#playing hooky

Jin glances over his shoulder and back at us from the driver’s seat. His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “You’ve needed this,” he says knowingly. “Just let it happen. Let us take care of you.”

“Yeah!”  Jungkook cheers, directly into my left ear. “Let us take care of you!”

“How is this taking care of us??” I exclaim, struggling angrily against Jungkook’s crushing strength. “Let me go!”

They know us too well.

Unlike patient and measured you, fiery and irritable me needs to be completely neutralized. And the perfect reckoning with my force is Jungkook’s citadel, his bulging limbs around my entire body. Hoodie arms silencing work-life-chic separates sleeves. Combat-booted toes looping into office-wear flats. Loud, bright singing over my streams-of-practical-consciousness.

“Our team! So many projects!” I whine. “Leadership presentation!” My elbows go nowhere. “Going! To! Get! Fired!!”

“By that sunflower seed-eating son-of-a-bitch,” you mutter. “We were training new starters today. They’re going to get eaten alive.”

Already mourning the loss of our jobs, and our brand new-coworkers, you shake your head.

Jimin seizes the opportunity to comb his fingers through your hair.

It’s all it takes to calm you down.

“You’re not going to get fired,” Yoongi says, swiveling around from the passenger seat. His eyes meet yours for acknowledgment, and when he knows that you know that he knows, that you both know that he is right, you share a quiet smile that makes way for the chorus of “Pictures of You”.

But no smile comes from me. “As wonderful as you are, Yoongles, you can’t cure everything.”

“Neither can you.”

People say that when flames meet flames, fires rise higher into the sky. That may be true, but there’s something about the first moment of recognition. Recognizing that something is made of the same things you’re made of.

“That place would crumble without you two,” Yoongi replies knowingly. “Disappearing without a trace like that? Both of your seats just suddenly empty? Purse still at your desks, in full view and only half-zipped? Car still parked in your spot, even if the wheels are a little misaligned?”

I grunt at the very personal, accurate digs.

Yoongi smirks at me. “They’ll put out a search, and they’ll just be so relieved that you’re OK when they find you.”

“And when will that be?” you ask sarcastically, having the freedom to straighten in your seat and curl your legs into a pretzel. “At the candlelight vigil?”

While your mind is pushing forward, my mind is calculating back. “Wait, how did you even get into the women’s restroom??” I ask. “There’s a creak in one of the hinges. We would’ve heard the door open.”

Jungkook giggles, which turns into a long, low hum. There are fireworks in his eyes. He had clearly been waiting his entire life for this uber cool moment. But so have the rest of them. All the diagrams that Namjoon drew. The practice runs that Hobi scheduled. They’re all still grinning with the van-wide buzz of a, so far, perfect execution.

Jungkook happily kicks at my rope-bound ankles.

“We rappelled in through the ceiling!”

“Wait, so this is really it?” Hobi asks, tone pointed, but somewhat softened by the three gummies we’ve all already had.

The entire shoreline is empty, save for the van parked in the distance, and the inflatable kiddie pool that the boys brought for an improvised cushion to share.

“We’re really just gonna get high on these gummies, take a bunch of silly pictures, and that’s it? No one brought anything else to do?”

“The whole point of this was to get them to relax,” Jin points out, pulling Hobi back down to the makeshift mattress. “Now you’re going to get them amped up and worried again.”

“Just saying that a whole day is a long time to have nothing to—”

“And now you’re going to kill my high,” Jin says, pulling Hobi back down again, rolling onto his side and pushing a palm into Hobi’s chest to get him to stay down. “Twelve perfect practice runs wasn’t enough for you? You need to relax, too. And if you can’t relax just for relaxation’s sake, then consider this a reward for a job well done.”

“The food!” Jungkook remembers as he lounges, voice as warm as the sun.

"Snackies?” I chirp, opening my eyes too fast, and then blinking, bothered by the sunlight. “Wh-where are they?”

“In the back,” Yoongi mumbles, turning inward, his voice sounding closer now. “Lotsa stuff. Pringles. Including those dumb pizza ones you like.”

“Yoongi-hyung made sure we got extra pizza ones,” Jungkook says sweetly, winking at me. “There are at least 4 cans.”

Yoongi grumbles, while I wiggle my eyebrows.

“I’ll get—-!”

“I’ll get them,” Namjoon sighs, as Jin hands him the keys, pulls Hobi down for a third time, and mumbles an annoyed threat of tying Hobi’s laces together.

Namjoon heads over to the van, his high making it hard for him to remember how his legs work. One foot needs to be in front of the other. Tendons need to release as much as they strain. Bones are hard for a reason.

His knuckles don’t help, either. The only reason the back of the van opens is because Taehyung’s foot kicks through.

Seeing the sides of three hard, working bodies helps Namjoon firm up. Even his eyelids get rigid, as they pop open at the sight in front of him.

You.

Covered.

But not in clothes.

Clothes do nothing to cover you. They’ve been ripped open from the heat of a moment that has clearly not dissipated in the reintroduction of salt air. Or they’ve been shed completely, discarded like any and all thoughts.

You’re covered in Jimin’s kisses and sweat. His upright body rolls into yours with precision, slow like the tide in the distance, riding each wave to the crest. But when he pulls back and snaps, the top of your head crashes into the side panels where the rental attendant said the first aid, flashlights, and extra batteries are kept. Namjoon wonders if they’ll need to cover your head with band-aids from each loud thump.

You’re also covered in Taehyung’s spit. Presumably. Your face is hidden behind a wall of similarly sweat-stained hair, flattened against a skull that is sometimes too thick, and cheekbones that are uncharacteristically murderously sharp, flexing to keep his chapped lips against yours, working nearly as hard as his fingers around your taut and aching nipples, volume dials to temper your moans up and down from shrieks to whispers. Whatever you say, however you say it, you’re still begging for more.

The snackies have been beaten to smithereens.

Namjoon’s eyes widen. His tongue rolls out of his mouth, and he starts to pant. Things aren’t making sense, in the best way possible. All of it is just a little unreal. Jimin’s working you like he works the stage, grabbing both of your legs like twin, somehow wobbling microphone stands. Taehyung, straddling your reddened torso, looks like he does when he’s kneeling and working the barricade cameras. He rises now, wiping the back of his mouth as he angles back, his shoulders resting on your vertical thighs, Jimin’s arms wrapping around them, and Taehyung’s shoulders, as Taehyung reaches down in your cramped shape for your hands. He cups them around your own breasts to surround his naked, dripping cock. And then he lets you go, leaning back on Jimin again as he thrusts between your breasts, which are bouncing madly, like Namjoon’s following pupils.

“You gonna keep staring or you gonna tap in?” Jimin asks Namjoon without looking up, starting to corkscrew his hips until they meet yours.

“I—”

"Jimin!” you whine, starting to shake. “Tae, I’m—”

“Do it,” Taehyung grunts, speeding up and reaching back down for your weakening hands and clasping them together, glued to his, his palms pushing down on you with no regard for the pressure, and making it that much more sumptuous as a result. “Come. I want to, too.”

“Nearly spent,” Taehyung laughs, glancing over at a still dazed Namjoon, though he isn’t sure if it’s because of the edibles or the scene. “Let her come, and then—”

“Aaahh!” you cry out, which Jimin follows with a hiss.

“She’s close,” Jimin grunts, “I can feel her spasming around me.”

“She needs something,” Taehyung groans, bathed in pleasure, but tilting his head in assessment. “Namjoonie-hyung. Give it to her.”

“Wha—” Namjoon blinks a few times, not knowing where to begin with a response. “You’re all— The space is—” He can’t remember what Jin said about the square footage. “How could I even— Where can I—”

The back of the van rocks even louder now on its axles, its squeaks matching your tortured squeals pitch for pitch.

Jimin’s arm swings back and grabs Namjoon’s hand, which, unbeknownst to Namjoon, had already started rubbing his thickening cock through his sweats.

You wonder what it might look like.

Taste like.

“Harder, she’s watching you,” Jimin vocalizes. “And she likes it. She’s getting even wetter. Give me your other hand.”

Namjoon angles himself a bit to give Jimin that hand, his body facing to face you in order to reach him.

You don’t see his cock, but if there’s anything that could make some suggestions, it’s those big knuckles, bending his fingers to surround your clit, pulsing with need.

You slam your head into the side panel.

“That’s it!” Taehyung cries out with a chuckle, moving faster, and giggling with delight when you try to chase his darting cock with your mouth as he thrusts even faster into your heaving chest. “Fuck, yes, let’s ride!”

Namjoon’s fingers are the last puzzle pieces needed for everything to come together. As he rolls your clit between his fingers, observing you carefully, then knowledgeably starting to move from side to side, you see him transform like Jimin and Tae had, into something else entirely, equal parts creature and comfort — everything you didn’t know you needed.

“How’s she feel, hyung?” Jimin asks.

“Dripping,” Namjoon murmurs, as he locks eyes with you. “Soft, but strong…”

His fingers work faster.

“More,” Taehyung pants, tense. “More, she’s—”

Namjoon doesn’t usually like it when things don’t make sense. But the bits that do keep him grounded. He’s heard Jimin’s, Taehyung’s, and his voice in chorus before. He’s heard you laugh, and squeal, and moan with delight. But nothing has sounded as sinfully gorgeous as this, a group heave, and a group sigh, and a group left spent, collapsing on top of each other, letting bones and muscle fall wherever they may, like your discarded clothes, or the pizza Pringles cans on the sand.

Who knows how much time passes by.

But at some point, you and Namjoon are with shaky breath, on shaky ground, your fingers trying to button up your shirt, and his fingers trying to help you.

“Amazing,” Jimin whispers into your left ear, and giving you a kiss on the cheek.

“Perfect,” Taehyung corrects, giving you a fun slap on the ass, “as always.”

You giggle and look up at Namjoon as he gets the last of the clear button through the stitched eye.

Those hands.

“I’m glad I got to see and feel for myself this time,” Namjoon says, his voice breathy and low as he pulls your thoughts into his words. “Always heard.”

“Always here,” you dare to say.

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, smirking. “Maybe, um…”

He glances over at Jimin and Taehyung as they gather whatever snackies are salvageable.

“Maybe we could, y’know… if you three would be OK with…”

He catches your hopeful gaze.

“Or even if, like, just you and I could—”

“Oh no.”

You look up and see Jin bent over, picking up a green Pringles can that had rolled away, landing at the toe of his left sneaker.

He straightens and furrows his brow and the misaligned Pringles man’s mustache.

“Why is it wet?”

He opens the can and looks inside at Pringle dust finer than the sour cream and onion seasoning that came on top. 

“And why are they—”

He strides over to Jimin and Taehyung, who are cackling with each other.

“Are they all—”

He opens can after can. Not just the pizza, but the sour cream and onion, and the salt and vinegar, and the barbecue, and the regular.

Jin’s eyes narrow.

“If the pizza ones are ruined, you four are in huge trouble. You know that, right?”