Priapus
Bucky has handled a lot in his long, strange life: intergalactic wars, ancient gods, enchanted weapons, eldritch staircases. But he’s not ready for the man lounging in his herb garden.
No shirt. Crown of grape leaves. Thighs like marble. A grin like he’s just won a bet with the sun. And an impressive fig leaf situation.
Bucky halts, holding a watering can and staring.
The man lifts one hand lazily. “Welcome to your garden, James. I’ve made a few improvements.”
Bucky glances past him. The once-modest garden now teems with improbable abundance. Lavender thick as fog, roses blooming in outrageous colours, tomatoes already ripe and somehow winking at him.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Priapus,” the man purrs. “God of fertility. Patron of gardens. Protector of orchards. Muse of innuendo. I’ve been watching you.”
Bucky: "Uh huh."
Priapus stands. The fig leaf really does nothing. “You’ve got hands like calloused poetry. Arms like a Roman statue with better upgrades. And your compost game? Sublime.”
Bucky blinks. “Is this a weird divine prank?”
Priapus shrugs, strolling closer through sun-drenched basil. “Only if you say no. I offer blessings. Fertile soil. Eternal blooms. Unimaginable pleasure.” He smirks. “Also, your rosemary was dying. Fixed that.”
Bucky frowns, defensive. “It was fine. Just needed some…"
“…tender attention?” Priapus steps too close. “I am very good at that.”
Bucky’s expression flickers between amusement and alarm. “You’re practically naked in my yard.”
“You’re welcome.”
Bucky exhales slowly and mutters, “I’m gonna need a drink.”
Priapus beams. “I’ll make it. Ambrosia spritz? With a sprig of mint I just made immortal?”
And somehow, Bucky lets him.
*
Bucky leans against the doorframe as Priapus saunters into his kitchen like he owns the place. It should be absurd. This gleaming, sun-kissed god, barefoot and mostly naked, opening cupboards like he's casing the joint for nectar reserves.
The fig leaf remains somehow more provocative than full nudity. And it’s definitely fluffier now. Bucky refuses to look directly at it.
“You cook?” Priapus asks, plucking a lemon from the bowl on the counter, rolling it across his palm like a secret.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, arms crossed. “When I’m not being ambushed by horticultural exhibitionists.”
Priapus grins. “Darling, I am the exhibition.” He grabs a glass and, with a flick of his fingers, fills it with something golden and bubbling. “Ambrosia spritz. One sip and you’ll feel like a well-loved vineyard.”
Bucky eyes it. “Did you conjure that? Or raid my liquor shelf?”
“I borrowed inspiration,” Priapus says innocently. “And mint. From my garden, which you call a backyard.” He slides the glass over, fingertips brushing Bucky’s. “Cheers, soldier.”
Bucky takes a cautious sip. The drink hits like sun-warmed honey and laughter through trees. He glares at the glass. “That’s annoying.”
“Because it’s delicious?”
“Because it works.” Another sip. A soft sigh. “Okay. You’ve got skills.”
Priapus’s smile softens, the flirt dropping into something unexpectedly genuine. “Of course I have. Pleasure is sacred. Gardens are sacred. You tend things. You take care. You deserve someone who notices that.”
Bucky’s breath catches a little at that. He wasn’t ready for sincerity. “Still naked though.”
“Would it help if I put on an apron?”
“It might help me survive this conversation.”
Priapus laughs. A rich, full thing that feels like it should have trailing vines and cicada songs tangled in it. He reaches for the hanging apron, ties it around himself with a flourish and nothing else. “Better?”
Bucky covers his face with one hand. “So much worse.”
“I thank you.”
*
Later, the garden is full of that lazy afternoon warmth that makes every green thing shimmer with possibility. Bucky's crouched in the dirt, sleeves rolled up, gloved hands wrist-deep in soil, actually helping plant something he hadn’t agreed to.
It started with “Hold this,” and now he’s knee-to-thigh with a fertility god elbowing him for more space.
“You said it was just one pomegranate tree,” Bucky mutters, brushing a strand of hair from his face with the back of his hand.
“Yes,” Priapus says brightly. “But that was before I saw how well you handled a trowel.”
“Was that supposed to sound suggestive?”
“Did it work?”
Bucky shoots him a look. “God.”
“Yes?” Priapus perks up like a sunflower tracking the sun.
“Not what I meant.”
“You’re very tense for someone who just installed irrigation with perfect forearm flexion.” Priapus glances down at the dirt-smudged veins in Bucky’s arm and hums appreciatively. “If I were mortal, I’d faint from thirst.”
Bucky leans on the shovel and exhales like a man rethinking every decision that led him here. “You really never stop, do you?”
“Why would I?” Priapus plucks a ruby-red seed from a pomegranate split open on the garden table. He steps forward slowly, and deliberately presses the seed between Bucky’s lips with one finger. “Every part of this is delicious.”
Bucky freezes for a moment. Then, crunch. He chews, swallows, and stares. “That’s good.”
“I’m very good,” Priapus murmurs, now entirely too close. “But don’t worry. I can be patient. I’m more gardener than hunter. I’ll tend what needs tending.”
“Is this your idea of patience?” Bucky asks, as another pomegranate seed is offered.
Priapus grins, eyes full of wildflowers and mischief. “Would you prefer I ravish you in the greenhouse? Because I do have ideas about that.”
Bucky stares at him. Then at the garden. Then back. “Let’s finish planting the tree first.”
Priapus beams like spring came early. “Such a good boy.”
*
The shower is a crime scene of soil and laughter.
Bucky’s hair is wet and curling at the ends, his metal arm gleaming under the spray. There’s steam rising everywhere, and somewhere between washing dirt off his neck and rinsing it out of his hair, Priapus has somehow ended up in the shower too, like it was inevitable.
He claims he's just there to “check the water pressure.” Bucky doesn’t believe him for a second.
“You smell like rosemary,” Priapus murmurs, stepping close enough for Bucky to feel it. “And sweat. And sun-warmed leather.”
Bucky huffs out a breath. “I smell like I’ve been digging holes all day because you tricked me into landscaping.”
“Mmm. A labouring soldier, skin all flushed, hands calloused, mouth just kiss-bitten from a pomegranate seed. Do you have any idea what that does to a god of fertility?”
“Unfortunately, I think I do.”
And then Priapus does that thing, that move, where he leans in and rests his forehead against Bucky’s temple, lips close to his ear, all heat and intimacy and impossibly smug affection. “I’ll be gentle,” he says softly.
Bucky snorts, breath hitching. “You’re never gentle.”
“But I’m always grateful,” Priapus whispers, running a thumb along the line of Bucky’s jaw like he’s sculpting something eternal. “For every inch of you. For every time you let me touch.”
There’s water between them. And steam. And the kind of silence that crackles like dry leaves before a spark.
Bucky turns, crowding Priapus back against the tile, and kisses him like the flood is coming and he intends to stay soaked. There’s laughter against lips, slick hands sliding down backs, a bite of teeth that turns into a moan.
Later, when they finally stumble out, hair dripping and towels clinging, Priapus flicks a conjured vine and hangs their clothes up with a flourish.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks with a devilish grin, towel barely clinging to his hips.
Bucky, bare-chested, hair wild, completely unimpressed, just mutters, “You’re insane.”
“And you’re irresistible,” Priapus replies, bending to press a kiss just above the swell of Bucky’s hip. “What a tragedy.”
*
It’s warm for dusk, the kind of warm that clings to your skin like silk. The garden is glowing, quite literally. The fruit trees shimmer faintly in the dark, casting soft halos over everything. Pomegranates shine like rubies. Figs are dusky lanterns. Grapes gleam like stardust on the vine.
Bucky is barefoot. Loose pants. Sleeveless tee. Hair still a little damp from the shower, curls tousled like he’s been kissed breathless and only just recovered. He steps through the grass like he belongs here. Like this garden has always known him.
Priapus is stretched across a chaise woven from flowering vines, half-draped in something sheer and absurd, sipping from a chalice that may or may not be full of liquid moonlight. He perks up the moment Bucky appears.
“There you are,” he says, sitting up with lazy grace. “I thought maybe you’d run off into the mortal night.”
Bucky tilts his head, lips twitching. “And miss your glowing fruit collection? Not a chance.”
Priapus smirks and gestures for him to sit. “Come. Let me show you what the stars look like from below.”
Bucky settles beside him, one leg crossed. “You planted these?”
“Some,” Priapus says, running fingers down a vine. “Some I coaxed. Some were born from laughter. That one,” he points to a tree with shimmering silver leaves, “was a thank-you gift from a nymph I loved. She said I made her feel beautiful.”
Bucky’s quiet for a second. Then, softly: “You’re not just jokes and flirting, are you?”
Priapus glances at him sidelong, then shrugs, deceptively easy. “I am what the world expects. But you, you’re different. You see the joke and the sorrow.”
Bucky meets his gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
The silence stretches. Comfortable.
“You wanna know what’s blooming tonight?” Priapus says, voice low and golden.
Bucky hums. “Sure.”
Priapus lifts a hand and snaps. Suddenly, the vines around them bloom wide open, one by one, slow and lush, releasing scent like a secret. Jasmine. Honeysuckle. Rose. Something smoky and old.
“They bloom for you,” Priapus says, voice reverent now. “Because I do.”
And Bucky, ex-soldier, killer, survivor, wanderer, leans in. Not for heat. Not for hunger. But for something holy.
Their kiss is slower this time. Deeper. The kind that forgets time entirely. Around them, the garden hums. A fig bursts on the branch. A nightingale sings. The stars lean closer.
Later, much later, Bucky lies back in the grass, chest rising and falling, and says to the sky, “You really planted those constellations?”
Priapus props himself up on an elbow. “That one,” he says, pointing, “is for mischief. That one? For longing. And that one?” He leans in, smiling at Bucky’s mouth like it’s the only constellation that matters. “That one’s for you.”
*
The sun rises slow and golden, as if it, too, has lingered a little too long in the arms of the night. The garden is damp with dew, lush with the scent of warm earth and crushed petals. A breeze stirs through the vines, tugging at sheer fabrics, lifting the scent of nectar and gods from the grass.
Bucky wakes first. Sort of.
He shifts in the green, blinking up at an unfamiliar canopy of curling leaves and tangled blooms, his arm draped around warm, bare skin. The weight of a vine curls lazily over his shoulder like a cat. There’s a fig tucked in the crook of his neck.
Priapus lies sprawled beside him like a Renaissance painting that took a very naughty turn. He is bare, tousled, one arm flung out, the other tucked behind his head. He has a vine crown slightly askew on his head. One of his legs is tangled around Bucky’s.
Bucky murmurs, “You’re ridiculous.”
Without opening his eyes, Priapus hums, “Indeed I am.”
Bucky stretches, joints cracking in the quiet. “Did we fall asleep in the garden?”
“We transcended in the garden,” Priapus corrects, cracking one eye open, voice honey-slow. “Falling asleep was merely a consequence.”
“You talk like a poet.”
“You kiss like one.”
Bucky makes a face and flops back into the grass, but not before brushing a curl of vine from Priapus’s shoulder. The morning is soft. Their bodies are sore in all the best ways. Somewhere in the distance, a golden rooster crows like he’s announcing a festival.
“Are your plants always this handsy?” Bucky asks, untangling a vine from his thigh.
“They like you,” Priapus says, utterly unapologetic. “And they know when someone belongs.”
That gets him a long, amused look. “You think I belong?”
Priapus leans over, kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth, murmurs, “You feel like a promise I made when the world was new.”
And it’s so soft, so sincere, that Bucky can’t quite look at him for a second.
The moment stretches. Then Priapus grins, pulling a grape off a nearby vine and popping it into Bucky’s mouth with all the smug glee of a deity who knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re insufferable,” Bucky says around it.
“You love it.”
“Mm.” Bucky chews. “I might.”
Priapus raises a brow. “You might stay?”
Bucky doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head back, watches the sun filter through the vines above them. He thinks of how peaceful his body feels. How light. How safe.
Then he looks at Priapus, golden and grinning and utterly absurd. A walking innuendo with the soul of a sanctuary.
And he says, “Might be nice to see what else you’ve planted.”
Priapus beams like he’s just won a war and a lover.
“Then welcome, my beautiful warrior,” he says, “to the long, slow bloom of forever.”
*
The invitations weren’t written. They didn’t need to be.
By mid-morning, the garden sings with anticipation. Vines coil tighter. Figs ripen faster. Petals open as though they’re sighing. Somewhere in the orchard, a nymph is playing a harp with a strawberry stem. The air is perfumed with heat and honey and something else. A kind of hum, a divine frequency that vibrates along the skin.
Bucky emerges from the little vine-woven bathhouse in nothing but low-slung linen and sun-warmed dew. His hair’s damp. His eyes still drowsy. And then he sees the garden.
It has changed.
There are cushions now, everywhere. Draped over marble benches, tucked into tree hollows, floating improbably in fountains. Fruit bowls overflow like they’ve been caught mid-lust. There’s laughter from deeper in the grove. A flash of bare skin. A giggle that might have come from a dryad. Or an actual god.
And then there’s Priapus.
Descending the slope like a scandal on two legs, barefoot, loose robes in unapologetic gold and plum. A wreath of fresh strawberries crowns his curls. There’s a goblet in one hand, and an apple in the other. He takes one look at Bucky and grins like the sun rose just to see him again.
“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes sliding over Bucky like a caress. “You clean up gorgeously.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realise there was a dress code.”
“Oh, there isn’t. But there is a ‘state of undress’ code. And you’re close enough.” Priapus tosses the apple. Bucky catches it.
“What’s the occasion?” Bucky asks, biting into it. Crisp, sweet, a little sinful.
“The Festival of Flesh and Fruit,” Priapus says grandly. “A celebration of the body in all its beauty. Divine and mortal alike. There’ll be dancing. Eating. More dancing. A very aggressive game of grape-tag. Possibly someone will propose to a pomegranate. Who’s to say.”
“Grape-tag?”
Priapus wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll explain it physically.”
From deeper in the grove, there comes a shout of delight, and a cascade of ripe cherries.
Bucky eyes the crowd beginning to gather. Satyrs and sirens, dryads and demi-gods. A few spirits of orchard and vine. One woman made entirely of blackberry bramble winks at him.
He leans toward Priapus. “You throw this kind of party often?”
“Only when someone worth celebrating arrives,” Priapus murmurs, close to his ear now. “And darling, they have never seen anyone like you.”
And then he’s gone. Swept up in the revelry, pulled into the arms of dancers and laughter and wine, like a king in his element.
Bucky watches him go. Watches him shine. Then takes another bite of the apple and steps barefoot into the chaos.
*
The festival swells like summer heat. Sweaty, sensual, utterly out of hand.
A circle of nymphs shriek with laughter as a satyr tries (and fails) to juggle three watermelons. Two dryads are embroiled in a heated argument over which fruit is the most erotic, figs or passionfruit. A smug, shirtless Hermes strolls by and says, “Mango,” and keeps walking. No one dares argue.
Bucky finds himself being dragged into a game of ‘pomegranate pass’, which involves elaborate footwork, surprising intimacy, and, at one point, someone feeding him a seed directly from their mouth.
He does not win. But he does laugh, genuinely, breathlessly, like it’s been too long.
He finds Priapus again during the ‘grape-tag’ debacle. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Players smear grape juice on their palms, and anyone caught gets a glowing purple handprint on bare skin. Bucky catches three demi-gods in a row and earns himself the title “Vine Warrior.” Priapus, of course, is covered in gleaming violet marks, and looks very pleased about it.
“You’re incorrigible,” Bucky tells him, grinning.
“And you’re delicious,” Priapus fires back, tongue stained with grape and wine and flirtation. “Care for a breather?”
Bucky nods. The heat is getting to him. Or maybe something else is.
They slip away into the deeper green, the noise and music fading behind them. The orchard parts like it’s been waiting, revealing a tiny alcove shaded by a grand old fig tree, leaves broad and trembling in the golden air.
A soft mossy blanket waits beneath. As if conjured.
Bucky sits. The stillness is thick with potential.
Priapus flops down beside him, stretching like a cat in the sun. He’s flushed, his curls wild, lips slick from wine. He smells like crushed strawberries and immortality.
“You’re good at this,” Bucky says quietly. “The fun. The laughter. The everything.”
Priapus leans onto an elbow, watching him. “You think that’s all I’m good at?”
“I think you’re hiding how deep it goes,” Bucky replies. “I see it. When you think no one’s watching. The way you look at the roots before the blossom. The way you tend the joy.”
Something flickers in the god’s eyes. His smile goes soft. “You are so dangerous,” Priapus murmurs.
Bucky raises a brow. “Me?”
“You don’t even realise, do you?” Priapus shifts closer. “You walk into my garden, into my festival, and suddenly everything sweet tastes sweeter. The fruit is juicier. The games are funnier. The air feels like it’s touching me.”
“I just followed you into the kitchen,” Bucky murmurs, lips curving.
“And I haven’t slept since.”
Their mouths meet, slow, sun-warmed, tasting of figs and desire. Priapus kisses like someone who celebrates with every breath. Who offers worship with every stroke of tongue, every sigh. Bucky sinks into it like the moss itself, the leaves whispering overhead, the garden holding its breath around them.
When they part, Priapus rests his forehead to Bucky’s, eyes fluttering closed.
“I should warn you,” he says, voice thick, “the next competition involves cherries and an oral dexterity contest. And I never lose.”
Bucky chuckles, low and sinful. “Is that a challenge?”
“It’s a promise.”
*
By the time they make their way back to the heart of the garden, the sun has tilted into something honeyed and heavy. Shadows pool like velvet under the trees, and the crowd has gathered again. This time around a long table draped in rose petals and blush-pink linen.
At the centre of it all sits a silver bowl, gleaming and overflowing with perfectly ripe cherries. Fat, glossy, and impossibly red.
There’s a sign beside it, scrawled in golden script:
🍒 Cherry Contest 🍒
Tongue only. Hands behind your back. Show us what you’ve got.
Bucky mutters something under his breath.
Priapus, who now has a crown of strawberry blossoms in his curls, beams like a sun god in scandalous leisurewear. “Darling, this is a festival, not a monastery.”
Bucky arches a brow. “I’ve been to monasteries. You’d be surprised.”
“Oh, please tell me everything,” Priapus says, tugging Bucky toward the table. “Over cherries.”
They are both roped in before Bucky can say no. A satyr with a crown of citrus wedges ties silk ribbons around the contestants’ wrists and tucks their hands behind their backs. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“Ready?” someone calls.
Priapus flashes Bucky a wink, then slides a cherry stem between his lips, tongue curling, deft, practiced, and frankly obscene.
The crowd roars.
Bucky blinks. “We’re tying knots?”
“Show us your best,” purrs the satyr, setting cherries before them like precious jewels.
It’s absurd. Bawdy. Ridiculous. It’s also somehow alarmingly hot.
Bucky leans forward. Takes a cherry in his teeth. The fruit is sweet and sun-warm, bursting against his tongue. He rolls the stem, thinking of spy training, of secret codes, of how certain talents transfer.
When he spits it out, the stem is knotted in a perfect little bow.
Gasps. Whistles. Someone yells, “We have a contender!”
Priapus looks personally affronted. “Oh no no no,” he growls, snatching another stem with his teeth. “Not in my house, sweet thing.”
They go round for round. The stakes get sillier. The crowd gets louder. By the fourth cherry, Bucky's cheeks are flushed, his lips shiny, and there’s laughter in his chest that won’t quite go away.
Priapus’s gaze is locked on him, somewhere between reverent and wrecked.
“Gonna call it a draw?” Bucky asks, voice low.
Priapus leans in. “Only if you let me watch you practice later.”
Bucky hums. “Better bring more cherries.”
“Darling,” says Priapus, licking juice from his bottom lip, “I’ll plant an orchard.”
The contest ends with applause and a lot of speculative betting on what exactly the two of them will be doing after sunset.
Bucky just bows. Priapus takes a celebratory lap. Someone hands them both medals made of braided cherry stems. It is not a subtle day.
*
The garden shifts as the sun begins its descent, shadows stretching long and golden. The chaos and heat of the afternoon are softening, giving way to that hushed, glowing space between day and night. Lanterns blink to life among the trees. Glass orbs filled with gentle light, suspended from branches like sleeping fireflies.
Music still curls lazily from the central grove, but it’s slowed. Lounging godlings sip nectar and trade scandalous stories in whispers. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and warm fruit.
Bucky finds his way into a quieter corner of the garden. Lead there by instinct, or maybe by Priapus’s lingering touch at his wrist, a teasing tug and a glance over the shoulder. They slip beneath an arbor draped in fig leaves, where the shadows are cool and dappled, and the vines curl like secrets overhead.
Here, the world seems to pause.
Priapus leans against the curved stone wall, arms folded loosely, his expression softer now. Less show. Less glittering bravado. His voice, when he speaks, is low and honest. “You know,” he says, “I thought you’d be a challenge.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “And?”
“Oh, you are,” Priapus murmurs. “Just not in the way I expected.”
There’s a long breath between them. Bucky steps closer. “You throw all this chaos around like confetti,” Bucky says, voice quiet, amused. “But you’re not simply a flirt, are you?”
Priapus shrugs one shoulder, playful and a little shy. “Don’t ruin my reputation, sweetheart.”
“I won’t,” Bucky says, and takes another step. “I kind of like your reputation.”
The last of the sunlight slants through the leaves, gilding the fig trees, turning the air to gold and green.
Bucky reaches up, fingertips brushing a ripe fig from the branch, splitting it open with practiced ease. He holds it out, thumb pressed to the soft, sweet interior.
Priapus watches him like a man stunned. Then, wordlessly, he leans forward and takes the offered fruit, lips brushing Bucky’s thumb, tongue flicking the juice from his skin with deliberate care.
Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.
Priapus swallows and leans in close. The kiss is not showy. It’s not bawdy or performative or meant for a crowd. It’s slow. Intentional. A brush of mouths made sticky with fig syrup and something aching underneath. It tastes like fruit and heat and the laughter they’ve left behind.
When they part, just barely, Priapus presses his forehead to Bucky’s again. “You’re trouble,” he whispers, smile hidden in the hush between them.
Bucky smiles back. “Takes one to know one.”
They linger there, in the green-gold dusk. Letting the moment stretch. Letting it settle. Somewhere in the distance, a lyre starts to play again. Soft and low. But here, beneath the arbor, there’s only breath, and sun-warm figs, and two mouths learning the language of each other’s quiet.
*
The garden doesn’t sleep. It shifts.
As twilight deepens, the air grows heady and shimmering, laced with moon-pollen and nocturnal perfumes. The vines twist anew, reshaping the space with quiet, mischievous intent. Pathways that once led to fruit-laden courts now spiral toward pools lit by phosphorescent lilies. Lanterns bob overhead like low-hanging stars, and laughter spills between columns like nectar.
Bucky finds himself swept back into the pulse of the party. Not by choice, but by Priapus’s fingers threading through his own with practiced ease.
“C’mon,” Priapus grins. “You can’t miss this part.”
Bucky lets himself be tugged along. “What, more fruit competitions?”
“Oh, darling,” Priapus purrs, “the fruit was foreplay. This? This is where things get interesting.”
They pass a trio of nymphs playing tag with shadows, a satyr coaxing song from a wine-dark fountain, and two godlings mid-argument over whether the moon or the olive is a better symbol of seduction. All of it wrapped in that strange divine logic. Exuberant, sensual, eternal.
They reach an open glade where a glowing table has been conjured from curling vines and pale marble. Upon it: a decadent, outrageous spread of midnight fruits. Gleaming pomegranates, blushing peaches, plums that drip their juice at the barest touch.
But this is no feast. It’s a game. Each fruit hides a dare. Pick one, and you must follow it through.
“Rules are simple,” Priapus says, grinning. “One fruit. One task. No cheating.”
Bucky folds his arms. “You wrote the rules?”
“I am the rules,” Priapus says, and plucks a peach. He bites into it with sinful flair, and reads the parchment tucked inside. “Oh. ‘Kiss the person you most want to see blush.’”
Bucky huffs a laugh, but before he can dodge, Priapus is right there, cupping his jaw and kissing him again, lush and deep and entirely unbothered by the audience of giggling immortals.
Bucky blinks when it ends. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“I never hesitate,” Priapus winks. “Your turn.”
Reluctantly intrigued, Bucky pulls a pomegranate from the table. Cracks it open. Hidden among the red seeds, a scroll reads: “Whisper your most scandalous thought into the ear of the person whose touch haunts you.”
He blinks. Looks at Priapus. Thinks.
Priapus, for once, goes very still.
Bucky steps in. Leans close. Breathes in just behind his ear. Then says, soft as sin, low as dusk: “I’ve been wondering if you'd taste sweeter than the figs, and how long you’d beg before I let you come.”
Priapus shudders.
The garden seems to hush.
Then Priapus exhales a stunned, reverent, “Holy Dionysus,” and grabs his hand again. “That’s it. We’re leaving. Alcove. Now.”
“Already?” Bucky teases.
“You want scandal? I’ll give you scandal.”
They vanish into a riot of vines and shadows, laughter and longing curling in their wake.
Behind them, the garden thrums on. Ripe, radiant, and ready for anything.
*
The alcove is alive. A hidden bloom in the garden’s heart, veiled by tall fig trees and heavy boughs of jasmine. The air is velvet and wine-thick, the kind of silence that listens and holds its breath to hear what comes next.
Vines part like stage curtains at Priapus’s touch, leaves curling back in reverence. Moonlight slants in silver ribbons, striping the floor, the low-slung divan, the soft tangle of moss and silk. Everything pulses with slow, fragrant heat.
They tumble in together, half-laugh, half-gasp, caught between hunger and hilarity. Bucky lands beneath Priapus in a heap of cushions, the god already bracketing him with strong arms, the scent of crushed fruit clinging to his throat.
“Still sure about this? Here? Now?” Priapus murmurs, voice rasped and laced with mischief. “Or was that just a really vivid dare?”
Bucky smirks, unhurried. “You’re the one who dragged me in here.”
“Darling,” Priapus purrs, lowering until their noses nearly touch, “you whispered filth into my soul. If I don’t do something about it, I’ll combust.”
Bucky runs a slow hand up the god’s side. “Then by all means,” he says, deadpan. “Let’s avoid divine combustion.”
And that is all the invitation Priapus needs.
Their mouths collide again, messy and eager, but slower now, savoured. Priapus kisses like he’s starving, but he tastes like a feast. Honeyed figs and sun-warmed raspberries, the ghost of something heady and ancient. His hands are deft, teasing at the hem of Bucky’s clothing, skimming skin, pressing low.
Bucky arches, grips tight at Priapus’s shoulder. “This your standard festival treatment?”
“You flatter me,” Priapus grins, mouth trailing along Bucky’s jaw. “I usually skip straight to the unfastening.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to.”
Clothes melt away like summer dusk. Skin meets skin in moon-dappled contrast. Bucky’s warm bronze and Priapus’s golden flush, each breath drawing them tighter, deeper, sweeter. Vines coil around ankles like curious cats, jasmine blossoms drifting down in slow spirals. Somewhere, a lyre strums itself lazily.
But inside the alcove, time slows.
Bucky gasps when Priapus dips to mouth at his hip, all teasing heat and adoration. “You always this good at worship?”
Priapus flashes a grin, wicked and delighted. “It’s in the job description, sweetheart.”
And then, less talk. More devotion.
Their bodies find a rhythm, somewhere between laughter and reverence, wildness and trust. There are whispered dares that melt into moans, fruit juice smeared across shoulders, fingers tangled in vines, knees knocking against mossy stone.
Bucky burns in all the best ways. Held, cherished, ruined beautifully.
And when the final sighs taper into quiet, Priapus doesn’t move right away. He stays stretched out beside him, fingers tracing lazy circles across Bucky’s chest.
“You are,” he says, voice a husky marvel, “trouble.”
“You started it,” Bucky murmurs, eyes lidded, lips curved.
“Mm. I’m going to keep starting it.”
“You promise?”
Priapus rolls over, drapes himself shamelessly across Bucky’s chest, kisses his throat with wine-wet lips. “With every ripe fruit left on the tree.”
Outside the alcove, the party roars on.
But here time is ripening. Slow. Sweet. Sacred.
*
They stay tangled together. Not out of necessity, but because neither of them seems inclined to move. The cushions beneath them are warm, pillowy, a little perfumed. The air hums with jasmine and mischief. Crushed berries stain Bucky’s fingers; he licks one absently, and Priapus watches like it’s an erotic art form.
"You're doing that on purpose," the god says, voice low and drowsy, but amused.
Bucky’s lip quirks. “What? I’m cleaning up.”
“Unfair,” Priapus sighs dramatically, stretching like a sun-drunk lion across Bucky’s torso. “You seduce without even trying.”
“You dragged me into your garden of sin.”
“And you flourished. Like a very, very bad seed.”
Bucky huffs a laugh, then lifts a lazy hand to push a grapevine leaf out of Priapus’s curls. “You’ve got a little…” He trails off, not bothering to finish. Instead, he plucks the leaf and tucks it behind the god’s ear, adding with mock solemnity: “There. Now you look respectable.”
Priapus eyes him with a smirk. “You’re lucky I find mockery endearing.”
“Oh no,” Bucky deadpans. “Whatever will I do.”
Priapus leans in, their noses brushing again. “If I weren’t already drunk on you, I’d be offended.”
“You’re always drunk.”
“Yes,” Priapus murmurs, mouth brushing the corner of Bucky’s. “But not always on you.”
The silence that follows is thick and silken. Not heavy. Intimate. Priapus’s fingers sketch idle loops over Bucky’s ribs, like he’s memorising the shape of him. The vines have begun to settle, curling softly into slumber, and a nightbird trills somewhere above them, unseen.
Bucky finally breaks the hush, voice low. “You ever do this with anyone else?”
Priapus glances up, brows raised. “Tangle in fig-strewn alcoves and kiss until the moon blushes?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Of course,” Priapus says, grinning. Then, a second later, softer: “But not like this.”
Bucky’s lashes lower. “No?”
“No,” the god says, all mischief gone suddenly still. “You’re not a passing fancy. You’re a full harvest. A once-in-an-equinox storm. I may joke, sweetheart, but I know the difference.”
Bucky swallows. “That was almost poetic.”
“I can be, when I’m not busy flirting with peaches.”
That earns him a low chuckle. “Do you flirt with all produce?”
“Only the succulent ones.”
“So I’m produce now.”
“Darling,” Priapus purrs, tipping his head to kiss along Bucky’s collarbone. “You are my entire orchard.”
Bucky groans into the back of his hand, laughing, face flushed. “You’re quite the charmer.”
“And you’re irresistible. It’s a problem.”
They stay there a while longer. Bodies relaxed, breaths syncing, the quiet holding them like warm earth. No rush. No questions.
Just moonlight, fruit-stained fingers, and the low thrum of something delicious growing between them.
*
Zemo unlocks the front door with a soft click, stepping inside and immediately sensing that something is different. The light is strange for a start. Filtered, green-gold, warm as late summer wine. And there’s a scent in the air. Ripened figs. Crushed herbs. Something wilder.
He glances toward the garden doors. Which are flung wide open.
He walks over and steps out. Stops and stares.
The garden is enormous. Verdant. Abundant. Overgrown in the most curated, sensual way. Vines curl like invitation. Blossoms tremble in the breeze, heavy with fragrance. Fruit trees that did not exist this morning now lean lazily in the sun, bearing gifts of pomegranate, peach, and velvet-skinned plums. There are silks draped between trees. Laughter floats on the air.
Zemo, never one to be rattled, moves forward through all the lushness.
He clears his throat politely as he passes a pair of lovers tangled in a hammock. “Excuse me.”
A strange man dozes in a patch of mint, wearing only laurels and a smile. “Pardon me,” he murmurs, going past.
Another figure giggles to his left, nude but for an artfully placed leaf. A silken garment falls from her hand to the ground. Zemo arches a brow. He says, “You appear to have dropped your robe.” But there is no response. Just more music.
“James?” he calls, strolling deeper into the Elysian maze. “What has happened to the garden? It’s truly magnificent.” He passes under a resplendent hanging vine. “I know you have supersoldier speed, but this seems excessive, even for you.”
There is no answer.
“Also,” he adds wryly, brushing past a lemon tree bearing suspiciously heart-shaped fruit, “did I miss the invitation?”
From somewhere deeper comes a recognisable voice: “In here, Hel.”
Zemo follows the sound, ducking through a curtain of leafy green willow branches, and there, in a shaded alcove, is Bucky. He lounges with artful dishevelment, limbs sprawled on a bed of moss, a wine glass tipped near his knee. And beside him is the cause of this summer-drenched mayhem: Priapus himself. Bare-chested, sun-kissed, very much at home, his arm draped over Bucky’s stomach like it’s his favourite lounging spot.
Zemo pauses. Takes in the tableau.
Bucky is flushed, radiant, unhurried. He gives Zemo a look that’s pure mischief tempered with affection.
Zemo hums. “And who, pray tell, is this?”
Priapus sits up like he’s been summoned by fanfare. “Priapus,” he says grandly. “God of fertility. Protector of gardens. Patron of lovers. Purveyor of pleasure.”
“Well met,” says Zemo smoothly, loosening his cravat.
“Come and join us,” says Priapus, patting the soft green moss by his side.
Bucky smirks. “Surprised?”
“Not even slightly,” Zemo replies, removing his jacket with practiced grace. “James, you positively glow. It would seem churlish not to join the cause of your joy.”
Priapus leans back on his elbows, grinning like the cat who seduced both the canary and the moon. “Now this,” he purrs, “is a party.”
Zemo slides onto the moss beside them, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s cheek and receiving a lazy smile in return.
“Oh, good,” Bucky murmurs, content. “Now everything is perfect.”
And under the low-hanging boughs, beneath fruit heavy with sweetness and the hush of coming twilight, they let the moment stretch. Glorious. Shameless. Divine.
*
The garden is quieter now. Golden morning light pools through the open doors, catching on gauze curtains that sway like breath. The riotous green of yesterday’s indulgence still sprawls beyond the threshold, but it’s softened now, as though the whole place is sighing.
Inside, the kitchen is a scene of gentle chaos. A bowl of half-eaten peaches. One fig sliced precisely in half, left abandoned next to a silver butter knife. Someone’s sandal, just one, is on the countertop. Two wine glasses are tipped together like they’re conspiring.
Bucky is barefoot. Wearing one of Zemo’s robes. It’s far too nice a robe for just for breakfast: velvet, embroidered, rich as port wine and falling open in a way that would make any god feel underdressed.
He leans against the kitchen island, holding a piece of toast with something scandalously sweet and sticky on it, licking it off his fingers while reading a note written in a looping, flower-strewn hand. There's a peach pit on the counter beside it.
“My dear, darling mortals,
You were divine. Thank you for letting me pollinate your garden. Until next bloom, P.”
Zemo enters with deliberate grace, fully dressed and immaculate, but with the faintest, unmistakable smudge of fig juice at the corner of his mouth. He sees Bucky, robe and all, and pauses.
“You know,” Zemo says dryly, “I only ever wear that robe after diplomatic functions and very expensive disappointments.”
Bucky smirks. “Well, this was kind of both.”
Zemo makes a pleased sound in his throat and steps past to pour himself tea. He doesn’t need to ask if Priapus is gone. He feels it. The god left with the dawn, trailing laughter and the scent of crushed thyme.
“Everything seems relatively intact,” Zemo notes, surveying the room. “Although I believe the basil has begun to flirt with the rosemary.”
Bucky lifts a shoulder. “They’ll figure it out.”
They sip in companionable silence. Outside, a vine shyly opens a new blossom.
“James,” Zemo says, turning to face him fully, voice low and precise, “what exactly did you plant outside the kitchen window?”
Bucky grins around another bite of toast. “I dunno. Something Priapus gave me. Said it only blooms when you say something filthy near it.”
Zemo blinks. “I’m not testing that.”
“Suit yourself,” Bucky says, then, sotto voce: “Thighs.”
There’s a rustle. A bloom. Something unfurls in shimmering crimson.
Zemo sighs deeply. “We are never hosting another god again.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“Oh, but I do.”
Bucky just tosses the toast crust into his mouth and wanders toward the garden again, robe trailing, light catching in the scars on his shoulder like constellations.
Zemo watches him go. Then follows. Because the garden may be unruly now, and the mornings may come with unexpected floral exhibitions, and sometimes the god of fertility may sleep in your moss-lined alcove. But the tea is pleasant, the sun is sweet, and Bucky Barnes, wrapped in stolen velvet and still sticky from jam, just smiled at him like he’s the only thing blooming that matters.
And Zemo? He’ll water that garden daily.
*
The sun is inching higher, burning off the last of the morning haze, and the garden is absolutely thriving under the leftovers of divine mischief. Bees buzz like tiny drunkards from bloom to bloom. Vines keep trying to twine around anything that lingers. That lemon tree is still bearing its heart-shaped fruit.
Bucky wanders barefoot through it all, half-dressed and fully content. The velvet robe has been traded for an old tank top and some worn linen trousers, rolled up at the ankles. He looks like a half-domesticated god himself. All sleep-ruffled hair, a sun-kissed shoulder, a purple smudge near his collarbone that might be a fig stain.
Zemo, naturally, is tucked under the pergola with a book, trying to pretend he isn’t watching Bucky.
“Are you staring?” Bucky calls without looking.
Zemo turns a page. “I’m observing.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?”
“I’m collecting data. You seem intent on testing how many layers of clothing you can lose before the garden declares you part of its ecosystem.”
Bucky bites a grape off the bunch he’s just plucked from an over-eager vine and ambles over, hips loose, grin wicked. “So far, it’s letting me stay.”
Zemo arches a brow but doesn’t look up.
Then Bucky stops, cocks his head, and grins wider. “You haven’t seen this yet, have you?”
Zemo finally glances over the top of the page.
There is a hammock. It is strung between two slender, suspiciously new trees, their trunks gleaming and smooth, their leaves dusted with golden pollen. The hammock itself looks woven from moonlight and mischief. Fine silken threads, suspicious embroidery, and a few tassels that might be winking in the sun.
Zemo narrows his eyes. “Did he leave you that?”
“Who, Priapus?” Bucky asks, climbing in and wiggling until he’s lounging like a man on a wine-dark sea. “Nah. Found just it. Might’ve grown overnight.”
Zemo stares. The thing is swaying ever so slightly, all golden light and long lines of Bucky's thigh. It makes his book feel extremely uninteresting.
Bucky tilts his head. “You coming?”
“There’s only room for one.”
Bucky spreads his legs just enough to be inviting.
Zemo is up in a single fluid motion. He does not scramble, he slides. He does not trip, he adjusts. And somehow, somehow, they end up tangled together in the swaying hammock, Bucky’s arm behind Zemo’s head, Zemo’s leg over Bucky’s hip, the two of them suspended in a very precarious equilibrium of smugness and proximity.
“Well,” Zemo says dryly, “this is incredibly impractical.”
“You love it.”
“I find it mildly tolerable.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am warm.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m being polite.”
Bucky leans in and murmurs against his jaw, “You’re mine.”
Zemo exhales slowly. “And you are very smug about it.”
“I could get smugger.”
A tassel brushes against Zemo’s knee. The whole hammock sways slightly more. Somewhere, a flower blooms in the exact shade of Zemo’s blush.
They lie like that for a while, sun filtering through the vines, breeze making the silken threads creak softly. Zemo’s book lies forgotten on the grass. Bucky feeds him grapes without comment. A butterfly lands on Zemo’s ankle and refuses to leave.
“Do you think the hammock’s cursed?” Zemo murmurs, half-asleep.
Bucky shrugs. “If it is, it’s the best curse I’ve ever had.”
Zemo hums in agreement and nuzzles closer, letting himself be wrapped in the lazy sprawl of a man who once tore the world apart, and now hums softly when the breeze touches his bare stomach.
The garden watches. And approves.
*
Zemo isn’t sure when Bucky falls asleep. One moment, they’re tangled together in the hammock, swaying gently, still trading lazy jabs and stolen kisses. The next, Bucky’s breathing has evened out. His hand has grown warm and heavy on Zemo’s waist, and his hair is tousled in a way that suggests dreams have started tugging gently at the edges of him.
The garden hushes, like it’s holding its breath.
Zemo shifts just enough to see him better.
His soldier - his storm-swept, starlit, soil-smudged soldier - has gone soft in the afternoon warmth. The sunlight paints faint gold along the line of his throat, kisses the curve of his cheekbone, limns every scar with reverence. A vine curls shyly toward his shoulder and doesn’t quite dare to touch.
Zemo doesn't move. He barely breathes. There’s something about watching Bucky sleep that feels sacred.
Not in the way of temples or offerings, but in the hush-before-music sense. In the way a book opens to a perfect line you didn’t know you needed. Like standing in a room you’ve only ever seen in dreams.
He brushes a thumb along Bucky’s wrist, slow and careful. So warm.
It occurs to him, softly, absurdly, that he could stay like this. That the sun could sink, and the garden could bloom right over them, and he wouldn’t mind. That, for all his polished edges and trained control, he is hopelessly, helplessly, delightedly caught.
A faint murmur stirs from Bucky. His nose wrinkles. He nuzzles closer, pressing his face into Zemo’s neck and mumbling something sleep-thick and indecipherable.
Zemo smiles. Actually smiles. Slow and private.
He glances at the garden, at the half-plucked grapevine, the soft sprawl of discarded robes, the plate of figs that someone left out that has now attracted three lazy bees and a single ambitious snail.
It is, without question, an utterly ridiculous scene. It is also his.
Bucky shifts again, blinking once, sleep-blurred and slow, and mumbles, “Hey.”
Zemo hums. “Hallo, James.”
“Was I snoring?”
“A little,” Zemo lies. “Like a war hero wrapped in contentment.”
Bucky snorts against his skin. “You’re lucky I’m too warm and sleepy to argue with that.”
Zemo threads his fingers into Bucky’s hair. “I’m lucky, full stop.”
Bucky tilts his face up, half-smiling, eyes heavy with affection and heat. “I think the hammock likes you.”
“I am European,” Zemo says gravely. “Furniture tends to find me charming.”
Bucky laughs. Soft and low and full of love.
The garden breathes with them. Afternoon light spills on skin, and silk rustles in time with hearts, and for a long, quiet moment, the world doesn’t ask anything more of them than this.
*
The table under the arbor looks like something out of a painting.
Sun-dappled and linen-draped, scattered with wildflowers in jars and bowls of fruit that look stolen from myth. The plates are mismatched in that very deliberate, aesthetic way, and the wine is amber and chilled, already beading with condensation in cut-glass goblets.
Someone, probably Priapus, has braided herbs and grapevines into the trellises overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a flute is playing something languid and teasing, and the cicadas are beginning their soft-click chorus like the night is stretching, yawning, and getting ready to flirt.
Bucky arrives first. He’s barefoot again, hair still mussed from the hammock, sleeves rolled up and linen shirt half-buttoned like an afterthought. He looks utterly at ease. A little sun-kissed. A little smug.
He pours himself a glass of wine, pops a date into his mouth, and leans on the table with both elbows like this is his summer estate and not some divine accident.
Zemo, of course, arrives fully composed. Collared shirt. Slacks. Loafers. He takes one look at the rustic perfection of the table, and at Bucky, barefoot and beaming, and sighs in that long-suffering, low-key enchanted way he has.
“You’ve seduced the entire season,” he says, sitting down. “The garden is in love with you. I may sue for emotional damages.”
Bucky grins. “I’ll let you pick the court. But I get to call character witnesses.”
“I imagine they’ll all be barefoot and scandalously unhelpful.”
A third plate is set. They both glance toward the villa.
“I give him two minutes,” Bucky says, chewing another date.
“Three,” Zemo counters, pouring his wine.
Priapus arrives in forty-five seconds, draped in something that might have once been a tunic but now qualifies as a suggestion. His curls are wilder, his smile broader, and he’s holding a plate of strawberries like an offering to some mischievous altar.
“Darlings,” he purrs, sliding in beside them with no regard for personal space. “What a deliciously unguarded evening. I do hope you’ve saved room.”
“I suspect the menu is mostly fruit and innuendo,” Zemo murmurs.
“Guilty,” Priapus says, plucking a cherry from a bowl and dangling it over Bucky’s mouth. “You’ll find I specialise in both.”
Bucky eats it without blinking.
Zemo adjusts his collar.
The wine flows. The sun droops. The laughter builds like a soft wave. They eat with their fingers. Tearing bread, feeding each other berries, wiping juice from mouths without pretense. Plates are pushed aside. Chairs are forgotten. Someone’s feet end up in someone else’s lap.
At one point, Bucky leans in to Zemo, wine-sweet and shining-eyed, and says, “This is definitely the weirdest dinner I’ve ever had.”
Zemo just murmurs, “And yet, I’ve never been more well-fed.”
Priapus raises his glass. “To gardens. And growing things. And men who bloom where they’re most unexpected.”
The candles burn lower. The stars blink awake. And beneath the arbor, with fruit-stained fingers and heat behind their eyes, three very different hearts beat in lush, chaotic harmony.
*
The garden at night is another world entirely. The lanterns sway low, casting golden pools over ivy and wine-dark roses. The cicadas have given way to crickets now, and somewhere, a nightbird sings. A song like a dare. The shadows are long and perfumed. The moon drips like silver honey through the arbor beams.
Zemo is the last to rise from the table, always elegant in retreat. He’s wiping his hands with a linen napkin, unhurried, and the candlelight dances across his cheekbones like it’s in love.
“You’re lingering,” Bucky murmurs, voice low and a little wine-heavy.
“I’m cultivating mystery,” Zemo says, turning slowly.
“You’re gonna get dragged into the hedges,” Bucky replies, eyes glinting.
Zemo’s smirk says perhaps that’s what I’m hoping for.
And then Priapus is there, gliding behind them like temptation incarnate, wrapping one arm around each man’s waist. “Why linger at the table when the garden is ripe?” he whispers, all sin and sunlight held over for moonlight mischief. “Come. I’ve found a spot. With jasmine. And shade. And vines for privacy.”
The walk is short, stolen from time. Bare feet in dew-wet grass. The occasional gasp of cool night air against skin warmed by wine and want. The garden parts for them, most obligingly, and the shadows lean in like voyeurs.
They end up in a little hollow beneath a riot of starflowers and climbing vines, half-sheltered and wholly wicked.
Bucky presses Zemo back first, gently, but with intent, against a pillar coiled with honeysuckle. Their mouths meet in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, tasting of cherry and want. Zemo hums into it, the sound half-protest, half-surrender.
Then Priapus joins them, all warmth and worship, trailing fingers down arms and slipping in between like silk through fingertips. “So much restraint,” he murmurs, mouth at Zemo’s throat, hands at Bucky’s waist. “I do admire it. Until it snaps.”
The breath catches. A laugh bubbles. Someone’s shirt is undone without ceremony.
And somewhere between kisses, between Zemo's half-sighed "this is wildly improper" and Bucky’s growled "good", the vines rustle, the moonlight sharpens, and the world folds in around them like velvet.
There’s no rush. Just hands. Just mouths. Just heat rising in a pocket of shadow where the rules don’t quite reach, and the stars don't quite blink fast enough to catch the scandal.
They don’t emerge until the candles are low and the breeze is thick with jasmine.
Zemo’s hair is tousled. Bucky’s shirt is buttoned wrong. Priapus looks positively smug.
No one says a word.
But later, when they pass back beneath the arbor and Bucky catches Zemo looking a little flushed, a little debauched, he leans in and murmurs, “Still cultivating mystery?”
Zemo lifts his wineglass to hide the smile. “You have no idea.”
*
The garden has quieted, drunk on moonlight and the press of bare feet and whispered scandal. Their intimate dinner party is over, but the night is not.
They find themselves on the terrace, overlooking the lush, fragrant sprawl below. Everything is wrapped in silver-blue. The stars blink lazily, as if they, too, are indulging in one last glass before surrendering to dawn.
There’s a bottle of something dark and sweet, fig and plum, rich with summer. Zemo uncorks it with deft fingers, pours into three crystal glasses, and hands them out like a ceremony.
“To excessive bloom,” Bucky says, raising his glass with a smirk.
“To scandalous fruit,” Priapus adds, already lounging back in the cushions like a satisfied cat.
Zemo clinks his glass to theirs with a low, elegant hum. “To not being invited, and attending anyway.”
They drink. The wine is warm and thick, like dusk melted into sugar.
Bucky ends up leaning into Zemo’s side, fingers brushing lazily over his knee, thumb circling in idle loops. Zemo lets his head fall back against Bucky’s shoulder. Priapus stretches like a painting at the other end of the bench, feet bare, one leg slung over the armrest, eyes soft and bright.
No one speaks for a long time. It’s not necessary.
But then, in the hush between wind in the vines and a distant owl’s cry, Priapus murmurs, “You know, I could stay.”
Zemo arches an eyebrow without lifting his head. “You have stayed.”
“I mean longer.” Priapus doesn’t look away. “This garden. This company. It suits me.”
Bucky glances at Zemo. There’s a flicker of surprise. Of consideration.
Zemo swirls the wine in his glass, thoughtful. “I suspect,” he says at last, “we’ll never quite return to how it was before.”
Priapus grins. “Good. That was boring.”
They laugh. Quiet, warm, honest.
Bucky’s hand finds Zemo’s again. Zemo lets their fingers interlace.
Above them, the moon climbs a little higher. Below, the jasmine breathes slow.
And there, in the soft press of skin and starlight, the night folds gently in. Mischief now a memory, and what’s left is just them. Tangled in comfort, wrapped in warmth, and held in the hush between one breath and the next.
And maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will bloom even wilder.
***