Summary: Your cabin’s heating breaks in times when you need it, so you try yourself at chopping firewood. But the last person you want help from is your smug, axe-swinging neighbor.
Word Count: 3.2k
Warnings: enemies to lovers; mild injury; slow burn tension; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried
Author’s Note: Gosh, this grew way too long for this challenge again. But I just didn’t want to cut anything. I love them so much. Thank you for sending me this amazing request, my lovely!! I hope you’ll enjoy ♡
2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist
It started with the axe.
Not a chainsaw - no, that would have been too simple, too civilized, too modern. It was the thud of an axe that first made you hate him.
Every morning at 6:17 sharp, right when the sky was still learning how to be blue, you’d hear it. The clean, smug crack of metal meeting wood. Again and again. Like a heartbeat that belonged to a different kind of human - one with too much muscle and not enough consideration.
That first time, you’d stormed outside barefoot in your robe, clutching a coffee as if it might serve as a weapon. You asked him if he could wait until at least 8 am and he’d only given you a slow, lazy grin that stretched too wide on a face carved too perfectly and said, “Didn’t know we were keepin’ princess hours around here.” You had half a mind to actually throw your coffee at him.
The next time, he only grinned at you, blue eyes glinting under the brim of his flannel-lined cap. “Mornin’, princess,” he had greeted you with a voice that suggested he knew exactly that you’d come out. “Don’t call me that,” you’d snapped. “Would sweetheart be better?” he only teased back with a spark in his eyes.
You’d gone back inside fuming.
And that was just the beginning.
Since then, Bucky Barnes - your lumberjack neighbor with the smug jaw and unfairly sculptured arms - had accidentally parked his truck partially on your side of the gravel driveway twice. He’d borrowed your Amazon package - “didn’t even look at the name, swear it” - so you were forced to walk over to him and ask for it back, which he finally agreed to only after a discussion lasting over thirty minutes.
You had tried to out-snark him. Out-quiet him. You even filed a passive-aggressive noise complaint with the HOA, only to find out he was on the damn committee.
You hate him. You hate how his flannel sleeves always roll up just enough to show his thick forearms. You hate that his hair always looks a little too perfect for someone who supposedly lives without WiFi. And you especially hate that he looks amused every time you get mad.
Today, you need firewood, yourself.
The heating in your old, overpriced cabin went out last night - again - and the guy who promised to come fix it flaked for the third time in a row.
Your backup electric heater fried with a dramatic sizzle that nearly took your cat down with it, and now you’re left with a fireplace, a stack of unsplit logs, and more pride than sense.
You tie your hair back.
You’ve got gloves. Thin ones - meant for gardening. But that’s close enough, you guess. It has to be.
You’ve got a borrowed axe from Mrs. Caldwell down the lane. Pink-handled. Surprisingly heavy.
And you’ve got determination. Stubbornness. An undying loathing for asking Bucky Barnes for help.
You’d rather die barefoot in the freezing cold than ask him for help. He’s already smug enough, with those thick hands and smirking lips and Jesus Christ, the way he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand when he is sweating as if it’s performance art.
The air is harsh on your cheeks as you step outside. The wind snatches at your coat. There are logs stocked beside the chopping block. You plant your boots.
You drag the axe overhead, trying to remember what your uncle taught you once at a campground years ago.
You let the axe down. And you miss. The log shudders under the dull weight of your poor aim, laughing at you, maybe. You feel the reverberation up your arms.
Gritting your teeth, you reset, and swing again. Nothing. Just a dull smack, as if hitting a pillow made of shame.
“You tryna kill the wood or yourself?”
You freeze. You curse internally.
But you don’t turn around right away. You can hear the grin in his voice and you want just one second to school your face into something that won’t betray your flustered rage.
“I don’t recall inviting commentary,” you state annoyed. Only briefly granting him a glare.
He’s already at the fence line, one hand braced on the top rail, other gripping a thermos. He’s chewing on something. A toothpick? A matchstick? His own smugness?
“Y’gonna hurt someone with that form, princess,” he assesses easily.
“Mind your own business, Barnes,” you hiss unkindly.
He grins. Pushes off the fence with the easy grace of someone who knows they’re built like mythology.
“Hard not to when you’re over here looking like an axe-wielding toddler.”
You roll your eyes. Hard. But a fire burns low inside your body. It’s as if you’re trying to summon the strength of the gods for this conversation.
“Don’t you have logs to scream at or whatever it is you do every morning? Why are you even looking over here?” you bite out through clenched teeth.
There is steam curling from the lid of his thermos and he’s got the audacity to sip it slow as if this is all very amusing to him “You’re louder than I am today,” he remarks smoothly, still grinning with sparkling eyes. “A real accomplishment, considering how much you complain ‘bout me.”
You huff out a breath. It clouds around you. You grip the axe tighter.
“I didn’t choose to do this, Barnes. But I can.”
“Oh, I believe you,” he eases, sauntering through the open gate now, because he has no respect for boundaries. “I just don’t believe the logs will survive your technique.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you turn back, lift the axe in indignation, and swing again.
Thunk.
“Y’know,” he drawls, getting closer, boots crunching across the frosted ground, “if you wanted me to come over, all you had to do was ask real nice.”
“I’d rather freeze.”
“Kinky.”
You spin, axe hanging at your side, panting more from rage than effort.
“Go away, Bucky.”
But he doesn’t. He only moves closer, ignoring you. As always. He smells of cedarwood and coffee and damn it, effortless masculinity. His beard is a little too neat, the plaid stretched a little too tight across those shoulders, and he’s looking at you with those annoying, laughing eyes.
He’s enjoying this.
You lift the axe again, jaw set, and swing.
This time, it lands. The log splits just a little at the top, not much, but enough to make you stand a little straighter.
Bucky whistles now. “Look at that. She’s got claws.”
“I told you I don’t need help.”
“I heard you,” he drones out, stepping closer again, and now his hand is on the handle of the axe with yours. The heat of his skin sears through your glove. “But I’ve also seen what you’re doing to these poor logs. You don’t have to be a martyr.”
You want to yank your hand back, yell, bite, something. But you just look up, ready to glare.
Suddenly, a sharp sting shoots through your palm. You flinch. Just subtly.
But he sees it.
“What is it?” he asks, voice shifting a little softer, quieter. Concern elbowing amusement out of the way.
“Nothing,” you lie, too fast.
He catches your wrist. Gently. His fingers are rough and warm and careful and it makes your stomach twist. “You okay?” he asks without sarcasm this time.
You want to say yes.
But your pride is bleeding out of your palm with the little splinter lodged deep beneath your skin, and somehow your hand is already in his.
“Lemme see.” He peels off your glove, gentle but fast, as if he’s done this a hundred times.
You try to pull away, but he holds on.
“Hold still.”
His thumb brushes over your knuckles. His face is different now - focused, brows knit together, all the flirt and teasing gone. And for the first time, you feel the quiet in him. As if under all that swagger and plaid, there’s a silence he doesn’t let out often. It makes your chest churn uncomfortably.
“I’ve got tweezers in the shed,” he says, voice low and grim. “Stay here.”
“I can-”
“Don’t argue.” His eyes meet yours. “You’ll dig it in deeper.”
You nod. Small and jerky.
He’s back in seconds, unsurprisingly quick, and he orders you to sit on a log before he kneels at your side. You expect him to be rough, maybe uncareful, but he’s not. He works delicately and precisely, eyes flicking up to yours every so often to check if it hurts, and when he finally pulls the splinter free, you don’t even feel it.
His fingers don’t let go. Not right away. Not even when the splinter’s gone completely and your hand is wrapped in the warmth of him. You feel the heat of his touch and you hate that it calms something in you. That it quiets the buzzing in your chest.
He’s still crouched in front of you, thick brows pulled together as though your skin is glass and he’s afraid to leave a mark. His eyes are focused entirely on your hand, sweeping over the lines of your palm. And it does things to his face. Softens it. Opens it. As if someone peeled away the cocky grin and the smart mouth and what’s left underneath is quieter, deeper.
You’ve never seen him like this.
And the worst part is, you don’t know if you want it to stop.
“You should disinfect this,” he notes, voice low, nearly hoarse.
“It was just a splinter.”
His gaze drifts up to yours. Locks in. But he doesn’t look at you like a man who enjoys the game. Not like the neighbor who calls you princess and sweetheart with a grin in his voice and a challenge in his eyes. This look he’s giving you right now scrapes across your bones. “Doesn’t take much. Even a splinter can fester. Get infected. They carry bacteria. Especially out here, with all the dirt and bark and- can get infected faster than you think. Fever. Swelling. Might need stitches if it goes bad. You don’t want to mess around with that.”
His voice is anything but teasing now. There is no glint in his eyes. Just steel. Seriousness. Something else that looks like concern.
It’s as if someone rearranged the pieces of his face and gave him a conscience.
You blink at him. He’s still holding your hand. Still cupping it as if it’s something valuable. As if you’re something worth careful handling. Just enough softness to keep you wondering.
You’ve fought with this man. Argued over property lines, over noise, over the fact that he whistles while he works like some Disney lumberjack. You’ve accused him of waking the dead with his morning routines. You’ve shoved snow back into his yard with passive-aggressive vengeance. He once left a Get Better Soon balloon on your porch after you sneezed twice on the way to your car.
And yet now. Now, his thumb brushes your wrist as if he forgot he was touching you. As if maybe he wants to keep forgetting.
“You’re starting to sound as if you care,” you murmur, maybe a little amused, but confused nevertheless.
Something flashes across his eyes. Behind them. He looks away for a second. One breath. Two.
“Next time,” he starts, quiet but sharper. Firm. “Come to me before you try to do something like this on your own.”
Your pride bristles, instinctive and stubborn. You straighten your spine, try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let you go just yet.
“If I remember correctly, and I do, I didn’t come to you at all, Barnes. It was you who walked into my-”
“I mean it, Y/n. You can always come to me. Promise me, you will,” he insists intensely, lowly.
There’s something in his voice that sits heavy in your chest. You feel it. All of it.
“Fine,” you relent finally, reluctantly.
Only then does he release you.
With the clear of his throat, he steps back. The loss is sudden. Cold. You almost feel foolish for missing it.
“I’ll disinfect it,” you say at last, trying not to sound too much as if you’re surrendering.
Bucky nods once. “Good. But go do it inside. Warm up.”
Your mouth opens immediately. “I’m not fragile, Barnes. A splinter doesn’t knock me out of the game.” You say it with a small teasing tone, but Bucky doesn’t seem to pick it up. Or he ignores it.
He only crosses his arms. Tight. His flannel strains across his chest. “Didn’t say it did. But that doesn’t mean you should be swingin’ an axe anytime soon. I’ll do it.”
He says it with a kind of dominance that makes you scoff. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Don’t need you to ask.”
There is no grin. No smirk. Just the stubborn set of his jaw and the firm intensity in his eyes. It unnerves you. Not because it’s sharp - but because it’s gentle. Because he’s not teasing you. Because he’s worried, and you don’t know what to do with that version of Bucky Barnes.
So, with a sigh and slightly trembling hands, you turn and head inside. But the warmth in your cabin is nothing compared to the heat still lingering in your chest. You rinse your hand under water that runs slow and cold, and dab antiseptic. But your thoughts stay outside. Stay with those blue eyes watching for signs of weakness as though he’s reading a weather report.
He’s never been like that before. Never so serious. Never so close.
And when you step back outside, your breath catches.
Bucky is already splitting your wood.
His form is fluid, practiced. Each swing of the axe is poetry. Violence tamed. He doesn’t grunt or growl - he just moves with expertise. One hand on the handle, the other steadying the log, shoulders flexing beneath that worn flannel with every arc. The axe comes down like thunder. Wood cracks, clean and quick, falling in neat halves at his boots.
He’s got his sleeves rolled up past his elbows again, breath misting in the air. The sound of the logs cracking echoes through the trees like a song with no chorus.
You lean against the railing of your porch and watch him work.
And you hate that he’s mesmerizing.
He doesn’t look up. Just sets another log in place.
“Sit down,” he says, calm as a lake.
You stare. “What?”
“Or go back inside. Warmer there. I’ll finish up.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you seriously ordering me around?”
“Nope,” he deadpans, finally glancing at you. “I’m instructing you. There’s a difference.”
You’re still staring.
He gives you a look. Not mean. Not commanding. Just firm.
“You don’t have to do everything by yourself, you know.”
You flinch as if the words are sharp. As if they know something about you they shouldn’t.
You want to argue. To say watch me. To toss something sarcastic just to get back the balance.
But you don’t.
You sit. On the porch steps, cold wood stinging the backs of your thighs but you stay and watch him work.
His swings are controlled. His jaw is clenched. No more cocky remarks. No smile. Just focus. He splits like a man trying to prove a point - to you, or to himself, you don’t know.
“You can stop now,” you voice after a moment.
But he doesn’t.
“Bucky.”
Still nothing.
He sets another log. Lifts. Crack.
You cross your arms. Raise your voice.
“Barnes. That’s enough for now.”
Finally, he pauses. Looks over to you. His cheeks are flushed from the cold. He’s starting to sweat slowly. And still, he doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease.
“This won’t last long,” he says gruffly, nodding to the pile of wood at his feet. “You’ll be left freezin’ in less than a month.”
“That’s alright,” you try to argue. “I’ve got this guy coming by-”
But he interrupts you with the almost too-loud crack of another log splitting to pieces, his arms winding up to thunder down another time. He’s not even listening to you anymore. Just keeps going.
He looks so determined, it might even be endearing.
But you don’t say anything. You wouldn’t be able to bring out another word. Because this man surely is an enigma.
You didn’t know a man could be this quiet and still make so much noise inside your body.
You’re not sure how long you stay there, watching. But when he’s done, he gathers the logs in his arms as if they weigh nothing at all. Walks them to the side of your house, where the covered racks wait. He stacks them neatly. Tucks a tarp over them.
And then he turns to you.
His breath is ragged slightly, his eyes are unreadable, but there is something softened in them. Like thaw.
“You’re all set.”
You swallow, mouth dry, hands restless in your lap.
“Thank you,” you say. It feels like swallowing rocks.
He nods. Doesn’t say you’re welcome. Doesn’t wink.
He just turns and walks back to where the axe is resting. He picks it up. Fingers sliding over the pink handle. His expression is unreadable.
“Is this yours?” he asks, voice low, thick with something you never heard in his voice before.
You shake your head slowly. “Mrs. Caldwell’s. She loaned it to me.”
He nods. Slow. Thoughtful. As if he is filing that away in the same place he stores the weather, the weight of wood, the sound your boots make when you’re frustrated and trying not to show it.
“I’ll bring it back to her,” he voices. Deep and sure.
You’re thrown for a second.
There’s nothing performative about it. No smirk. No spark. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it - he just studies the axe again as if it’s dangerous.
You stare at him, hands curled into the sleeves of your coat. Trying to decide if the stuttering in your chest is from the cold or something far less logical.
Is he just trying to be polite? Returning something for you? Or is this about control? About making sure you won’t be getting your hands on that thing again?
You search his face for a clue, but he’s turned now, adjusting his grip on the handle as if he’s already taken care of this for you.
“You don’t have to,” you still try.
He moves around to you again, his gaze falling onto yours. “Nah, I’ve got it,” he insists, but his gaze is not as nonchalant as his voice is.
“Uhm, okay,” you start, a little unsure. “Thanks.”
Another one of his nods and it starts to make you uneasy. He keeps standing there for a moment too long, looking at you as though he might say something more.
But he doesn’t.
He just turns. Walks back across the yard, his boots crunching slightly on the ground, the axe hanging over his shoulder like some kind of burden he’s used to carrying.
You watch him disappear, into the warm glow of sunrise burning between the pines.
And you wonder.
You wonder what it means when the person you thought was your enemy touches you as though you’re important to him.
You wonder why it felt safer than anything else ever has.
Dilf Lumberjack! Bucky who discovers his teenage daughter has a boyfriend and is debating whether he should threaten have a chat with the boy about certain boundaries, or let his glare do all the talking.
Hi, I love your Lumber-Bucky! That being said, what is his deal with his lack of social skills but also being a very confident sex partner?
Hi anon! First of all, thank you so much, I’m glad you’re enjoying my version of him! As for his dynamic when it comes to sex, it’s like his brain temporarily “switches off.” Those intrusive thoughts, doubts, and social awkwardness fade into the background, it’s like he’s finally able to quiet the noise and just be. Of course, that “switch” tends to flip back on once the post-orgasm bliss fades, and he goes right back to overthinking.
I need help. I can’t get my mind off of this bucky fic and I can’t find it anywhere. What I remember is that reader got kidnapped from her ex in the woods and before a storm so she runs away and runs into bucky (i forget if he’s a lumberjack or not) and he helps her and alpine likes her and they stay together until the storms over and soon her ex got police to come look for her and bucky protects her.
i have seen many pictures from this day and have never seen this one. i had to send it to you immediately i could not wait another second 😩
I love this!!! It reminds me of grumpy lumberjack Bucky and teacher!reader.
He volunteered to help you and the little humans children with the annual Welcome Back festival.
But he forgot that for some reason they all like him and want to talk to him.
Now he's surrounded by them, he wonders if this is what feels like to be the last man in a zombie movie.
He's staring at the side of your face, begging you with his wide blue eyes to save him but you're talking to Scott about reorganizing lesson plans and something called a PTA.
Finally you look his way. It's like the skies clearing after a cloudy day. And he doesnt regret trekking down his mountain to be here with you.
You still need to save him though because Darren just put something sticky in his hand and he's afraid to see what it is.
He going to focus on convincing you to spend the weekend up in his cabin. Just you and him. Clothing optional.
Heyyy!!!!!! First of all, congratulations on your 1.5k!!!!! That's so awesome:)
Second, idk if you're still taking this kind of requests anymore, but if you are could you please, please, please with a cherry on top write something with sub!lumberjack!Bucky. Just imagine that huge hunk of a man, with muscles bulging underneath the flannels, whining desperate for mommy to let him come. Know that he could overpower you easily, that that's not how good boys behave. With tears in his eyes because he's been right on the edge far to many times, but still taking it because he knows mommy with give him a treat later. Pegging being the treat, because getting his ass stretched by mommy, is his favourite.
If you don't feel comfortable with this, it's fine, but I feel like this would be such a fun thing to explore 💜💜
Anonymous said may we have edging with your lumberbuck pls and thank you
Ok this is something very new for me because I am totally a submissive and a pillow princess so please bear that in mind when reading this fic!
Having said that I could not get this thought out of my head so I figured it would be worth a try! I suppose it's an AU of an AU 🤣
I changed the 'mommy' bit of the request just because that was too much for me, but hopefully it still works 🤞🏻
Come celebrate 1.5k with me!
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When you went out with Bucky, people always assumed that the big beefy guy, with muscles bigger than most people's heads and towered over you would be the boss at home. But as you watched him struggle against his bonds, tears leaking from his eyes and his cock making a mess over his stomach, you smiled to yourself, knowing that you very much had that man under your thumb.
"Angel please? Please let me come?" You hushed him, running your nails gently up and down his thighs, as he moaned and strained against his ties. "Not yet sweetie, you gotta wait or you won't get your treat." You leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to his aching cock, and he hissed again. "Let's give you something else to think about hmm? Instead of being so greedy" you mocked and climbed up his big body so you sat with your pussy on his mouth, nose in your ass and you could still play with his cock. He immediately started licking and sucking at your folds and you occasionally would land a few spanks to his throbbing dick, which would only spur him on.
"Ooh that's so good, much better" you sighed as his tongue fucked you and licked around your clit as you pumped at his cock. "Please baby, gonna come" he muttered under you and you squeezed him a little harder, and he groaned as you dragged him away from yet another orgasm. "Ooh naughty!! You have to behave Bucky or we'll have to stop!" You teased him and watched as the cuffs that held his hands bent the wood of the bedpost. If he wanted to, he could easily break free and take what he wanted. But he would never. He loved this and you far too much.
You ground down on his face and chased your orgasm, moaning loudly and praising his excellent tongue work as you came, drenching his face as you did. "Thank you angel....thank you...please? Please?" Was all he could say as you dismounted and got off the bed, walking around and watching him.
You'd been doing this for nearly two hours and whilst you could make him go for more, he really did deserve a nice treat. Besides edging was fun, but so was overstimulation.
"Ok Bucky, just relax, m'gonna make it all better and give you what you want" you headed over to your little box of goodies and pulled out your favourite strap. He watched enraptured as you stepped in and fitted it snugly to your body. You took your time making him suffer as you lubed up the silicone. You mostly used lube but you also made a show of spitting on it and rubbing it in, his growl spurring you on.
"You can come when I'm all the way in. Not a second before ok? If you do, I'll lock that big cock up and you can stay like that for a week..." You warned him as you unlocked his feet and helped him spread his legs wider to accommodate you. You then pushed his thighs upwards so he was folded over a little and dropped another line of spit down onto his asshole, making you both moan as you pushed it in a little. "Angel please, please I can't....."
You hushed him again then lined up the silicone cock with his puckered hole. You eased in and you watched him grip the sheets as he tried not to come. With some mercy you pushed all the way in, stretching him around you until you were fully seated. With that he came, making a mess over his muscled stomach, and shouting out his pleasure. You praised him and began fucking him in long, deep strokes that had his eyes rolling. "Doing so well Bucky, keep coming, wanna see you make a mess for me.." you cooed and he could only oblige as you gripped his cock and pumped it in time with your thrusts. He writhed beneath you and you had a sudden surge of energy as this powerful man writhed and moaned beneath you. His come dribbled down your hands and he thrashed as he came again, over and over, his whole body wrought with pleasure and pain.
"Oh fuck baby, itssogood" he strained as you hit is prostate over and over, still jerking his cock. "I know Bucky, give me one more hmmm? Just one more little one?" You thrust fast and hard and played with his balls before gripping his cock once more and dragged one more orgasm from him.
You pulled out and climbed up his body, undoing the cuffs on his hands and sat against his side, stroking his face and hair as he panted. His hands gripped your wrist and pulled you forward to meet him in a sloppy kiss which you hungrily returned.
"Oh baby, that was incredible..." You rubbed his wrists and kissed his fingers as he lay watching you, as if you'd hung the moon. "What do you say naughty?" And he blanched, "thank you angel, thank you so much!" You giggled and pressed more kisses to his lips, "that's better, thought I'd have to start all over again."
Hey! Congratulations on 1.5k!!! I would love a character ship 🧭!
I’m 5 feet 4’ with brunette hair, that sometimes gets strawberry blonde when I go outside a bunch. I love baking and writing, along with animals of all kinds. I have anxiety and my love language to others is giving gifts and I like reviving physical touch. I love an adventure but also like just laying in bed reading and scrolling through my phone sometimes.
Thank you so much my darling! Of course you can!
I'm soooo tempted to put you in a (much much nicer) version of my Goldilocks AU, just because you sound like a Disney Princess 🥹 and he would LOVE you 😈
However, not wanting to freak you out I'm gonna give you Lumberbuck 😍
I think the mix of adventure and chilling suits him to a T. He doesn't wanna be busy all the time because he works so hard, but living near a forest would give plenty of time for adventure, spicy or not!
He would absolutely adore the food you make because he can only really cook pancakes and steak so having a beautiful girl making him baked goods, and finding homemade cookies in his lunch would make him so happy.
And aren't you lucky because Lumberbuck works with his hands so touching you is like his way of showing you how much he loves you. From simple touches to overstim, he's gotchu boo. And those rough hands are gonna feel so good 😭
He also likes making gifts for you so your little cabin would be full of little, thoughtful gifts and notes from both of you and anyone who visits would be just in awe of your love ❤️
