Archive of Our Own ^beta

“My meeting ran late and you begin without me?” There’s a petulant note to Saint’s voice that makes Osiris give a breathy laugh, one that is cut off by a gasp when Shaxx slides another finger into him, the stretch of it sparking his mind in a way that makes his thoughts go distant for just a moment.

“We thought that you’d appreciate being able to jump right in,” Shaxx says, sly and cheerful. “And enjoy the view.”

Saint hums in appreciation. “Is good view, I cannot deny that.”

Considering Osiris is currently bent down on the bed supported on his elbows, hips canted into the air, cock already hard, he certainly hopes that it’s a good view.

He cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Saint. “Get over here.”

It’s a command, and he can see the lights at the exo’s throat pulse, like a human would gulp at similar treatment. He nods, and Osiris turns away as he gets his ghost to transmat away his armour and undersuit.

He hisses at the cool dribble of lube down over his hole, and Shaxx is not gentle as he slides four fingers into him again. Shaxx presses his weight down against Osiris’s back, and Osiris can feel him laugh. “Sometimes, Osiris, I imagine what the Iron Lords would think if they saw you like this,” he says in a low voice, the metal of his helmet pressed close against Osiris’s shoulders, “or do they already have experience?”

Osiris shudders beneath him, bites his lip to keep from moaning, but he thinks the way his cock twitches gives away how much he likes that sort of talk. Embarrassing perhaps, but he refuses to be ashamed over… over most things honestly, but especially not over enjoying Shaxx whispering filth and fantasy into his ear.

The bed dips as Saint climbs onto it. He manoeuvres himself so he can slide beneath Osiris, his strength supporting him as though he weighs nothing, and that just makes him harder. He ends up resting against Saint’s chest, one of the Titan’s legs pressed between his own, rubbing up against his cock while Shaxx fucks him with broad fingers. He might not survive at this rate.

Saint grips his chin, tilts his head up to kiss him. Osiris takes the distraction eagerly, tongue sliding into Saint’s mouth, over metal plates and plasteel and silicon, demanding his attention and affection and touch. Saint is happy to give it too, even if Osiris still isn’t sure why. He could have his pick of numerous willing partners; he’s an icon to the Titans and Warlocks and Hunters of the City, not to mention countless non-Guardians. And here he is, in Osiris’s bed, even when Osiris is at his most prickly and insufferable.

The Warlock is far too selfish to suggest that things be otherwise.

“You are very eager, Osiris,” Saint says against Osiris’s lips, the lights of his optics bright with amusement. “Are you so desperate to have me fuck you?”

Osiris regrets, briefly, that Saint doesn’t have lips that he can bite down on in rebuke. He settles for digging his fingers into the seam between some of the plates of his sides, pressing them against the softer material there, and watching Saint gasp and buck beneath him.

Shaxx laughs again, his grip tightening against Osiris’s hip. If he doesn’t have bruises later, he will be very disappointed. “I think that answers your questions. Now why don’t you make yourself useful, Saint?”

Saint gently bumps his forehead against Osiris’s, and cups his cheek, a moment of soft affection that makes Osiris’s heart beat faster, makes his mouth dry with emotion. It’s somehow a stronger reaction even than lust, and he fights against the urge to seal that feeling away, crush it down inside the depths of himself where it will never be found. It is a vulnerability, far more than the physicality of sex could ever be.

“Yes, Saint, why don’t you make yourself useful?” Osiris says, letting acid seep into his voice to cover up that gentler emotion.

“You are ganging up on me,” Saint says with mock offence, though he’s still grinning. “I thought we were supposed to be ganging up on Osiris.”

“That is the plan,” Shaxx says, exasperated, “but we can’t do that if you’re too busy staring dreamily into each others’ eyes.”

Osiris winces. For all Shaxx plays the typical Titan, more interested in combat than anything more subtle, he is terrifyingly astute, and good enough at the act that even Osiris keeps finding himself fooled.

Saint just laughs, a bright sound, joyous even. “I cannot help myself. He has very nice eyes, very deep lovely brown.”

The bastard winks at him.

“He is right here and would like to get fucked sometime before the heat-death of the universe,” Osiris says. It loses some of its effectiveness when Shaxx brushes a finger against a spot inside him that makes his breath stutter, and his brain short out briefly with pleasure, and the last word twists into a moan that he can’t suppress.

Saint reaches around and grabs his arse, pulling him further up. Osiris can feel the mingled cool of the metal of his body, and the heat of his breath and the air escaping his vents. He settles for running a hand down the back of Saint’s skull and neck, committing the lines of seams and joints to memory.

There’s a moment of emptiness as Shaxx withdraws his hand, and it’s followed by more lube which runs over his hole and drips down against his balls. Then a moment of pressure and-

Saint’s fingers are large, but surprisingly soft, the polymer of artificial skin filled with sensors that make him capable of great gentleness and feeling. Osiris knows; he has kissed the tip of every finger, wrapped his lips around them, seen Saint’s gaze go fuzzy with heat as he sucked them as though he was sucking his cock.

And now he presses them into Osiris’s arse, moving straight to two easily after Shaxx’s careful preparation. He crooks them inside his body, and Osiris squeezes his eyes shut, presses his face against the top of Saint’s head.

“You are eager,” Saint says, the words rumbling against Osiris’s skin.

“He practically dragged me in as soon as I arrived,” Shaxx says, warm amusement colouring his voice. “We must not be keeping him occupied enough.”

“I hate you,” Osiris hisses.

“The feeling is quite mutual, I assure you,” Shaxx says. The fondness in his voice brings back that flutter of emotion. It isn’t the same as with Saint. Saint is the sky and everything in it, a universe of discovery and wonder that he could explore for lifetimes and still it would not be enough. Shaxx is a wall against his back, a gun in his hand, and a trusted comrade taking the watch.

There’s another set of fingers that press in alongside Saint’s, Shaxx’s gloved ones. He thinks that one day he would like to touch Shaxx’s skin, or metal plates, but not enough to push for it. They’ve all earned their quirks, and their own forms of armour. Light knows Osiris has enough of his own. Shaxx’s is just more… literal than most.

The stretch starts to turn into an ache as the Titans continue to work him open, ease him wide and eager for them. They are frustratingly careful and he isn’t sure whether to love them for it, or hurl obscenities until they get on with it. He tries to grind his cock down against Saint’s belly, but Shaxx’s hand on his hip is an iron bar which keeps him still.

“Do you feel ready?” Saint asks finally, when Osiris is certain that there is more lube inside him than the tube could possibly have held.

“I’ve been ready since you arrived,” Osiris snaps, and then immediately feels a flash of guilt at the concern on Saint’s face. Some things had been easier before he came to the City, when he had been alone for the most part. Not caring enough to feel concern or guilt about potentially hurting other people had been one of them. Felwinter had never cared if he was blunt and ungentle in his speech, and full of jagged edges as like to cut himself as anyone else. Not as long as he could make his arguments and back them up.

But here? Surrounded by people who see him as a hero, a role-model? It’s hard. Sometimes excruciatingly so when everyone expects him to understand the right things to say, the right way to act, but no-one can explain to him what that is with any clarity. Most of them he can dismiss, but Saint?

He presses a kiss against Saint’s head in apology. “I’m ready,” he repeats more softly. “I won’t break.” He thinks about it for a moment and shrugs. “Or if I do, the worst that will happen is Sagira making fun of us for a few days.”

Saint runs a hand down his side, over his ribs, with a kind of gentleness that somehow hurts more than if the Titan had slammed bodily into him.

“If you are sure, my bird,” Saint says, and Osiris should hate such a foolish pet name, should feel mocked. But Saint says it with such sincerity and affection that it’s impossible to feel anything but cherished.

Fuck.

“I’m very sure,” he says, and at least he can outwardly still manage to appear to have his faculties and composure. Shaxx squeezes his hip, and he’s certain that somehow he knows the emotional struggle that Osiris is dealing with, and Osiris has no idea how.

Saint nods, kisses his shoulder, and then eases him down until the tip of Saint’s cock teases against his hole. “We will go slow.” His smile turns briefly wicked. “At least at first.”

Shaxx presses the tube of lubricant into Osiris’s hand. “Get him ready.”

He says it with the same tone he’d use commanding Guardians in the field, the one that brooks no argument, and Osiris hates it as much as it makes heat flood his body and his cock twitch in response.

One day, one day, he is going to tie Shaxx down and edge him until he begs for mercy.

But for now, he does actually want to get fucked, so he smears his fingers with lube, and Saint lets him move enough that he can wrap his hand around the Titan’s cock. He’s large in the sort of way that makes Osiris’s mouth water, and he’s never quite brought himself to ask if that’s normal for exos, or if there’s some sort of market for modifications. Saint probably doesn’t even know. Maybe one of the previous thirteen has it made custom. Whatever it was, Osiris is genuinely grateful.

He strokes him slowly, a little payback for the way they’ve prepared him, which makes the movement of glaciers seem speedy in comparison. He keeps his eyes on the way Saint’s optics flicker, the change in the pitch and tempo of his body’s many elaborate systems. He can’t imagine ever getting tired of seeing it.

“Enough,” Saint says after a few moments. His hands grab Osiris’s arse again, manhandling him into position and holding him open. He rubs the tip of his cock against him, and then slowly slides in, just the tip. It isn’t enough, not after how long the two of them have been tormenting him in preparation, but Saint’s grip is firm, keeping him from pushing down.

Then he just holds him there, until Osiris is vibrating with the need to be filled and fucked and used.

“Saint,” he manages to grind out, “if you don’t move soon I will-”

“Manners, my bird,” Saint says, and how he manages to sound so proper while wearing the most infuriating smile, Osiris doesn’t know.

He takes a breath, exhales. A breath, and exhale. He is alone in the void, and he absolutely will not use it to smother his lover to death.

Lover. Oh Light…

Now is not the time to dwell on it.

“Please,” he says, and it comes out more desperate than he’d hoped it would, because Traveller forbid he maintain any sort of dignity. “Please fuck me. Both of you.”

Once again, he feels the rumble of Shaxx’s laughter, sees Saint’s pleased and affectionate look. Both of them open and honest, nothing hidden, and why Titans? Why these two? Saint holding his heart and Shaxx guarding his back, and all the walls in the world can’t stand against a Titan determined to smash through them. He hates them.

He could never hate them.

“It will be our pleasure,” Shaxx says, the smugness pricking at Osiris’s pride. “Saint?”

Saint grins, and he snaps his hips up, thrusting hard into him with one movement that is perfect and all Osiris can do is cry out and dig his fingers into the synthetic muscle of Saint’s arms.

Saint strokes a hand down his back, and shifts him again so he’s pressed flat against Saint’s body. The width of the Titan’s body keeps his legs spread, his hole exposed as Shaxx leans over him. There’s the tug of one of Shaxx’s fingers against the rim of his arse as it slides inside and hooks, thick next to Saint’s cock. There’s a low burn from the stretch, one that creeps through Osiris’s mind as much as his body, the hint of pain slowing and softening the always barbed edges of his racing thoughts.

“Good?” Shaxx asks, his voice laced with genuine concern, not teasing this time.

Osiris nods, takes a moment to find the words that had seemed simple a few moments ago. “Yes. Very good.”

Shaxx takes him at his word, at least in this. He appreciates that about him.

There’s the feeling of weight shifting, Saint moving him again to perfect the angles, and then he feels the press of Shaxx’s cock begin to push into him. Saint groans beneath him, but Osiris focuses on the stretch, the ache, the fullness that could break him open as they start to move, rocking against him and into him and around him. Lets it blot out thought and emotion. Lets it blind him to prophecy and to the every spiralling and deadly game of Light and Darkness. For once, there is just Osiris, singular. No Warlock, no living weapon forged from Light and death. There is no point in the deep, just out of sight, urging him Delve Dive Deeper to inscrutable purpose.

There’s Saint beneath him, arms wrapped tight around him, Shaxx at his back, hand on his hip. Tethers. Anchors. Titans.

Home?

He’s aware of them, but distantly, even when they come, the tense and flex of muscle, of bodies against his own, even as they keep fucking into his willing body. Distant enough that he startles back to himself when Saint’s hand wraps around his cock and his focus narrows to that feeling now, the press of synth-skin against his flesh, the brightness of Saint’s eyes.

He comes hard, without even the grace or wit to muffle the cry that he makes as he spills over Saint’s hand and stomach, staining ancient shining metal with himself. Breath harsh and thick. Ache through his arse and thighs, his belly and back. Almost enough that he wishes they had broken him, shattered him with their strength. Ah, but resurrection removes those marks, those pains, and these he desperately wants to keep. Just for a while.

Shaxx slides out of him, and it’s relief and loss all at once. He settles down on the bed next to them. Saint rolls them both over so Shaxx can press up against Osiris’s back. Saint’s cock is still inside him, softening but still impossible to ignore. Not that Osiris would want to. He likes the feeling of it, like being claimed, though he’d never admit to desiring such a thing.

“That was excellent,” Shaxx says. It would sound sarcastic or trite from anyone else, but from Shaxx it can only be genuine enthusiasm.

Saint laughs, kisses Osiris’s temple and nuzzles there. Every shift of his body sends residual sparks of pleasure-pain-void through the Warlock, and he hums his agreement.

“Maybe I will find a toy that matches my cock,” Saint says, his voice low and teasing in a way that makes Osiris shiver. “Keep you filled with us all day, every movement a reminder. See you fight not to squirm in next Consensus meeting.”

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair, that Saint should be so genuine, so open and honest and good, and still be able to talk like that and make heat stir in Osiris again so soon after orgasm. There’s an illicit thrill to it too. Saint’s legend is such that he doubts most people would believe him capable of such talk. They’ll never get to experience how wicked Saint’s mind can be.

“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep,” Osiris mutters against his shoulder. “Either of you.”

Shaxx throws an arm over them both and shifts closer, so Osiris is held immobile between them and their strength. The most secure place in the world.

“We’re Titans, Osiris,” Shaxx says. “Our word is our bond and our honour.”

“He is right,” Saint says, and presses another kiss to Osiris’s skin. “Titan honour is a serious business.”

“Thank the Light for Titans then,” Osiris says. Or at least for his Titans. The wall at his back, the sky above him.