Himeros and Pothos
It begins with a dream. Not a nightmare, not this time. No screaming metal, no falling trains, no blood on snow. Just heat. A brush of fingers on his wrist. The taste of pomegranate and smoke. A whisper, low and reverent, that curls around his spine like silk: “You want, and want, and want. Let us show you what comes after.”
Bucky wakes in sweat and silence.
At first, he thinks nothing of it. Just a strange dream. But it lingers. The heat, the ache. The way it made him feel seen. Like someone had finally peeled back the steel and shadow and found the man beneath.
The second time it happens, he’s sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, staring out at the lights of some half-familiar city. A voice murmurs behind him: “You were made for more than regret.”
He turns. No one’s there. But the room smells faintly of honey and desire.
And then they come. Not in dreams this time, but in the space between seconds. In reflections. In half-formed thoughts. Himeros: a wild, golden-eyed, laughing god. He is desire incarnate, with a touch like fire. And Pothos: he’s quieter, deeper, eyes like stormclouds. He is longing made flesh.
*
There is a door that wasn't there before.
Bucky finds it after a long day. His muscles ache, his mind is fogged. He’s tired. The kind of tired that lives in the soul. The door is pale stone, carved with vines and stars, set into the alley wall like it’s been waiting. The handle is cool to the touch. There’s no sign, no threat. Just a sense of inevitability.
He steps through. And the world changes.
Suddenly it’s dusk on a high cliff, and the air is scented with myrtle and salt. A villa sprawls before him, all open archways and soft fabrics, marble warmed by the sun. The sea glitters far below, waves whispering promises in some ancient tongue. And inside, the silence sings.
He is alone. But not. That night, they come to him.
He doesn’t see them, only feels them. Himeros first: a heat that pools low in his belly, a teasing laugh near his throat. A bold hand that maps his scars like constellations. Himeros is desire in motion, golden light and daring touch.
Then Pothos, who follows like a tide, cooler, deeper. A press of lips to the back of Bucky’s shoulder. Fingers threading into his hair. The kind of intimacy that makes him ache. That knows every loss and kisses each one like an oath.
They never let him see them. He reaches out once, in the dark and is gently stopped. A hand over his eyes. A kiss to still the question on his lips. “Not yet,” they whisper. “It would be too much.”
By dawn, he lies tangled in linen sheets and sighs, his body humming with a pleasure that feels impossibly tender.
The next night, they return. And the next. And the next.
*
It’s the sixth night, or the ninth, he’s lost count. Time slips strangely in this place. Bucky is sure that the moon doesn’t rise the same way twice, and the stars keep moving like they know they’re being watched.
He lies on the bed again, as instructed. The linen is cool, the room open to the sea breeze, and his skin already prickles in anticipation. He never hears them enter. Just feels them arrive. It’s like the room exhales, and suddenly there are hands. A breath against his collarbone.
“You’re tense tonight,” murmurs a voice near his ear. Himeros, always the first. Velvet and smoke. “Let us help.”
Bucky breathes out through his nose, fingers twitching where they rest on the sheet. “I’ve had strange dreams,” he says quietly.
Laughter answers, low, rich, and a little wicked. “Darling, we are the strange dream.”
And then there’s the second voice, Pothos, cooler, more sorrowful. It curls behind his spine like silk ribbon. “You think too much when we’re gone.”
“You leave me alone all day,” he replies. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Miss us,” Himeros whispers, nipping his jaw.
“Crave us,” Pothos adds, pressing his lips to the nape of Bucky’s neck.
He shivers. Fingers trail over his chest, his ribs, his hip. A hand brushes through his hair, and someone straddles his thighs, pinning him with a body that feels feverishly warm. Every part of him aches to see them, but the rules are clear. No looking.
Tonight, though he asks. “What do you look like?”
The touches pause. Just for a beat. He feels one of them smile against his skin.
“Dangerous,” Himeros says.
“Too beautiful for mortal eyes,” Pothos adds.
“You’d burn,” they murmur together, voice doubled, divine. “And we’d hate to ruin you.”
He turns his face toward where he thinks one of them is. “Try me.”
There’s a pause, thicker now, charged. Then fingers slip beneath his chin, tilt his head. Lips brush his forehead like a benediction. “Just a glimpse,” Himeros says, amused.
“Because you asked,” Pothos says, more tender.
And then. There is light. Blinding. Spilling. Only for a second, but it sears. He doesn’t see faces, not clearly. Just wings, unfurled and gleaming with starlight. A mouth shaped like longing. Eyes like twin planets caught in eclipse. Radiance, vast and unbearable.
Bucky gasps. Shutters his eyes. Hands catch his face, gentle now, soothing. The light vanishes. They crowd around him again, murmuring apologies, kisses soft against his throat.
“You’re still here,” Bucky whispers, voice unsteady.
“Of course we are,” Pothos says.
“We always come back,” Himeros purrs.
And they love him, like they’re trying to replace the glimpse with something gentler. With devotion. With skin and tongue and hands. With moans that echo into the night like lullabies.
*
The night is still. Thick with sea-salt and jasmine. The bed has long since surrendered its shape beneath their tangled limbs. Bucky lies on his back, breathing steadily, the sheet rucked low on his hips. His chest rises and falls like the tide. His left arm, Wakandan gold and etched with light, is splayed above his head, fingers lax.
A fingertip traces the edge of the plating, reverent. “You never hide it,” murmurs Pothos, voice like quiet yearning.
“Why would I?” Bucky replies, eyes closed, not yet sleepy.
Silence. Then Himeros’s voice, softer than usual. “It’s beautiful.”
He turns to look toward them, even though the shadows cloak their true forms again. “You’ve seen every part of me,” he says. “Let me see you.”
“Again?” Pothos asks, hesitant. “It hurt you.”
Bucky’s smile is crooked. “Not for long. I heal fast.”
“You’re dangerous,” Himeros says, and this time it’s warm with admiration. “You’re not afraid of us.”
Bucky laughs, soft and low. “I’ve been afraid of the wrong people all my life.”
“Yes,” they whisper.
Light erupts. This time, he’s ready, or thinks he is. It hits like lightning, sharp and immediate. He hisses, eyes squeezing shut. The pain is white-hot and brief, burning through his vision before settling into a throb behind his eyes.
“James,” Pothos gasps, at his side in an instant, hands fluttering over his cheeks. “We are so sorry.”
“I told you,” he breathes, grinning, “Worth it.”
And when his eyes open again, they are there. Not as smoke and shadow, not as half-felt hands in the dark, but real.
They have taken mortal forms for him to behold. Still too lovely to be true, but softened now. Touchable. Himeros, golden-skinned and bold-eyed, grins like the sun itself. Pothos, paler, all curves and calm, eyes deep as dusk.
They kneel beside him as the sky begins to brighten. Light spills over the marble floor, catching in Pothos’s hair like moonlight, sliding across Himeros’s shoulders in fire.
“You look,” Bucky breathes, “like the world was made just to worship you.”
Himeros chuckles, leaning in. “It was. But we’d rather worship you.”
Pothos’s touch is featherlight, tracing the line of Bucky’s jaw. “Let us.”
They stretch beside him, mouths gentle now, and love him not with urgency but with reverence. As if he is something sacred. As if his scars are scripture, his breath a prayer. The first rays of sun slide across his skin as they move together, slow, intentional. A moment drawn out not for pleasure alone, but for the sheer miracle of being seen.
Bucky reaches out and lets them show him everything.
*
The villa is heavy with late morning light. Honeyed sun dapples through cypress branches, casting lazy shadows across the marble floor. Somewhere nearby, water murmurs. A fountain or the sea, it’s hard to tell anymore. Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, pulling his fingers through his hair. He feels saturated. Loved. Touched. Changed. But not whole.
Laughter drifts in from the open courtyard: low, velvet-edged bickering.
“You always want to keep them,” Himeros is saying, voice rich with amusement.
“And you always want to rush them,” Pothos retorts. “Let him stay. He’s happy.”
“He’s mortal,” Himeros reminds him. “They don’t stay.”
Pothos looks at him. “But he could linger a little longer.”
Bucky’s expression flickers. He doesn’t move. Just listens, every breath suddenly sharp. Then, he hears something else. A footstep. Unmistakable. Clean. Deliberate. A stride that speaks of strategy and control. His heart kicks against his ribs before the man even appears in the doorway.
Zemo.
Immaculate, as always. Crisp shirt tucked into tailored trousers, coat slung just-so over his shoulders. A single flower tucked into his lapel, absurd and perfect. His gaze is sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
He takes in the sunlit room, the disheveled bed, the tension behind Bucky’s eyes, and says, cool as anything: “Do you need help finding your way back, James?”
Bucky laughs, the sound torn from him like relief.
Zemo steps over to the window, and peers out. Twin figures of aching beauty are crossing the garden, coming this way. Sunlight clings to them like paint. Himeros and Pothos approach with languid grace, wearing their divinity with ease.
Zemo watches, then turns back, tilting his head at the young gods. He arches a brow at Bucky and smirks. “Or” he says lightly, “do you want to stay a little longer?”
Bucky crosses the room in three steps. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just pulls Zemo close, kisses him like a man remembering gravity, like someone who’s been floating too long.
When the gods arrive at the door, they don’t interrupt. They simply wait. Arms crossed, expressions unreadable.
Zemo, ever the diplomat, disengages with precision. Turns. Inclines his head. “Gentlemen.”
Himeros quirks a smirk. “You came for him.”
Zemo glances at Bucky, one hand still loosely on his waist. “I always will.”
Pothos sighs, wistful, not bitter. “Take care of him, mortal.”
“Better than you know,” Zemo says, just enough steel beneath the courtesy.
Himeros steps closer, eyes lingering on Bucky. “You’ll dream of us.”
Bucky shrugs. “I dream of a lot of things.”
“And some nights,” Pothos adds, brushing a hand over Bucky’s metal arm as he passes, “you might still feel us.”
Zemo does not bristle. He just smiles, faintly.
Bucky threads his fingers through Zemo’s, steady and sure.
They leave together. The villa does not vanish. The gods do not rage. They watch the mortals go, radiant and still.
And for a moment, just a moment, Himeros smiles like a man in love, and Pothos closes his eyes as if remembering the scent of the sea.
***