wicked remedy
pairing: vampire!bucky barnes x fairy!reader | 6.6k words
warnings: 18+ only, fantasy violence, blood/feeding references, enemies-to-lovers, manipulation/bargaining, explicit sexual content (oral f receiving), power imbalance, “monster x magic” dynamics
summary: the fairy court sends you—their most powerful princess—to confront the vampire draining your forest dry. bucky agrees to stop, but only if you let him feed on you instead. one dangerous bargain later, your pleasure becomes the only thing strong enough to save the heartwood.
authors note: one of my amazing nonnies sent me this idea several weeks ago and it's all i've been able to think about since!! pls enjoy me spreading my "bucky is a munch" agenda in the fantasy world 🖤🧛🏻🧚🏼♀️
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Moonlight made the forest look innocent.
Silver on leaf-veins. Soft on moss. Kind on the thin ribbon of creek that braided through the roots like it was sewing the world back together.
It was lying.
You could feel it in the way the earth pulsed beneath your bare feet—uneven, jittery, like a heart that kept skipping beats. You could taste it in the air, too: iron and fear, the sharp sting of spilled life where there shouldn’t have been any.
A fox lay half-hidden beneath a fern, too still, eyes glazed as coins.
Near the creek, a rabbit slumped on its side, fur damp, throat a neat, cruel puncture. No tearing. No waste. Just… drained.
Vampire.
Again.
Your magic rose in your chest like a storm swelling behind your ribs, bright and angry. The vines at your ankles quivered, waking at the pull of your mood. A spray of tiny white blossoms opened along the path you hadn’t stepped on yet, as if the forest was holding its breath—waiting to see what you would do.
“Princess,” a voice said behind you, tight as a bowstring. “Please—”
You turned.
Lysa, one of the elder court’s spokesfairies, hovered a handspan off the ground, wings flickering with agitation. Around her, the others had gathered in a half-moon: fierce little points of light in the gloom, their glamour dimmed by worry.
“They’re going to blame us,” another snapped, a younger fairy with sharp cheekbones and sap-green hair. “They always blame us when humans die, when beasts go missing, when something dark moves through our woods like it owns them.”
“No human has died,” Lysa said, though her eyes darted away like the lie burned. “Not yet.”
“Not yet,” the green-haired fairy echoed, bitter.
You let your gaze sweep over them. Torn sleeves from last night’s skirmish with a thorn-wolf. A smear of ash across someone’s forehead. Everyone too tired, too bright-eyed, too on-edge.
The forest had always been yours in a way it wasn’t for anyone else. Not because of your title, not because of the delicate crown of woven ivy the court insisted you wear during council, but because nature listened to you the way it listened to no one. You didn’t command it like a soldier. You didn’t bargain like a merchant.
You understood.
And right now, it was screaming.
“He’s not just feeding,” you said softly.
They went still.
You crouched beside the rabbit, fingers hovering over its fur. A whisper of pollen and light slid from your palm. The rabbit’s chest rose once—just once—before it stilled again. Too late. You could coax a bud into bloom, could pull rain from a stubborn sky, could stitch bark back together after an axe bite, but you couldn’t pour a soul back into a body that had already gone cold.
Your throat tightened.
“He’s taking too much,” you finished, voice sharper. “And he’s doing it too close to the heartwood.”
“That castle has been there for centuries,” Lysa said. “Before any of us wore these wings. Before the court was even… named.”
“And in those centuries,” the green-haired fairy cut in, “something inside it has been starving.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
“We’ve tried warding the tree-line,” someone said, frantic. “We’ve tried binding circles. We tried sending animals away—”
“And he still found them,” Lysa whispered.
You could feel the forest’s answer like a bruise beneath your tongue: He hunts by scent. He hunts by thirst. He hunts because he can’t stop.
“Then we stop him,” you said.
“You mean you stop him,” the green-haired fairy said immediately, too quick, too bright with something like relief and resentment tangled together. “Because if you go—if you walk up there like you’re invincible—”
“—you might not come back,” Lysa finished, her voice breaking at the edges. “We’re not asking because we don’t care. We’re asking because we care too much.”
Your magic hummed, answering your emotion by curling ivy around your wrist like a bracelet, gentle as a hand.
“Send a battalion?” you asked. “He’ll pick you off. Send envoys?” you scoffed softly. “He’ll laugh. Keep doing nothing?” You gestured at the rabbit, the fox, the darkening stains in the grass. “The forest will die a slow death and we’ll pretend it’s not our fault.”
Silence.
Then, from the very back, a small voice—young, trembling—said, “He killed my doe.”
Your head snapped up.
A tiny fairy—barely more than a glow with wings—held her hands in fists like she was trying not to shake. Tears made her cheeks shine.
“She was my friend,” the child whispered.
Something in you went very calm.
When you stood, the air thickened around you, warm and fragrant, as if the forest itself was leaning in. The trees stirred, leaves whispering, branches angling toward you like an audience.
“I’m going,” you said.
Lysa’s jaw tightened. “If you go alone—”
“I won’t,” you said, though your eyes said I will if I have to.
A beat.
Then Lysa exhaled, resigned. “Take a guard. Take three. Let us—”
“No,” you said, gentler. “You stay. Keep the wards up. Keep the court from ripping itself apart while I’m gone.”
The green-haired fairy bristled. “So you can play hero and come back to a crown of flowers—”
You flicked your fingers.
A rosebush burst from the earth between you and her, blooming in a single heartbeat—white roses, sharp thorns, petals like fresh snow. Not an attack. A boundary.
Every fairy stilled.
You looked at her over the blossoms, your voice quiet enough that only she and the forest heard it. “This isn’t about glory.”
Her glare faltered.
“It’s about survival,” you finished. “For all of us.”
Then you turned toward the path that led up the hill.
Toward the castle.
Toward the darkness that had been drinking your forest dry.
The castle was the kind of thing nightmares built when they had too much time.
Black stone stacked into jagged spires, windows like slit eyes, ivy strangling the lower walls as if it had once tried to reclaim the place and failed. A gate arched open, not broken—inviting. The courtyard beyond held statues that were too smooth to be purely decorative, like they’d once been living things and someone had decided they looked better as stone.
Your wings stayed hidden under your glamour, pressed against your back like a secret. Your dress, spun from petal-silk, didn’t drag in the mud. Your bare feet left no prints. You carried no weapon.
You didn’t need one.
The moment you crossed the threshold, the air changed.
The forest’s scent—green, sweet, alive—thinned like mist burned away by sun. Here, everything smelled of cold iron and old smoke. And underneath it… something else. Hunger. Ancient and sharp.
Your magic crawled up your spine, restless.
You moved through the courtyard toward the massive doors.
They opened before you touched them.
No creak. No groan.
Just a smooth, deliberate swing.
As if the castle had been waiting.
Inside, the hall stretched long and dim, lit by candles that didn’t flicker. Shadows clung to the corners like they were afraid of the light. The floor was polished so perfectly your reflection stared back at you—a pale shape with eyes too bright and a mouth set in a line.
And at the end of the hall, beneath a staircase that split like ribs, a man leaned against a pillar as if this was a tavern and he was bored.
Bucky Barnes.
He looked like a story told to scare children—broad shoulders, dark clothes, hair falling into his eyes. But the real terror was the stillness. The kind that belonged to predators that didn’t need to hurry.
His eyes found you.
Blue—too blue in this dimness. Like ice with something molten trapped underneath.
“Fairy,” he drawled, voice low, amused. “Did the court finally decide to send a princess instead of a threat letter?”
Your jaw tightened. “You’ve been feeding in our woods.”
His mouth curved. Not quite a smile.
“Your woods,” he echoed, like the words tasted strange.
You took a step forward. The air reacted—dust lifting, candle flames bending toward you. A thin vine slipped out of a crack in the stone and curled around your ankle, protective.
“Those animals,” you said, keeping your voice level. “They’re not yours to take.”
Bucky’s gaze dipped—not to your ankle, not to the vine, but to your throat. Your pulse was steady, but you felt it anyway—the way his attention hooked into it like a blade.
“They’re not yours either,” he murmured.
“I don’t drain them,” you snapped. “I nurture them. I heal them. I—”
He pushed off the pillar.
The movement was fluid, almost lazy, and still your body tensed like prey.
He stopped several feet away, close enough that you could see the faint, silver sheen at the edges of his pupils—like moonlight caught under ice.
“Then heal this,” he said softly.
You blinked. “What?”
His hand lifted, palm up. For the first time, you noticed he wore a glove on one hand and nothing on the other—metal fingers catching the candlelight, too perfect, too wrong against the ancient stone.
He tugged the glove off his flesh hand with his teeth.
Then he turned that hand toward you.
There, across the inside of his wrist, was a burn mark—old and angry. Not from sunlight, but from something else. Magic, maybe. A rune. A brand.
It pulsed faintly, the way a dying ember pulses when wind hits it.
Your magic reacted immediately, tugging toward it like a moth toward flame.
“You’re marked,” you breathed.
His gaze didn’t leave your face. “Cursed,” he corrected. “Bound. Starved.”
“You’re a vampire,” you said. “You’re always hungry.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Not like this.”
The hall seemed to lean in around you, listening.
You steadied yourself. “Even if that’s true, it doesn’t give you the right to kill the forest.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat, something feral flickered across his features—hunger, frustration, a flash of pain so raw it made your chest pinch.
“You think I like it?” he asked, voice suddenly hard. “You think I wake up and decide I’m going to bleed your woods dry because it’s fun?”
Your wings twitched beneath your glamour, anxious.
“I don’t care what you like,” you said, though the words didn’t come out as sharp as you wanted. “I care what you’re doing.”
He took another step. The candles didn’t flicker, but you felt the temperature drop.
“You came here to demand I stop,” he said, voice smooth again. “So what are you offering in return, princess?”
“I’m offering mercy,” you said, chin lifting.
His laugh was quiet, almost affectionate. “Mercy.”
You bristled. “You’ll leave the forest. You’ll hunt elsewhere. Or you’ll learn to feed without killing.”
His gaze flicked—briefly—to the vine at your ankle, then back to your face. “And if I can’t?”
“Then we end you,” you said.
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
“You think your court can?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” you lied, because you had to. Because if he smelled fear, you were done.
He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
“No,” he murmured. “They sent you because they can’t. They sent you because you’re the only one with enough power to make a difference.”
Your throat tightened.
“And they sent you,” he continued, voice almost gentle, “because they’re willing to spend you to save themselves.”
Heat flared in your chest—anger, indignation. “You don’t know my people.”
“I know desperation,” he said simply. “I know what it does.”
Silence.
Your magic stirred, restless. Somewhere deep in the castle, a draft whispered through stone like a sigh.
You forced yourself to stay steady. “Stop feeding in the forest.”
Bucky’s gaze dropped again—not to your throat this time.
Lower.
To the place between your thighs where your body warmed at the sheer, infuriating closeness of him. Like your skin was betraying you, responding to predator proximity with something that wasn’t fear.
His nostrils flared.
You felt it the moment he smelled it: the faint sweetness of your arousal, floral and bright, bleeding into the cold air like spilled nectar.
His eyes went half-lidded.
“Oh,” he breathed, and there it was—the hunger, unmistakable. “That’s what you are.”
Your cheeks heated. “Excuse me?”
He took another step. Now he was close enough that you could see the faint fang tips when he spoke.
“Fairies,” he murmured, voice low, reverent in a way that made your stomach twist. “Nature’s heart. Magic in flesh.”
You swallowed. “Back up.”
His gaze lifted to your face, and something wicked curled in his expression.
“You can demand all you want,” he said. “But if you’re asking me to stop feeding, you’re asking me to starve.”
“You won’t starve,” you snapped, though your voice wavered. “You’ll hunt elsewhere—”
“I don’t want elsewhere,” he cut in, so fast it startled you. Then, quieter, like he’d revealed too much: “I can’t. Not with this.” He flexed his wrist, the mark pulsing. “It pulls me here. The forest. The heartwood. Your magic.”
Your stomach dropped.
It made a horrible kind of sense—the way the killings had gotten worse the closer they came to the heartwood. Like something was dragging him in.
“You’re tethered,” you whispered, horror and anger tangling. “To us.”
Bucky’s eyes didn’t soften. “And you walked into my house like you didn’t know.”
Your magic flared defensively. The vine at your ankle tightened, thorns rising.
“What do you want?” you asked, voice shaking with fury.
Bucky leaned in just slightly, enough that his breath brushed your cheek—cold and faintly metallic, like winter air.
“I’ll stop feeding on your animals,” he said.
Suspicion snapped through you. “Just like that?”
His lips curved. “Not for free.”
Of course.
You lifted your chin. “Name your price.”
His gaze dropped again, slow and deliberate, and your body responded with a traitorous pulse of warmth.
“I want you,” he said, voice like velvet dragged over steel.
The hall seemed to go very quiet.
Your wings trembled beneath your glamour.
“You want—” You choked on the words, anger rising fast to cover the sudden, sharp spark of something else. “You think you can bargain for my body?”
“I’m not bargaining for your body,” he corrected softly. “I’m bargaining for what’s inside it.”
Your breath caught.
Fairy magic wasn’t like other magic. It lived in blood and bone, yes—but more than that, it lived in pleasure. In the way life created life. In the way spring returned after winter. In the way flowers opened, shameless and bright.
And vampires… vampires fed on life.
Not just blood. Not just flesh.
Life.
You felt it then, the way his hunger pressed against your aura like fingers against a window, trying to get in.
Your voice came out thin. “You want to feed on me.”
Bucky’s eyes held yours, unblinking. “Yes.”
Fear flickered, quick and sharp.
And then—worse—curiosity.
Because the forest’s pulse beneath your feet eased, just slightly, like it recognized the shape of a solution.
You hated that.
“I’m not your meal,” you said, voice hard.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “No.”
He leaned closer, just enough that you could smell him—cold stone, faint smoke, the iron tang of hunger.
“You’re my remedy,” he murmured. “And you know it.”
Your magic surged, vines snapping up from the cracks in the floor like living whips. They lashed out toward him, fast as thought.
Bucky moved.
Too fast.
One moment he was in front of you, the next he was behind you, a cold hand wrapping around your wrist—not crushing, but unyielding. The vines struck empty air, splintering against stone.
Your heart slammed.
“Let go,” you hissed.
His breath ghosted over your ear. “Tell your plants to stand down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own forest,” you snapped, yanking.
He didn’t budge.
Instead, he pressed his mouth to the place just below your ear—barely a brush of lips, not a bite. A test.
Your entire body jolted.
It wasn’t fear that flooded you. It was heat, sudden and humiliating, pooling low in your belly like spilled honey.
Bucky exhaled, a sound like satisfaction.
“You smell like rain on warm earth,” he murmured. “Like flowers opening.”
“Stop,” you gasped, furious at the way your voice betrayed you.
He loosened his grip just slightly, enough that you could pull away if you truly wanted.
It was a choice.
Your magic noticed the difference. The vines stopped writhing. The thorns lowered.
You yanked your wrist free and spun to face him, breathing hard.
His eyes gleamed.
“You’re playing games,” you accused.
Bucky’s gaze flicked over you like he was cataloging every tremor, every flush, every tell. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m offering you a way to save what you came to protect.”
“You could just leave,” you said.
He shook his head. “I can’t.” Then, softer: “But I can stop killing for it.”
The sincerity in his voice hit you like a blow. Not because it was gentle—because it sounded like truth he’d hated for a long time.
You swallowed, trying to steady. “And what? You feed on me and everything’s fine?”
Bucky stepped closer, hands lifting slowly, palms open—like he was approaching a wild animal.
“You tell me,” he murmured. “Do you feel it? Your forest thinning, your heartwood fading? That’s because something is clogged. Something is trapped between life and death and it’s pulling everything into rot.”
Your stomach tightened. You had felt the rot—like a shadow under the roots, spreading.
He continued, voice low. “My curse tethers me to the heartwood. Your magic is tethered to it too. If we—if you let me feed the right way—your magic surges, cleans the rot, strengthens the forest. It’s… a circuit.”
Your breath shook.
It sounded like a spell.
Or a trap.
“You’re asking me to trust you,” you whispered.
Bucky’s gaze held yours, too intense. “I’m asking you to choose.”
He took another step, stopping so close you could feel the cold radiating from him.
“If you say no, I won’t touch you,” he said, and there was something almost brutal about the restraint in his voice. “I’ll leave the forest line. I’ll chain myself. I’ll starve. And your court can decide whether they want to watch their woods die anyway.”
You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast.
“You’re cruel,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t amused. “I’m honest.”
Silence stretched.
Somewhere far away, the forest sighed through the stone—wind slipping through cracks, carrying the faintest smell of pine like a plea.
You closed your eyes.
You thought of the rabbit. The fox. The child fairy whispering about her doe. You thought of the heartwood’s pulse stuttering beneath your feet.
You opened your eyes again.
“If I agree,” you said, voice tight, “you don’t bite me.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked to your throat, and for a heartbeat, his hunger flashed so sharp you thought he might shatter.
Then he nodded once, slow. “No biting.”
“And you don’t take anything from me without asking,” you continued, forcing the words out. “Not a kiss. Not a touch. Not—”
His eyes darkened, but his voice stayed steady. “Agreed.”
“And the moment I say stop,” you said, “you stop.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yes.”
You held his gaze, searching for deceit, for manipulation, for anything that said he was lying.
You found hunger. You found restraint. You found something like pain.
And… something like reverence.
You swallowed.
“Then,” you whispered, barely audible, “I’ll do it.”
Bucky went very still.
Like a predator hearing prey walk willingly into its jaws.
But when he moved, it wasn’t a lunge.
It was careful.
He lifted a hand and hovered it near your cheek without touching. His eyes asked the question his mouth didn’t.
You nodded once.
His palm cupped your cheek, cool against your warmth.
The contact sent a shiver down your spine so sharp you hated yourself for it.
“You’re sure?” he murmured.
Your throat bobbed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
A quiet huff of a laugh left him, but it died quickly as his gaze dropped to your lips.
“May I?” he asked.
It shouldn’t have mattered—should’ve been a formality, a line in a bargain.
But the question landed in your chest like a promise.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Bucky kissed you.
Slow at first. Testing. Like he expected you to bite him back.
Your magic surged at the contact, petals blooming in invisible spirals around you, the air suddenly rich with summer. The candles flared brighter, bending toward you like sunflowers.
Bucky made a low sound in his throat, something almost hungry, and deepened the kiss.
His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, thumb resting against your pulse; not pressing, not threatening, just… feeling.
As if he couldn’t help it.
Your fingers fisted in his shirt.
He was cold and hard and everywhere his mouth moved, your body followed like it wanted to be led.
You pulled back first, breath ragged, eyes bright with anger you could barely summon anymore. “Where?”
His gaze flicked over your face. “There’s a room,” he said, voice rough. “If you want—”
“I’m not doing this on a stone floor,” you snapped, then immediately hated the shaky breath that followed. “Lead the way.”
Bucky’s mouth curved, and this time it was something dangerously close to a smile.
He offered his hand.
You stared at it like it was a trap.
Then you took it anyway.
His fingers closed around yours, cold and steady, and he guided you up the stairs.
The room was warmer than the hall, lit by a fireplace that crackled softly. Velvet curtains hung heavy over tall windows, shutting out the night. The bed was massive, draped in dark linens like spilled ink.
You hovered near the threshold, suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. Of how the bargain had turned into something far more intimate than you’d expected.
Bucky let go of your hand.
He didn’t approach. Didn’t corner you. Just stood near the foot of the bed, watching you like he was waiting for you to decide he wasn’t worth the risk.
Your wings fluttered beneath your glamour, nervous.
“You can leave,” he said quietly.
You glared. “Stop saying that like you want me to.”
His eyes flickered. “I want you here,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not… I’m not taking.”
The honesty in it made your chest twist.
“You talk too much,” you muttered, stepping forward.
Bucky’s gaze followed you, sharp.
You stopped a few feet away, chin lifted. “Tell me what to do.”
His breath hitched.
Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he murmured. “Tell me what you want.”
Heat crawled up your neck. Your pride flared, stubborn and bright.
“I want you to stop killing my animals,” you said.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “That’s not what I meant.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He exhaled, then stepped closer—still careful, still giving you space.
“I want,” you said, voice rougher than you expected, “to know you’re not lying.”
Bucky’s gaze held yours. “How do I prove it?”
Your magic stirred, responding to your emotion by sending a tendril of ivy curling up the bedpost. A bloom opened—pale blue, delicate.
“You’re a vampire,” you said. “You’re supposed to be monstrous.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened. “I can be.”
Your breath caught.
“And you still asked,” you whispered, almost accusing. “You still—”
His voice dropped. “I wanted your yes.”
Silence.
Your body hummed with need now, unmistakable. Your arousal wasn’t just desire—it was magic, blooming and thickening in your veins like nectar.
The forest wanted this. It recognized the circuit he’d spoken of, the way life and hunger could meet and turn into something that healed instead of harmed.
You hated that your body agreed.
You stepped closer, until you were within reach.
Bucky didn’t move.
Not until you lifted your hand and pressed your palm to his chest.
He was solid beneath your touch, muscles tight, his heart… quiet. Not beating like yours, but there was something there, a faint pulse of magic under the skin.
His breath shuddered.
“Undress me,” you said, voice daring.
Bucky’s eyes flashed.
“May I?” he asked, still.
“Yes,” you snapped, then softened despite yourself, quieter: “Yes.”
His hands rose slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement would spook you. He touched the edge of your dress, fingers brushing petal-silk, and your magic flared in response—flowers blooming in the air, invisible but scented, filling the room with spring.
Bucky inhaled sharply, eyes closing for half a second like the scent hit him somewhere deep.
Then he slipped the dress from your shoulders.
The fabric slid down, pooling at your feet like shed petals. Cool air kissed your skin. Your glamour held your wings hidden, but you could feel them fluttering, agitated.
Bucky’s gaze traveled over you—slow, reverent, hungry—but he didn’t touch.
Not until you lifted your chin. “You’re staring.”
His mouth curved. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”
“You’re already losing it,” you muttered.
Something broke in his expression—amusement, heat, a crack in the monster.
Then he stepped in close and kissed you again, deeper, his hands finally finding you—one on your waist, one sliding up your back, fingers splaying like he wanted to memorize you.
You gasped into his mouth.
His lips moved against yours like he was starving for more than blood.
When he pulled away, your breathing was ragged.
Bucky’s forehead rested against yours. “Tell me if I’m too much,” he murmured.
You swallowed, then forced your voice steady. “You’re not enough.”
His eyes snapped open, bright.
Your boldness made your magic surge. The ivy on the bedpost unfurled, leaves widening, blossoms opening.
Bucky’s hands tightened at your waist.
“You’re going to regret saying things like that,” he warned, voice rough.
“Try me,” you whispered.
Bucky made a low sound and lifted you.
He lifted you easily, like you weighed nothing, setting you on the bed as if you were something precious.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he followed, hovering over you without pressing down. His hair fell forward, dark against the firelight.
His eyes searched your face one more time. “Still yes?”
Your throat bobbed. “Yes.”
Bucky exhaled like relief and hunger had finally found the same breath.
Then he lowered his mouth to your skin.
He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The center of your chest.
Each kiss was cool at first, then warmed as your body heated around him, your magic responding by spilling more scent into the air—lush and bright, like crushed flowers.
Bucky’s hands slid down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you arched with a soft sound you didn’t mean to make.
His gaze flicked up, catching it.
“Pretty,” he murmured, like the word was torn out of him.
Your cheeks heated. “Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” he asked, voice low, mouth still against your skin.
Your pride flared. “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this.”
Bucky’s laugh was a shaky exhale. “Princess,” he murmured, “I’m trying to survive it.”
His mouth moved lower, kissing your stomach, his hands spreading your thighs gently.
He paused, looking up at you like he was asking permission without words.
You swallowed, then nodded.
Bucky’s eyes darkened.
He pushed your thighs wider then slid down between them.
The first brush of his breath against you made you jolt.
“Oh,” you gasped, fingers clutching at the sheets.
Bucky’s hands settled on your hips, holding you steady like he was afraid you’d vanish.
“Tell me,” he murmured, voice muffled against your skin. “Do you want my mouth?”
You hated how quickly you answered.
“Yes,” you breathed. Then, louder, because your pride demanded it: “And don’t be gentle about it.”
Bucky’s breath hitched.
Then his tongue touched you.
Warm, broad, devastating.
You gasped, head falling back, wings fluttering hard beneath your glamour. The room seemed to brighten as your magic surged—flowers blooming in invisible spirals, ivy racing along the bedframe like it couldn’t help itself.
Bucky made a low sound against you, like a growl turned into worship.
He licked you slowly at first, tasting, learning. Every stroke pulled a fresh wave of heat through you, your magic building like spring floodwater behind a dam.
Your thighs trembled around his shoulders.
“Bucky,” you gasped, the name slipping out before you could stop it.
He looked up at you from between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, mouth shining.
“Yeah?” he murmured, and the sound vibrated against you, making you jerk.
You glared down at him, furious and breathless. “Don’t talk.”
His mouth curved.
Then he went back down on you like he took your command as a challenge.
He lapped harder, tongue pressing deep, then flicked against your clit with sharp precision that made you cry out. His hands tightened on your hips, keeping you open, keeping you steady as your body tried to squirm away from the intensity.
“Too much?” he asked, voice rough, but he didn’t stop—just slowed enough that the question mattered.
Your breath stuttered. “No,” you managed. “Don’t stop.”
Bucky’s eyes flashed.
He sucked gently—then harder—on your clit, and your whole body arched, magic surging so violently the ivy on the bedpost exploded into blossoms, petals drifting through the air like snow.
Outside the castle, far beyond the stone walls, the forest answered.
You felt it—a pulse through the roots, sudden and bright, like a heart remembering how to beat.
Bucky groaned against you, the sound nearly obscene.
“Fuck,” he rasped, like the taste of you was dragging him to the edge of something. “You’re—”
He cut himself off and buried his face again, eating you like he was starving and you were the only thing that could keep him alive.
You clutched at his hair, fingers tangling, tugging without thinking.
He didn’t flinch. If anything, he pressed closer.
“Good?” he murmured, voice hoarse.
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes—oh—”
He slid two fingers inside you—slow, careful, watching your face like a hawk. You tensed, then melted as he curled them, finding the spot that made you choke on a cry.
Bucky’s mouth never stopped.
The room filled with the scent of wet petals and fresh earth. The fireplace flared, flames rising, and the candles on the dresser brightened as if your magic was pouring into everything that could hold light.
Bucky’s mark on his wrist began to glow.
You saw it when he lifted his hand briefly, the rune pulsing brighter with every sound you made.
It was feeding.
Not on your blood.
On your pleasure.
On the life blooming in you like a garden in spring.
Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and something raw moved there—relief, hunger, awe.
“Feel that?” he rasped. “Your magic—”
“Shut up,” you whimpered, because you could barely think, let alone talk.
He huffed a laugh against your skin, then thrust his fingers deeper, curling them just right while his tongue worked you with ruthless devotion.
It hit you fast.
A wave building too high, too bright.
You tried to brace—tried to hold back, stubborn even here—but your body betrayed you, trembling under him, your magic surging in time with your heartbeat.
“Bucky,” you choked, voice breaking. “I’m—”
He hummed, approving. “Let it happen,” he murmured, and the words sounded like a spell.
You shattered.
Pleasure tore through you, sharp and white-hot, your back arching off the bed. Your magic exploded with it—flowers blooming so fast the air turned thick with scent, ivy racing along stone, leaves unfurling as if the castle itself couldn’t resist becoming alive.
And outside—
Outside, the forest pulsed.
Roots drank deep. Rot burned away in a bright, cleansing surge. The heartwood steadied, its stuttering rhythm smoothing into a strong, steady beat.
You felt it like an echo, like the land itself exhaling.
Bucky groaned against you, eyes squeezing shut, as if the surge hit him too.
When you finally came down, shaking, he slowed, easing his fingers out, mouth softening into gentler kisses that made your oversensitive body twitch.
He rested his cheek against your inner thigh for a moment, breathing hard.
Then—slowly—he looked up at you.
His eyes were brighter. Less hollow. Like something inside him had been fed properly for the first time in centuries.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.
You swallowed, heart still racing. “Don’t… don’t you dare act sweet now.”
His mouth curved, but there was no mockery in it. “I’m not acting,” he murmured.
He shifted up the bed, hovering over you again, his hand sliding to your cheek.
“Thank you,” he said, so quietly it startled you.
Your chest tightened, anger cracking into something complicated. “You’re welcome,” you muttered, then snapped, defensive: “This doesn’t mean you own me.”
Bucky’s thumb stroked your cheek. “I don’t want to own you.”
“Liar,” you whispered, because your pride demanded it.
Bucky’s eyes held yours. “I want to keep you,” he admitted, voice low. “But only if you want to stay.”
Your breath caught.
You stared at him, searching for the monster again.
You found him—hunger, darkness, predatory patience.
But you also found the restraint that had kept him from taking when he could have. The way he’d asked, every time. The way his hunger had turned into reverence instead of violence.
You hated how much that mattered.
Outside, the forest’s pulse steadied under your skin like a promise.
You swallowed. “If I stay,” you said carefully, “you stop hunting the animals.”
Bucky nodded immediately. “Yes.”
“And you don’t come near the heartwood unless I say you can.”
“Agreed.”
“And if you ever hurt my people—”
His eyes darkened. “I won’t.”
You narrowed your gaze. “That’s not an agreement.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. Then, quietly: “If I ever hurt your people, you can kill me.”
The bluntness of it made your breath hitch.
You stared at him, heart thudding.
Then you scoffed, because you couldn’t let yourself be softened. “Dramatic.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “You’re the one who stormed into a vampire’s castle and threatened him with death.”
“Because you deserved it,” you shot back.
Bucky leaned down, pressing a kiss to your mouth—slow, sweet, startlingly tender.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured against your lips.
You glared. “You’re a parasite.”
His laugh was low. “And you’re my favorite meal.”
Heat flared in your cheeks. “Bucky—”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, hand sliding down your side, fingers brushing your thigh.
He pulled back, eyes heavy. “Can I?” he asked, voice rough.
Your pulse stuttered.
You could say no. You could leave. You could go back to the court and claim victory and never step foot in this castle again.
But the forest’s pulse—steady now—felt like it had wrapped itself around your spine and whispered this works.
And worse—your body wanted him.
You swallowed, voice quieter. “Yes.”
Bucky’s eyes flashed.
He shifted, lowering himself between your thighs again, but this time he didn’t rush. He kissed the inside of your knee first, then your thigh, then the place where your skin was still sensitive from what he’d done.
You shivered.
“You’re going to make a habit of this,” you muttered.
Bucky’s mouth brushed your skin. “I’m going to worship you,” he murmured, voice dark. “If you let me.”
Your magic flared in response, ivy curling along his arm like a caress.
“Just…” you breathed, already trembling. “Just don’t bite.”
Bucky lifted his head, eyes gleaming. “No biting,” he promised.
Then he went back to your slick heat, licking softly at first, coaxing you back open with patient, hungry devotion.
Your hands found his shoulders, fingers digging in.
Bucky hummed, pleased.
Outside the castle, the forest breathed again—greener, brighter, alive.
And somewhere far below the roots, the rot that had been spreading for so long finally began to retreat, chased away by a circuit of hunger and magic that shouldn’t have worked—
But did.
By dawn, you lay tangled in dark sheets, skin flushed, magic humming low and satisfied beneath your ribs.
Bucky lay beside you, one arm under your head, the other—metal—resting at your waist like a careful anchor. His face was turned toward you, eyes half-lidded, watching you like you were a sunrise he didn’t deserve.
You should’ve been gone. You should’ve been racing back to the court with proof, with victory, with a story sharp enough to cut down any fairy who doubted you.
Instead, you were here.
In a vampire’s bed.
With the forest’s pulse steady under your skin like a secret.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Bucky murmured, voice sleep-rough.
You glared at him. “I don’t think loud.”
His mouth twitched. “Sure.”
You shifted, sitting up slightly. The sheets slid down, and Bucky’s gaze tracked the movement with slow, hungry appreciation.
“Don’t start,” you warned.
Bucky lifted a brow. “Start what?”
“You know what,” you snapped, though you felt heat bloom again, traitorous.
Bucky reached up, fingers brushing your hip—light, questioning.
“May I?” he asked.
You rolled your eyes, but your magic curled around his wrist like a ribbon.
“Yes,” you muttered. “But if I go back to the court and they’re fighting—”
“They will be,” he said calmly.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Bucky’s gaze held yours, and something dark and amused flickered there. “They sent their princess to negotiate with a vampire.”
Your mouth opened, then shut, because he wasn’t wrong.
You huffed. “I’m going to have to lie.”
Bucky’s thumb stroked your hip. “Or tell the truth.”
You glared. “Absolutely not.”
He laughed softly, then sobered, eyes sharpening. “You should bring them proof,” he said. “Not of… this.” His hand tightened briefly, then loosened, respectful. “But of the forest. That it’s healing.”
You hesitated, because that sounded like… partnership.
Like something that might last longer than a bargain.
“You’re going to keep your word,” you said, voice careful.
Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”
“And you’re going to stop hunting in the woods,” you pressed.
“Yes.”
“And if the curse pulls you—”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Then you come here,” he murmured. “Or I come to you. And we do it the right way.”
Heat curled low in your belly again, immediate.
You hated him.
You hated your body.
You hated that the forest felt brighter already.
You swallowed, then looked away, because you refused to let him see the way your pride was cracking.
“I’m not staying,” you lied.
Bucky’s hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs like he was memorizing you again.
“Okay,” he said, too calm.
You snapped your gaze back. “Okay?”
Bucky’s mouth curved, knowing. “You’ll be back.”
Fury flared. “You’re arrogant.”
Bucky’s eyes gleamed. “I’m hungry,” he corrected, and his hand tightened just slightly like a promise. “And you, princess… you taste like the forest learning how to live again.”
Your breath hitched.
Then you shoved his shoulder—not hard, but enough to make him shift—and climbed out of bed, snatching your dress from the floor.
Bucky watched you, amused and hungry, like he had all the time in the world.
You threw the dress on, glamour snapping back into place like armor.
At the door, you paused.
Without looking back, you said, “If I hear about one more dead animal—”
“I’ll eat you instead,” Bucky called lazily.
You froze, cheeks heating.
Behind you, his laugh rumbled, warm and dangerous.
You stormed out of the room, wings trembling beneath your glamour, heart pounding with fury and something that felt suspiciously like anticipation.
And as you stepped back into the hall, the castle’s cold air met your skin—
But beyond the stone, beyond the black spires—
The forest pulsed, steady and strong.
Waiting for you to come back.
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