand holding the damp, warm rag against his face. You wipe gently at the blood above his mouth, your tongue poking out from between your lips as you concentrate.

When it’s clean enough for you to see what you’re doing, you reach up, but hesitate. “This is going to hurt.” You warn him, though you’re not sure why. It couldn’t possibly hurt more than being hit with the damn pan in the first place, could it? He nods grimly.

“I’m ready, toots.” You press gingerly on the sides of his nose and he hisses, his body jerking. His legs move underneath you, and you find yourself falling forward, your hand pressed to his chest. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, but you can tell from the pleased glint in his eye that he isn’t, not really. You’re half straddling him now, albeit uncomfortably, and you shift, bringing your legs fully to either side as your cheeks burn.

“Comfy?” He asks smugly, and you tap his nose again. He winces. “What’s your name, anyway, Dr. Kevorkian?” You tell him, and he tastes it on his tongue, sounding it out. “I like it. It fits.”

“Thanks?”

“I’m Bucky.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“I know.” You cut your eyes at him, and he smirks. “I’m ready this time. I won’t move a muscle, I promise.” Your fingers begin working the cartilage back into place, and you hear a sick crunching sound before his aqualine nose is back where it’s supposed to be. It’s red and a little swollen, but far from your worst work. You pull back, and he hisses, his hands tightening on your hips as he throws his head back. “Fuck that stings, toots.” He breathes, staring up at your ceiling through watery eyes.

Wait a minute.

You look down on either side of you, and sure enough his hands—flesh and metal—flex on your hips. You look back up at him, aghast.

“You—! Y-y-you fucking—”

“I know, I know. Now’s probably a bad time to tell you you’re shit at knots, huh?” You stare at him, your mouth open slightly as you blink stupidly. “I just figured ‘hey, it’s making her feel safe’ right?”

“So you could have… gotten out of those the whole time?” You ask slowly, incredulously. He’d stayed restrained… to make you feel safe?

“‘Course, toots.” His thumbs are rubbing circles on your hips through your scrubs, and it’s making it a little hard to think. “But I didn’t want ya to be scared of me. Well, you know. More scared of me.”

“You did break into my house.”

“Not to hurt you! Or anyone! And also, as I believe you pointed out, it is the wrong one.” You hate the way your stupid gut flutters when he smiles cheekily at you. “Have I mentioned how cute you are?”

“Yes. Stop it.” You mutter, looking away. You try to get up, but his hold is firm, and you grumble. “Let go, Bucky.”

“Oh, you do remember my name.” He purrs at you. You’re about to reach up and jab him in his stupid nose just to get him to shut up when a loud, insistent knock at the door startles you both. He cocks his head at you. “You gonna get that?”

You scramble off of his lap, your cheeks hot enough to fry bacon. “You better stay right there!” You try to muster up as much menacing energy as you can, but you’re a short woman in scrubs, and you know you don’t even sound as confident as you feel—which isn’t very.

“Oh I will.”

“G-good.”

You march to the door and open it to find two bored looking police officers. What, is the whole department just fucking over it or something?

“We received a call to this location, something about an attempted burglary?” The tall one asks, popping his gum. The short one nods in agreement.

“Yes, someone broke into my apartment. He’s in the bedroom. Hurry!” You lead them quickly back through your apartment, but when you arrive in the bedroom, it’s empty. “What the—” The window to your fire escape is open, your curtain moving gently in the afternoon breeze.

“Ma’am?”

“H-he was right here!” You insisted, pointing down at the discarded scarves. “That son of a bitch.”

“We’ll, uh. We’ll take a look around the place. Mance, why don’t you get a description?” The tall one—Owenson, is what his badge reads—says, making a shooing motion at the other cop. You do your best to describe Bucky, your face heating again as you describe his stubbled jaw, pillowy lips, his intense steel blue eyes.

“Well, let us know if he comes by again. We’ll have a squad car drive by a couple of times tonight, just in case.”

After they leave, and you’ve swept up the pieces of lamp from your floor, you collapse onto your bed in a tank top and your panties, thoroughly exhausted. You slide your hand under your pillow, and frown when your fingers touch paper. You sit up a little, sliding the little scrap out from underneath it.

Hey toots. Sorry I had to ditch—NYPD and I don’t really get along too tough. But enough about that—I’m thinking dinner? Saturday?

“What the fuck?” You can’t help but laugh, and it bubbles up from your chest. “Points for boldness, I guess?” There’s no way you’re going to meet him. You don’t even have his number. You go to crumple the paper up, but scrawled on the back side—

Dammit.

Part Two

#thief!Bucky Barnes #thief!AU #marvel fic #MCU AU #MCU fic #marvel fanfiction #thief!bucky au

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marinaaniseed · 2 years

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