Bart's skintight ass in his amber-and-scarlet costume thrusts inches from Tim's nose.

For a moment, it just seems more tempting to bust open the top of the giant crate, to reveal their hiding place to Deadline rather than to admit that the inviting sight cramps Tim's jock.

Kon — seated down in the center of everything with arms planted to the crate's wood siding, with legs crooked open for the others to arrange themselves somehow for the past few minutes, and his boots planted up — lets out an disgruntled noise when Bart negligently plops his full weight on him and straight into Kon's lap. "You little-!"

Tim shushes him, his gauntlets pushing down on the only space free for them (Kon's bulgy, spandexed calves) and listens for any disturbances outside. Kon bids his time for when Tim's deepened, concentrating frown slackens into a more pensive frown before pointing out, smirking, "Dude, could you lay off the stroking for a bit?"

"Stop being immature."

Bart murmurs, inattentive to rising tension, scooting down further into the muscle mass that is Kon, "Hey, you're warmer than me. That's weird."

A dreamy sigh. "If only you had some breasts, Imp," Kon emphasizes this by running his large fingers over the front of Bart's chest and tweaking Bart's nipples through the leather costume.

Instead of slapping Kon's hands away, like really he should have done, Bart twists his neck to glare down at Kon. "—Kid Flash! It's-…" Another nipple tweak cuts him off. Kon's face doesn't change from its fiercely amused expression as a high-pitched noise escapes Bart's mouth and he wriggles helplessly in Kon's lap. Almost erotically. Except it's supposed to be Bart. Christ. Tim's jock.

"Now is not the time to fool around—"

Kon stops what he is doing, and even with the poor lighting, Tim can study the way blue eyes flash eerily in heightened cognition. "Accelerated heart rate, increase in blood pressure, and maybe it's just some sick and twisted wishful thinking on my part… but you're starting to gasp, Robs…" A suspicious, fascinated note. "Is this getting you off or somethin'?" Tim's heart continues to hammer away, disclosing his private and inviolable thoughts for Kon's ears, but prepares to tell him off anyway. Kon's fingers twist — possibly hard enough for mild bruising — and Bart's cry is softer accompanied by his hips bucking upwards, and Tim's reprimanding words end up getting turned around lost in the fog of his psyche now interested in the exposed, trembling arc of Bart's neck.

"Kon, stop it." Tim's throat feels dry and cottony. Tim's hands clench over Kon's calves painfully, painfully for the insides of them. Kon's hand travels down to rest greedy and lazy on the flat of Bart's stomach, and Tim doesn't know when Bart had moved in but… he's starting to get dizzy trying to focus through the Kid Flash cowl. The red, fleshy line of Bart's mouth separates.

"Even I can hear how you are breathing from over here…"

Heavy thudding. Footsteps. One of them in the crate sucks in air through their teeth. Tim's shoulders freeze in their hunched position. A collection of men's voices. Associated with Deadline? Friends or foes? No way to get out of the crate without outright announcing their presence to shut down the drug operation. Could probably even take them all out and make it out in one piece. Tim can make an educated guess based on the voices he could tell apart without Kon's help but considering the weapons the bad guys may have been toting… running out blind is definitely not an option.

He silently watches Kon's bare hands slide down to the hollow of Bart's hips — the action being intentional or not, Bart is about to react and Tim swallows that building moan by kissing him. Tongue just for added precaution. Keep him occupied. Best excuse he could have thought of. The men are right there, standing above them, distracted but there — Tim kneels down closer, carefully guiding his gauntlets up Kon's muscular legs and Kon's arms encircle his companions, yanking Tim nearly off his knees. Bart isn't tentative anymore about this, and Tim shivers when Bart's arms frisk the yellow underbelly of his cape to clasp Tim's waist snugly. Kon makes strangled, breathy groans against the nape of Bart's costumed neck because — oh, oh, shit — Bart vibrates between them, vibrates in a low but steady frequency, and even Bart's tongue is vibrating in Tim's mouth. He isn't going to last, if Bart keeps the occasional, unbalanced thrust, if Kon's fingers carry on with absently stroking the cleft of Tim's ass. It's a perverse inevitability (that Kon would have called "sick and twisted") and Tim prays for a miracle that his jock in his tights wouldn'y leak cum when they all can finally get free.

"TimTimTimKonitshard…—" Bart whines, and Kon roughly slams a hand over his mouth as Tim tries to catch his breath, pushing his face into a smaller, broad shoulder and gulping inaudibly.

So screwed. They are beyond screwed… but the men's voices above the crate don't respond. Distant banging and shouts. The footsteps return, this time leading away, and the voices disappear with some dirty swears. Bart vibrates harder in Kon's lap, fisting the Robin cape with all of his might, and his whines muffle into Kon's skin as his hips grind sharply against Tim's. The smell is immediate — of sweat accumulating through clothes and costumes, of fluids pungent and thick — and Tim mentally winces at the feeble pop of stitching on his cape's collar, of wetness collecting in his jock's cup.

He sucks a bit of blood from his bottom lip thoroughly chewed and fails at a cool composure, cheeks flushing, when Bart's eyes gaze up half-lidded and Kon smirks again in faint amusement.

To hell with it.


I do not own Teen Titans and its characters. Bwahaha. Turned out to be a lighter M-rating than I intended. Eh. And yep, Deadline is a real DC villian. Prompt came from DC_Kink: "Kon/Bart/Tim- OTP3 Sex and/or fondling in crate, please. Preferably on a mission, with the element of danger in being caught either by criminals or by other Superheroes."