Chapter Text
It was strange how little things changed in the Crossroads after Icarus, Melinoë, and Moros returned from their adventures. It seemed like everything should be different after all that had happened and what had passed between the three of them. But Odysseus still muttered over his papers, Nemesis stood guard, and Eris would pop in and out to annoy everyone. Moros kept his vigil by the list of fated prophecies, and Melinoë was forever rushing too and fro, making reports and then dashing off to complete her task.
That was how things appeared on the surface, at least. What was new was the pleasant, simmering tension that started in Icarus's belly every time he landed in the crossroads. Melinoë had been kind enough to set him up with a workbench near her garden, and from there he could glance across and catch sight of Moros's gleaming silver hair and amethyst eyes. Memories would fill his form with the kind of warmth shades rarely got to experience, but that he had been very privileged to indulge in, of late. So he would sit, stealing glances between daydreams and hope that Moros would decide to make his way over for a visit.
He could just go over there himself, and no one would think anything of it. He'd sat with Moros more than once, to wait for Melinoë to return in those days before they had all decided to really try to be together. From there, it would be so easy to just lean in and whisper in the god's ear, or run a thumbnail hard down the back of Moros's calf, a teasing promise of what they might share later. Icarus could imagine what would happen if he did - Moros's closed eyes, the sharp intake of breath that it would provoke, and then the light shiver that might make its way through the god's body. They would then make their way somewhere private, the mossy glade not far away where Melinoë kept blankets ready for them all, or even some place more remote. He could take to the air, and Moros would find him wherever he landed. Moros had been the one to guide him to the underworld when his mortal life had ended, and as such could find his shade now whenever he chose. Their connection had grown even deeper since, as Moros shared his breath and power with Icarus to allow him to take solid form.
But he didn't go over, and he didn't know why. It wasn't as if their relationship was secret from others in the crossroads. After the first time Melinoë gathered them both up with her eyes, leading them to their mossy glade, there could not have been any doubt to anyone there that they all three were together. Odysseus had even given him a hearty clap on the back and a low whistle some time after they had all returned.
"Two at once, my boy. I must say I'm impressed. I only ever managed to catch the attention of one immortal at a time. My condolences."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Icarus had asked.
"For your free will, of course. If my experience is any judge, very few of your decisions will be your own for a good while." Odysseus had replied, stroking his chin in that knowing way of his, "Even when they don't mean to be, the gods can be rather... overbearing with us mortals."
Icarus could not remember what he'd said in response. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded in concealing his irritation. Moros and Melinoë weren't like that with him. Melinoë could be quite bossy when she chose, but that was just who she was, not some function of her immortality and power. Moros was a different story altogether. When they had all been together last, he had been almost eager for direction, doing exactly as Icarus had asked at every turn.
But clearly, something Odysseus had said had gotten to him, because he was sitting here, all the way across the crossroads, fixing his wings and pining like a lovesick teenager. He yanked on a bent brass pin, with a little more force than was strictly necessary. It put him off balance and knocked the wing he was working on to the ground in a clatter of metal and cloth. He cursed.
"May I assist?" He looked up. Sometime in all that brooding, Moros had made his way over to the little workshop without his noticing. Icarus was struck again with just how beautiful the god was, from the finely carved planes of his face, to the elegant way his arm met his shoulder or how his chest tapered down to his waist.
"It's alright, won't take me more than a moment to set back up," He replied without thinking. Moros tucked his hands behind his back, and his face settled into its most neutral expression.
"Oh. I suppose I should leave you to it then," he said, and Icarus realized Moros thought his dismissal meant that he wasn't wanted.
"Stay," He blurted, before Moros could move away, "If you like, I mean, I could use the company. It's been lonely over here in this corner lately." He winced internally at his awkwardness. He pointedly did not look at Nemesis or Odysseus. Moros's expression relaxed, and Icarus cleared away a spot among the chaos for Moros to stand. The little workshop space was slightly crowded for two, especially when his wings were spread out like this, but he couldn't say he minded closeness.
"What are you doing?" Moros asked as Icarus bent to retrieve the brass pin from where it had clattered to the ground.
"I clipped a ship's mast out on the strait during my last flight. Normally, it's not a problem, but the left altitude regulator started sticking, so I'm taking it apart to see what's broken. It might just be the pin, but I'll have to go through the whole mechanism to make sure." He said, pointing at the relevant parts as he went. To his surprise, Moros was following the explanation closely.
"I had thought they were constructed with magic. But they are clearly much more mechanical in nature than I had supposed," Moros said admiringly.
"There's magic in there," He admitted, "Some to make the materials lighter, and this bit here to help with vertical take off." Icarus then found himself going over more details of the wings' construction. Moros nodded along and asked questions as he explained. That led to even more explanations, and he even started handing over pieces for Moros to examine for himself. At one point, he caught Odysseus glancing over, the shade's eyebrows raised practically up to his hairline. Icarus chose to ignore it. He was enjoying himself. Not only had he found a receptive audience in Moros, but he also got to feel the tantalizing warmth of Moros's nearness. He handed Moros another piece, just so their hands would touch again and the shiver of pleasure it caused him. It was ridiculous, how he felt, from just this barest brush of fingers. They had been so much more intimate than that. But not alone, together, without Melinoë in between, since they had left the fate's domain.
It took him twice as long to fix his wings this way, but he couldn't regret a moment.
"Now that's all that is left is a test flight to make sure everything is working and expected," He said, and began to pick up the leather harnesses he used to strap his wings on to his back.
"Oh..." Moros trailed off, catching Icarus's attention.
"What is it?"
"I had hoped, perhaps... But no. Testing is important for your safety," Moros said, assuming the somewhat stiffened posture he did when bracing himself for rejection.
"It can wait," Icarus announced, dropping the harnesses right away. When Moros didn't respond right away, he added, "What did you want?"
"I had wondered if you would perhaps consider spending some more time... With me." Moros cleared his throat and turned his head, so that Icarus could only see his expression through the curtain of hair that draped in strands over his antlered headdress. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a hint of purple blush there.
"Here, or somewhere more private, perhaps?" Icarus asked, keeping his tone deliberately light, as if the answer either way did not matter to him.
"I believe some privacy is in order," Moros said, and now Icarus knew for sure Moros was trying to hide a blush.
"Give me ten minutes to finish cleaning up. I'll meet you in the mossy glade." He announced, indicating the little clearing in the wood where he, Melinoë and Moros had most often gone together when they wanted privacy.
Moros nodded gravely and vanished in a swirl of misty smoke. Icarus then proceeded to do the worst job he had ever done cleaning up his workshop. Only a long ingrained habit, instilled by his father, kept him from just abandoning his tools where they lay and following after Moros. But he'd been taught to always respect his tools, so he took the time to ensure every single one went back in its proper place. He debated between donning his newly fixed wings so he could fly there faster or just making his way on foot. He decided eventually to leave them behind. If he put them on now, he'd have to take them off again when he landed, which would take far too long.
He waited until he was out of the eye line of the crossroad's most prominent residents before picking up his pace, moving as quickly as was practical for him. He could phase through solid objects if he really wanted to, but it wasn't an experience he particularly enjoyed. So he stuck to the paths he knew, making his way to the place Moros waited.
He arrived to see Moros standing in the centre of the glade, standing perfectly still, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. It glittered off his silver hair. If there was breath in his body, he would have lost it. Icarus suddenly felt shabby in comparison. How was it that a being this overworldly could ever want him?
Then Moros caught sight of him and smiled, a real smile, the one he only seemed to share with one other person. The anxiety melted away as if it had never existed.
"Hi," He said, for lack of anything else.
"Hello," Moros said in return, still smiling. There was so much he wanted to say then, about how he'd missed that smile, how watching across the crossroads had been torture, and how lovely Moros looked in the moonlight. But none of that seemed to matter anymore.
"Can I kiss you?" He asked.
"Please do," Moros responded, and Icarus crossed the distance between them in a few short steps. Then he was wrapped up in Moros's warmth, hands buried in his silver hair, kissing him. As a shade, Moros was one of the few beings in the world he could touch fully like this. To him, Moros felt warm and vital, whereas almost all others, even Melinoë, were more whispers of presence. Moros had explained, once, that his role as Psycopomp, or guide of the dead, allowed him to interact with shades as if they were living beings. Melinoë, despite her underworld heritage, was not a god of death in the way that Moros was.
But they had found ways around it, as a group. Melinoë had gifted him a concoction that would return his mortal form for the span of a night, and had promised him she would try to think of a way to make it last longer. But far easier than Melinoë's potions was Moros himself, who had once gifted Icarus much of his power in the form of his breath, and could do it again whenever he chose. He still was not quite comfortable with it. It seemed wrong that Icarus should borrow the power of a god just so that he could touch, and be touched in return. But since that first, disastrous incident, Moros had been careful to only lend a little at a time, no more than a few hours.
"May I?" Moros asked, and Icarus knew he was asking permission to share a breath of power again.
"It's just us, so you don't have to," He said, "I can touch you, feel you," and then he suited his actions to his words, trailing his fingers down Moros's broad chest.
"Yes, but you feel more when you are wrapped in your mortal form," Moros said, "I want you to feel more." Icarus had nothing to say to that, so he nodded his consent. Then he had to brace as Moros kissed life into him once more. The first time Moros had done this, he'd been unconscious for hours. Now, he only felt weak in the knees as the breath entered him, filling his form with life, brightness and almost overwhelming sensation. When he had his bearings again, he found they were on the ground, and he was settled firmly in Moros's lap, the god's arms around him to keep him steady. He put his hands over the muscles of Moros's chest and breathed in deep. Moss, damp earth, and the scent that belonged only to Moros, an electric, clean, ozone smell that reminded him of the wind at the highest heights. He closed his eyes to better commit it all to memory. Shades were made of nothing but memory. He wanted to make this moment a part of him, something he could hold onto even when time or circumstance pulled them apart.
Moros put his hand alongside his face and tilted it upwards. Icarus opened his eyes to see Moro's concerned look and smiled at him.
"You're alright?" Moros asked, "I do not wish to proceed too quickly," he said.
"You aren't," Icarus declared, and leaned in so he could meet Moros's lips again. He already felt steadier, and rose to his knees so he could tilt Moros' head backwards as they kissed, one hand tangled in his hair. When he broke away for air, Moros made a lovely picture for him, with his lips parted and his long, beautiful throat exposed.
"Is there anything you want today?" He asked. He hadn't come here with a plan, but he was in the mood to be accommodating. Moros's hands twitched from where they lay against the back of his thighs, and his eyes fluttered shut, a sure sign he was working his way up to a request. They were working on getting Moros to verbalize his desires. It seemed he wasn't used to asking for anything at all, let alone things he wanted. But whenever he did, he and Melinoë had been certain to reward him handsomely for it. His newly returned heart started to beat faster in his chest in anticipation. So far, he had been completely unable to predict the requests. They had been fairly mild so far, mostly relating to things they had all done before, but Moros was slowly getting bolder.
"... There was an offer made. Or perhaps better to say, implied by you." Moros said, finally. Icarus could only raise an eyebrow at him.
"Alright?" He said slowly, "You're going to have to be a bit more specific." Moros still hadn't opened his eyes.
"It was in the bath house, the first time we - " He said, and cut himself off, a blush stealing his words. Icarus puzzled over that a moment before the memory snapped back to him, as vividly as if it had happened yesterday.
He was caught between them, Melinoë in front, and Moros behind. Moros's strong thighs bracketed him to either side, supporting and pinning him in place. At Melinoë's request, Moros had pinned his hands, holding them flat against those same strong thighs. It meant there was nowhere to go but to push harder against Moros when Melinoë put her mouth on his cock. She was all wet heat, almost too overwhelming for his freshly awoken senses. Behind, he could feel the heat of Moros's body, and more urgently, the hard length of Moros's own member, pressed against the small of his back. Moros didn't move, but Icarus was moving enough for the both of them, writhing under Melinoë's ministrations. He could feel the slide of Moros's hot cock on his back and between the cheeks of his ass. Gods, was he about to have them both, here and now? It wouldn't take much, just a little shift, and then Moros would be in the perfect position to push that cock into him, stretch and fill him up while Melinoë continued to suck...
The pleasure crested, and he choked out a warning that Melinoë ignored, smirking and swallowing him down deeper, forcing his hips up against Moros's hardness. His mind went blank for that moment, and he was left only with the thought that they could really do with some oil...
It was the first time the three of them had ever discussed being together, in the private bath house at the home of the fates, after he and Melinoë had finally found and rescued Moros from Chronos's curse. It was also the first time they had done anything even remotely sexual together. It hadn't gone any further in the bathhouse that day. Instead, they had moved to Moros's private rooms, where he and Icarus had ended up in a situation entirely reversed from Icarus's imaginings in the stone room.
"You asked if there was oil," Moros said, still blushing, "At the time I thought it meant you wanted... But if I was incorrect, I apologize."
Icarus blinked at him, still recovering from the memory.
"You want to fuck me?" He asked. It was so blunt that Moros finally looked at him, a little wide-eyed.
"I-yes," Moros said. Something nervous and giddy rose in his chest. He hadn't thought about the possibility, not since he had been the one inside Moros the first time they had been together. He should have. Just because his one relationship with a man back in his mortal life had only been one way didn't mean that they all had to be. He certainly didn't object to it. He distinctly remembered being a little disappointed that Moros hadn't decided to take him then and there on the cold bathhouse floor.
"Why?" He asked, before he could stop the paranoid part of his mind from voicing the thought.
"I wish to know if it is as pleasurable for you as it was for me." Moros said, "Is that not enough?"
"It's enough," He said, and kissed Moros, his own little apology. After all, he had resolved to reward the god whenever he managed to state his desires, and this was no different, if a little unexpected. This time Moros's hands wandered higher, up under his tunic, to his ass, where he massaged a little, just as Icarus had done the first time they'd been together. His stomach tightened in anticipation, and he let Moros tip him backwards onto the soft mossy ground.
It was only when Moros took off his kilt that Icarus remembered exactly what he was dealing with, and some of the anticipation converted to nerves. Moros was not small. In fact, "broad" or perhaps "substantial" or "just really huge" were better descriptors. But now that he had given his ascent, Moros was full steam ahead, and he already had one hand on Icarus's thigh, pushing it up and away, leaving him on full display. A smooth hand he couldn't see stroked down his leg to where it met his hip, and then, ever so gently, over the tight bundle of nerves of his arsehole. He almost jumped out of his skin at the unexpected sensation.
He should find something to bite. It would feel good eventually, he knew, but his mind was flooded with memories of the first time he had ever done this, back in his mortal life. He had been a naive seventeen-year-old, starved for touch and affection, laid flat on his back by one of the guards who kept him and his father imprisoned in that tower. The guard had been older, and bigger, and stronger, and still, at the time, he had only thought at the time what a relief it was to be touched, even if the penetration had come with pain and a discomfort that lingered for days.
He started to close his legs, almost involuntarily. Moros gently nipped the inside of his thigh
"I'll take care of you, Icarus, I promise," He said, still gently stroking. Icarus breathed out in an effort to banish the wayward memory. He wasn't that naive child anymore, and Moros was... well, he was himself, unique in this world.
"Just ... go slow," He responded.
"Of course," Moros said, smiling gently. Then he tilted Icarus's hips up and dipped his head between Icarus's thighs and licked. This really did send him out of his skin, a foreign hot wetness that alerted every nerve in his lower half all at once. Only Moros's strong grip kept him in place.
"You shouldn't -" he started to protest, but the words were cut off by another long lick that sizzled through his nerves, overriding his conscious thoughts. He could only curse helplessly as Moros continued, fighting not to squirm in his grasp. He knew in theory this was something people did, but no one had ever done it for him before, or asked it of him. He was halfway stuck between embarrassment, knowing what the god was doing between his thighs, and losing his mind to sensation. Sensation eventually won, and he gave in, stuffing his fist against his mouth to muffle the sounds he was making. When he finally stopped his squirming and started to move with Moros's mouth, the god moved his head away with a sound of pleased satisfaction.
"Don't stop now," Icarus said, a hair shy of begging,
"I won't," Moros promised, kissing the inside of his thigh, "This was just the start. I have considered this for many hours."
"Hours?" Icarus began to ask, but lost the will to pursue it as Moros pushed one finger into him. It went in easily, and pleased, Moros added a second immediately. Icarus buckled up into that hand.
"Slowly," he gasped as Moros started to work his fingers in and out, intent on Icarus's face as he did. Icarus realized then that Moros was adjusting his pace based on what he saw there. Moros must have seen right away when he hit upon the exact right spot inside, because he then went after it with dangerous precision. It was different than the pleasure or sensation of someone touching his cock. This was a kind of deep belly, whole body shudder that twitched and tweaked through him, making him feel fuzzy at the edges. He wasn't sure if this was a feeling he'd forgotten or one he'd never felt in the first place, because he was sure it had never been like this before. But he knew there was more, and that knowing made him feel reckless.
"I think you should fuck me now, My Lord," He said, and relished the little flash he saw in Moros's eyes. He never used formal titles with Moros anymore, except when he was making demands of Moros in bed. Something about it flipped a switch in their power dynamic, and even though he was on his back, Moros's focused attention made him feel more powerful than ever. Still, Moros hesitated.
"I don't want to cause you harm," Moros said, stilling his motions as he did, which Icarus did not want at all.
"That wasn't a request," he growled, and tugged at a lock of Moros's hair, pulling him in close enough that he could nip at Moros's neck, scraping his teeth across the sensitive skin there. Moros shuddered in response to that gentle pressure and the promise of pain it held.
"As you wish," Moros responded. "Tell me if I am hurting you," He murmured and pulled his fingers out of Icarus's body. Icarus watched greedily as Moros summoned a familiar bottle of oil and slicked his powerful cock with it. He arched his back so that Moros could pour more oil over his ass.
"Do it," He said, tone just shy of a command. By his command or by his own desire, Moros surged forward, lining his cock up with Icarus's ass, and he started to push. Icarus was immediately overwhelmed. It felt impossible that Moros was this big. He wouldn't fit. But he wanted this man, this god, to fit inside of him, to fit with him more than he wanted anything else in this world at that moment, so he would make it happen. He forced his body to relax, and in a moment, he felt the head of Moros's cock breach that ring of muscle. They both cried out as he did. Icarus didn't think he'd ever felt so full in his life, and Moros was not even all the way inside of him yet.
"Icarus," Moros called out his name, and Icarus reached out so that they could clasp their hands together.
"It's good, Moros, you're so good. Keep going, more." He urged, and Moros began to move, pushing in deeper, then retreating, starting up a steady rhythm that had them both gasping. Icarus curled up, and Moros moved with him, so he was now straddling the god's lap, Moros still deep inside him. He wrapped his arms around Moros's head and shoulders, so he could get their bodies closer together, so he could feel the heat from Moros's skin pressed into his, and set his teeth to the place where Moros's neck met his shoulder as the god continued to work his cock in and out of him. The feeling like he had lost all his edges began to intensify, the orgasm working its way from his centre out, until no part of him didn't shake with it. He dimly heard Moros call his name again, as the rhythm of his strokes faltered, but now he was only the feeling of fullness inside and of skin against skin.
He wasn't sure how long it was before his breathing evened out again, and he felt capable of movement. Moros had slipped his cock out at some point, but still held Icarus close, despite the splash of hot, sticky cum that he had splashed between their bodies. It was alright, they could wash later. Now, he just felt happy to soak in the feeling of having Moros all around him.
"We should do this more often. " He said, and Moro's arms tightened around him. From where he had his face still pressed against Moros's neck, so he couldn't see the god's expression but he thought it would be one of the softly stoic ones.
"I missed you," Moros said.
"So did I," He admitted.
"Why did you stay away?" Moros asked.
"I don't know. Pride. Stupidity. Got it in my head that I couldn't make the first move this time."
"I had begun to wonder if you had regrets, or if you were only tolerating me for Melinoë's sake," Moros said.
"What? Darkness's sake no. It's just that this is new. I don't know how to act. I've never had a relationship that wasn't a secret. I don't even know if this was supposed to be a secret, except of course that everybody already seems to know."
"Do they?" Moros asked, sounding genuinely curious.
"Odysseus keeps trying to give me advice." This made Moros chuckle, and Icarus could feel the little puffs of breath against his bare skin. He shifted, and he could feel Moros' cock stir between them. This was enough to bring his own back to life, even though it had not been long since he had last spent. He wasn't sure he could take Moros again so soon, but that didn't do much to quell the desire that had bubbled up in him. He tilted his head so he could capture Moros's mouth in another long, delicious kiss and reached down between their bodies.
It was easy then to take both of their cocks into his hand and stroke them together. He matched the rhythm of his strokes to the movement of their mouths, nipping and biting at Moros's lips, urging the god on until the pressure was unbearable, twitching and grinding another orgasm out of them both.
"Let's not stay apart again," he said, "I promise I'll come to see you more often. Not that I intend to shackle myself to your side, of course." He added, and Moros smiled.
"Would you have me shackle myself to you instead?" This was enough to make Icarus blush. But it did give him an idea....