#arkofangels

One second, you were arching off the diagnostic table, breath catching as Clark murmured something filthier than sin against your skin, hair tousled between your legs like he lived there— And the next: a busted comm link hit the floor, and a very traumatized Hawkgirl stood frozen in the doorway. Wings half-unfurled. Eyes wide with horror.

She didn’t speak for eight whole seconds.

You and Clark just… froze.

He looked up slowly, like a deer in headlights.You grabbed for the nearest med blanket, which did absolutely nothing to preserve your dignity—or the sanctity of the Fortress.

Hawkgirl blinked. Then blinked again. Then— “OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE—” And spun around so fast her mace got stuck in the doorframe.

It only went downhill from there.

An hour later, you and Clark were summoned to what can only be described as the Justice League’s most awkward virtual meeting in recorded history. Video on. Full attendance. Moment ruined.

Clark sat next to you, arms crossed like he was bracing for a military tribunal. You tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

Hawkgirl looked like she’d gazed into the abyss. Green Lantern looked like he wanted to laugh, cry, and pass out all at once. And Mr. Terrific—tactical genius, team lead, and current moral authority—stood in front of the screen with his hands clasped behind his back like this was a high-stakes Pentagon debriefing.

“I want to be extremely clear,” he began, voice sharp enough to cut metal. “What happened today was a gross violation of mission protocol.”

You sank lower in your chair. Clark shifted beside you, jaw tight.

“The med bay,” Mr. Terrific continued, “is a sterile facility. It is not, under any circumstance, to be used as a sex dungeon, a romantic hideaway, or—god help us—a personal love grotto. Superman.”

Clark winced. “Yes, sir.”

“And you,” he added, pinning you with the full force of disciplinary disappointment. “We installed a biometric lock to keep unauthorized personnel out of restricted zones.”

“I… I didn’t know Clark’s tongue qualified as biometric,” you muttered.

Green Lantern choked on his own spit.

Clark turned bright red.

Mr. Terrific’s glare was legendary. “This isn’t funny.”

“No, sir,” Clark agreed quickly. “We’re very sorry.”

“We are,” you echoed, trying not to laugh. “Deeply sorry.”

“You’re both senior-level operatives,” Mr. Terrific said, beginning to pace like a principal prepping detention. “You’re supposed to set an example. Not—dear god—get caught in the Fortress with your pants down and your boyfriend’s cape on the floor.”

You blinked. “Wait. You seen what happened?”

“Oh, everyone saw,” Green Lantern muttered. “You tripped the internal security feed.”

You considered launching yourself into the sun.

Hawkgirl was pinching the bridge of her nose like she could physically erase the memory. “What I saw is not something you come back from.”

“Enough,” Mr. Terrific said, raising a hand. “We’ve reviewed the footage, the timestamps, the audio logs—and, of course, the distress scream that activated every emergency comm on site.”

“So,” Mr. Terrific continued, “in the interest of preserving morale, medical hygiene, and my remaining sanity, I’m instituting a temporary restriction.”

Then came the sentence. The curse. The collective punishment.

“Temporary. Sex. Ban.”

Silence.

Clark’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry—did you say—?”

“You heard me.”

You turned to Clark, slowly. “He can’t actually do that, right?”

“He’s the team lead,” Clark whispered, sounding absolutely broken. “I think… he technically can.”

Green Lantern raised a hand. “Uh, sorry—just for clarity, are we talking a full ban? Like, no kissing? No second base? Can we define terms?”

Mr. Terrific turned on him with the force of a thousand suns. “You want me to draft a formal clause list outlining what Superman can’t do to his girlfriend?”

“I mean, someone should,” Lantern muttered. “They’re a high-libido couple.”

You briefly considered using Clark as a human shield.

Clark looked like he wanted to die.

“Duration?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Until you both prove you can prioritize the mission,” Mr. Terrific said. “You’ll be monitored for absences. I’ll be reviewing comm logs. Patrol logs. Sensor pings.”

You groaned. “So we’re grounded.”

“You’re benched from boning,” Hawkgirl clarified dryly.

Mr. Terrific cleared his throat. “Meeting adjourned.”

The screen blinked dark.

And that was the day the Justice Gang imposed the world’s most infuriating, sexually repressive ceasefire— and started the longest, most torturous dry spell of your entire life. well, technically three days.

Three days. That’s how long Clark lasts.

Three whole days of being good. Of polite forehead kisses and aching distance. Of pulling his hand away like you’re made of kryptonite every time it drifts too low. Of muttering things like “We can’t,” and “Mr. Terrific said—” with that strained, boy scout grimace like he’s afraid he’s being watched from orbit.

He tries. He really, really tries.

He throws himself into patrol like he’s punishing himself, keeps his comm logs squeaky clean, even schedules “supervised sparring” with Green Lantern—who sees right through him and says nothing, mercifully.

But you?

You’re not helping.

You’re walking around in those soft shorts he likes. Wearing his old Metropolis U sweatshirt and nothing else. Curling up next to him on the couch like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing when your bare thigh brushes against his. Pressing slow, sleepy kisses just beneath his jaw when you're “not even trying anything.”

You bat your eye say you respect the ban. But you’re lying. And Clark is cracking.

Which is how you end up here.

Pressed flat against the kitchen counter, fingers tangled in his hair, while he grips the edge like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees.

His voice is low and wrecked. “We shouldn’t—this is a—this is against orders, baby, I can’t—”

You hum, all sweet and innocent, even as your hand slips beneath the waistband of his suit pants. “Then stop me.”

He doesn’t. He can’t.

His breath catches hard against your throat as your fingers wrap around him—already hard, already leaking, already completely undone, and you haven’t even gotten the damn suit off yet.

“You’re evil,” he groans, resting his forehead against your shoulder like it’s the only way to keep from breaking in half. “I’m trying to be good—”

“You are good,” you coo, dragging your hand slow along his length. “Think Mr. Terrific would give you a gold star?”

Clark swears—a low, desperate sound, almost reverent.

And that’s it. That’s the last thread of his self-control snapping.

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, stumbling backward in a haze of need. Your mouths crash together halfway to the bedroom, his kiss open-mouthed and wild, breath catching like it’s been years, not days, since he last tasted you.

His knees buckle when he hits the bed, and you push him down without mercy, straddling his hips with one smooth motion. He sucks in a sharp gasp as your weight settles over him, hands flying to your waist like a man gripping a lifeline.

You lean in, lips brushing his as your fingers find the edge of his suit.

The zipper hisses down slowly.

“I missed you,” he breathes, voice hoarse, dragging his mouth down your chest, chasing the rhythm of your heartbeat like it's his gravity. “I tried to be good—I swear, but those pictures—”

You laugh, breathless. “Clark… those were just selfies.”

“You were in my sweatshirt,” he growls, like you committed a war crime.

“That’s not against the rules.”

“It is,” he snaps, kissing deeper, moving lower, “when you’re not wearing anything else.”

Now...

Clark Kent knew he was strong—the strongest. Faster than light, invulnerable to bullets, capable of hearing a whisper from the other side of the planet. He could carry the weight of the world on his back and still ask if you were okay. Could stop time with his bare hands if he really tried.

And yet—

The moment you shove him back into the sheets, suit half off, chest heaving, flushed and trembling like a man starved?

Clark Kent knows he’s fucked.

“Y-you’re not playing fair,” he tries, voice breaking as you drag your slick heat along the thick length of his cock. You haven’t even taken him in yet—just teasing him, grinding slow and deliberate, letting him feel every pulse of you.

“You deserve it,” you whisper, watching the way he shudders beneath you.

Maybe he does.

Maybe the ban was there for a reason. Maybe dragging Superman to bed in nothing but his hoodie and a wicked little grin was not on the League’s approved interaction list. But the way he shakes? The way his hips twitch every time you rock forward?

He’s a man in freefall.

His breath stutters. “You know I could beg, right?” he murmurs, voice gone dangerously low. “You think I won’t get on my knees for you?”

You lean forward to press a kiss to the curve of his jaw, feel it flex under your mouth.

“I know you will.”

And then—finally—you sink down onto him.

Clark’s entire body locks.

The breath leaves him in one long, broken moan. His hands fly to your hips like he needs to anchor himself, like he’s hanging off the edge of the stratosphere and you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Jesus—” he chokes out, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “You—baby, you can’t just—God—”

You take him inch by inch, slow and deliberate, letting your walls flutter around every thick stretch of him. He’s already shaking under you. Eyes glazed. Lips parted. Helpless.

“Clark,” you murmur, voice as sweet as honey, “what happened to being good?”

He looks up at you through heavy lashes—cheeks flushed, sweat curling at his hairline, voice ragged beyond repair.

“That was before you got on top of me like that,” he groans. “Now I’m just—I’m done for, sweetheart.”

His knuckles go white in the sheets.

He’s trembling—actually trembling—like a live wire, every nerve in his body tuned to you. Overwhelmed by the heat of your body, the way you roll your hips down and lock him in like you were made to ruin him.

You move slow. Purposefully slow. Dragging yourself up until just the tip catches, then sinking down again until he’s buried to the hilt and gasping like it’s killing him.

“You’re so deep,” you whisper into his ear, syrupy and cruel, “Look how good you fill me up, baby.”

He groans—breaks—at the sound, his cock throbbing inside you.

“God, sweetheart,” he rasps, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna kill me—”

“You’re Superman,” you purr, twirling a damp strand of his hair around your finger before letting it spring free. Your nails rake lightly through his curls, slow and teasing. “You’ll live.”

But Clark is barely holding on.

He looks wrecked beneath you—his chest flushed, lips swollen, brows furrowed in desperation. His hands clutch at your thighs, guiding you down harder, deeper, until your legs burn and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths.

The only sounds in the room are the slow, obscene slap of skin, the soft creak of the mattress, and the desperate little moans Clark can’t stop from slipping out—like you’re dragging the air from his lungs with every grind of your hips.

You lean in, teeth grazing his neck before sucking a deep, dark mark below his jaw—one that definitely won’t fade by morning. He shudders.

“Thought you were gonna behave,” you murmur, dragging your mouth along his neck.

“Yeah?” His voice is sandpaper and honey. “Then you probably shouldn’t’ve—fuck—ridden me like this, baby.”

You grin against his skin.

And you don’t stop—slowly, grinding circles that make his thighs twitch under yours. That make him arch and whine,breath hitching every time your hips slam back down and the stretch makes your eyes roll. It’s filthy. It’s heaven. It’s—

beep. beep. beep.

The sharp alert cuts through the haze.

The "Justice Gang" comm unit pings from the nightstand—blinking red. Urgent. Active threat level.

Clark freezes.

Just for a second.

Then he thrusts up into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist—like if he holds you close enough, this moment won't end.

You clutch at him, stunned. “Clark—”

“Just a sec,” he pants, rolling his hips again, pulling you closer. “Just… a little longer—”

“You have to answer that,” you gasp, trying to sound firm, but it comes out ruined—high and trembling as he rolls his hips, slow and devastating. “You said if it was serious—”

“This is serious,” he breathes, voice cracking. “This is so serious, sweetheart—”

“Clark.”

He groans, tortured, and finally—pulls back just enough to reach blindly toward the nightstand, his other arm braced beside your head. He doesn’t stop moving. Just stretches out—flushed and glowing, breath shaky—and fumbles for the blinking comm unit with trembling fingers, his hips still rolling slow and deep like he can’t stand the thought of pulling out.

There’s a hiss of static. Then:

“Superman here,” he breathes, voice rough and just a little cracked, like it’s been dragged across gravel. His hair is a mess. His cheeks are red. There’s a blooming mark on his neck in the exact shape of your mouth.

“I’ll be there in five.”

And then he looks back at you, still buried deep inside, still trembling with restraint, and smirks—smirks.

“You better finish what you started,” he murmurs, voice low “Because the second I get back…”

His hips roll up again.

“…there’s no ban anymore.”

Meanwhile, at Watchtower Command.

When Superman arrives, it’s a problem.

Because he’s not exactly subtle.

His suit is on—barely. The collar of his undersuit is stretched askew, the zip only half-done up. His cape’s twisted over one shoulder. His curls are still damp with sweat and your fingers, pressed flat to his forehead like he raked both hands through them hard before takeoff. And on the left side of his neck—

A dark, unmistakable mark.

Right where your mouth had been.

The kicker?

He smells like you.

The second he enters the room, heads turn. Conversation dies. Everyone looks at him.

And then immediately looks away.

Green Lantern raises a brow but says nothing — until he spots the bitemark on Clark’s throat.

“…Was the threat level internal?”

Superman doesn’t answer.

He just straightens his shoulders like a man walking to his own trial and silently hands over the datapad he retrieved from orbit, lips pressed in a flat line. His ears are red. His knuckles are still trembling.

From behind the console, Hawkgirl makes a noise like she’s begging God to strike her down. “Oh come on—”

Mr. Terrific’s head turns slowly.

His eyes scan Clark. The disheveled suit. The blooming hickeys. The faint tremor in his left hand. His faintly-glossed lips.

“…You’re late.”

Clark nods once. “Traffic.”

“You flew here,” Hawkgirl deadpans, crossing her arms.

Clark clears his throat. “We’re not—uh—discussing that.”

Mr. Terrific glances toward the holographic map they’d been reviewing and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s physically in pain. “We said temporary ban.”

“We agreed it was necessary,” Hawkgirl adds. “Necessary, Clark. For mission focus. For discipline. For—” She gestures vaguely at his entire very un-mission-ready state. “—this exact reason.”

Clark tries to look apologetic. He really does.

But there’s something smug twitching at the corners of his mouth. That little boyish, aw-shucks grin that slips out when he knows he’s been caught but isn’t all that sorry.

“I’m still functional,” he offers, way too earnestly.

Guy lets out a low whistle and mutters, “Barely.”

“Look, I got here, didn’t I?” Clark says, running a hand through his hair again—and only making it worse. “I didn’t skip the mission. I just… had to finish something.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “I swear to Rao,” Mr. Terrific mutters, turning away.

“Oh, you had to finish something?” Hawkgirl repeats, eyebrows climbing. “Or she did?”

Clark doesn’t answer. Just kind of… smiles into his shoulder and scratches at the back of his neck.

Guy leans in. “Okay, serious question,” he says, nodding toward Clark’s throat. “Did she brand you? Like, should we call Batman? That’s got Batman-level trauma written all over it—”

“I don’t need Bruce’s opinion on this,” Clark mumbles.

“Oh, I’m calling him,” Guy says gleefully.

“Please don’t.”

Too late. Hawkgirl’s already pulling up a comm link. “Batman? You might want to see this.”

Clark sighs and looks up at the ceiling like he’s praying for strength.

From across the room, a monitor blinks to life.

Bruce’s voice comes through, flat and judgmental. “What did he do this time?”

“Th-this is where you’re weak, right?” Dunk’s voice cracks—deep and guttural, like he’s just fumbled the ball and liked it.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when he’s got you pressed chest-down on your yoga mat, sweat-slick and trembling, your legs splayed as wide as they’ll go under the strong, caging weight of his body. He’s got one bulky arm laced around your midsection, the heel of a calloused palm pinning your wrist above your head, and the other hand—

Fuck, that hand is dragging your hips back like he’s trying to line you up for a perfect field goal.

The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance, flushed hot and slick from everything he's already done to you—stretching, teasing, edging with his stupid mouth full of praise and filth.

“Right here,” he pants, his cleats digging into the floor as he jerks forward and shoves the thick, veiny length of himself into you in one slow, spine-bending thrust.

“Oh fuck–mmghhh!” Your mouth falls open, drool stringing from your lips into the mat below. “D-Dunk—right there!”

“Right there, huh?” he grunts, voice all hoarse and starved and dripping heat. He braces one elbow—elbow skate grinding against the mat—and slams into the same spot again. “This your weak spot? Right where you get all soft and squishy f’me?”

You choke out a whimper, body locking up, toes curling in your socks.

And Dunk groans like a man in his prime scoring the winning goal in triple overtime. “Shit, yeah. You’re clutch, baby. Makin’ me feel like a fuckin’ champion.”

He’s not subtle. He never is. Every thrust is a penalty-worthy foul, full-body and brutal—his padded hips hammering into your ass with a wet, smack! of skin on skin, the seams of his football-textured pants brushing your thighs raw.

And you love it. You’re taking him like a champ, brain turning to static, vision sparking with every drag of his cock along your g-spot.

“So good,” he growls, low and rough in your ear. “So tight. Taking me like this? You were made for me—swear to God. Can feel you tryin’ to pull me back in every time I leave. Mmmph—don’t worry, I ain’t going anywhere.”

His fingers twist in your shirt collar—yanking you halfway up, arching your spine so he can get even deeper, stretch you out more, ruin you. His mouth is right at your ear now, warm breath ragged as he growls out praises like a dirty coach from hell.

“You’re doing so fuckin’ good. I mean, look at you. You’re—shit—you’re beautiful like this. Sloppy, sweatin’, fuckin’ perfect.”

The sound you make is more animal than human, all heat and overwhelmed bliss.

“S-slow down,” you whine, even though your hips are moving to meet him. “It’s too—too much—”

“Oh no, no no.” Dunk chuckles, deep and mean and amused. “We don’t quit halfway through a workout, sweetheart.”

Then he slams into you again. Hard. Vicious. Filthy.

You nearly scream, forehead digging into the mat, tears dripping freely now.

He leans down, mouth pressing at the back of your neck, lips brushing the sweat there. “One more set, baby. Just one more. And then I’ll let you cool down on my chest. Promise.”

And when you finally come—crying out like you just crossed the finish line of a marathon, your whole body twitching under him—he follows with a growl that sounds more like a war cry than a moan, spilling deep inside you and holding you there, locked to his body like a medal he refuses to take off.

Afterward, you’re a pile of boneless mush sprawled across his sweaty chest, legs still twitching. He strokes your back with gentle fingers, breath slowing.

“That,” he whispers, brushing his stubbled jaw against your temple, “was the best cardio I’ve had in years.”

You murmur something incoherent.

He grins. “No bummers allowed, remember?”

You don’t ask questions when your friend drops a baby off at your door.

You try, of course. You get out “Wait, why—” before she slaps a diaper bag into your arms, kisses your cheek, and says something like “It’s just overnight, you’re the only one I trust, I’ll explain everything later, BYE.”

And then she’s gone.

And you’re left holding a real, human baby. And also surrounded by five animate "hangers" in jumpsuits who have very strong and very different feelings about this.

“A baby?” Hank 2 squeaks, already Googling CPR on your cracked phone. Hank 1 crosses his arms. “We can handle a baby. We’ve done trick dives into volcanoes.” “Those were miniature volcanoes made out of papier-mâché and sadness,” mutters Hank 4. “Do we think the baby’s got a favorite already?” teases Hank 3, batting his lashes. He’s immediately silenced by a diaper to the face. “I love this baby,” Hank 5 whispers, gently cradling the child with sock-like reverence. “We should build it a tiny hammock and name it Bean.”

You make a list. You don’t know what babies eat (mashed peas? socks?), but you know what you have:

Five hanger boyfriends

A half-eaten sleeve of saltines

Eight Red Bowls

And now, apparently, a baby.

Operation: Don’t Let the Baby Die begins.

Hour 1: Hank 2 is already spiraling. He’s checking the baby’s pulse every six minutes. “What if we drop it? What if it senses our fear? What if Red Bowl finds out and tries to sponsor it?!”

Hour 2: Hank 1 builds a diaper-changing station out of your bookshelf. It is both sturdy and somehow... emotionally grounding. “Babies need confidence. Eye contact. Structure. And a little jazz.”

Hour 3: Hank 3 plays peekaboo. But it turns into an impromptu stand-up set. “You ever notice how pacifiers are just, like, emotional corks? Amirite?” The baby stares. Then drools. Hank 3 swoons.

Hour 4: Hank 4 is writing a detailed list of potential baby names (even though you told him it already has one). “What about Clasp? Or Hookifer. No? Too thematic?”

Hour 5: Hank 5 and the baby are both asleep in a pile of pillows and blankets on the living room floor, baby toys scattered like confetti around them. You gently drape a blanket over them and whisper, “This is my life now.”

You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect to be jobless, babysitting someone else’s infant at 3 a.m., surrounded by five sentient hangers in jumpsuits who somehow care more about your well-being than most people ever have.

But when the baby starts to cry at 3 a.m.—a loud, wailing, existential sound that cuts into your sleep like a Red Bowl promo jingle—they all show up.

Hank 2 with a warm bottle. Hank 1 with calming noise (a Spotify playlist labeled “Jazz for Infants and Sad Adults”). Hank 3 with interpretive dance. Hank 4 with one (1) stolen baby sock he insists is sentimental. Hank 5 with a lullaby that is definitely just the Red Bowl theme song hummed gently.

And you.

Tired. Overwhelmed. Absolutely not ready to be responsible for anyone, let alone six people (five of whom used to live in your closet as inanimate hangers—until the glasses happened)

But you hold that baby. And the Hanks hold you. Figuratively. And then, literally.

And in that tangled pile of limbs, soft snoring, and the faint scent of baby powder and Red Bowl plastic, you realize: this is your family.

In the morning, when your friend returns and gasps, “Wait, why are there five hot men in jumpsuits in your living room?”—

You just shrug.

“Long story,” you say. “But we’re good with babies.”

The ache of it settled deep in his chest, restless and buzzing. His leg bounced constantly. His thoughts looped like a scratched record. You’re gone. You’re gone. You’re not here.

By the third night, he was unraveling.

He sprawled out on the bed, your pillow clutched to his chest like a lifeline. It still smelled like you—warm, soft, everything that made him feel safe. But the more he pressed his face into it, the worse it got, the hollowness in his chest yawning wider.

He tossed and turned, sheets tangling around his legs. His brain wouldn’t stop. What if something went wrong on the mission? What if you got hurt? What if you didn’t come back?

And then, the darker thought slipped in—what if you didn’t miss him the way he missed you?

That one hit like a knife twist. He couldn’t breathe around it. Couldn’t stay still. His body vibrated with jittery need, with the desperate urge to feel something other than the gnawing hole you’d left behind.

So he gave in.

He yanked open the dresser and grabbed one of your shirts, worn soft from being washed a hundred times, and climbed back into bed with it. The second he pressed it to his face, inhaling deep, he groaned, his cock twitching against the fabric of his sweats. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough, but he couldn’t stop.

“Fuck, babe,” he whined, already tugging his sweats down, wrapping his fist around himself. His strokes were rough, messy, too fast, like he was chasing something just out of reach. “Why’d you have to leave me here all alone? It’s—it’s, like, super bad for my mental health, you know that, right?”

He moaned into your shirt, imagining the weight of your body over his, the way you straddled him, kissed him until his brain went white-hot and useless. His hips bucked into his hand, precum slicking his fist as he rutted desperately against the phantom of you.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” Adrian babbled, his voice cracking. “God, I’d do anything—anything—if you were here right now. Just one round. One little round—fuck, I need you—”

His eyes rolled back, the heat building fast, dizzying. He pressed the shirt harder to his face, groaning your name, his whole body trembling with need.

And then his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Adrian startled so hard he almost fell off the bed. He scrambled, hand still slick on his cock, fumbling with the screen until he finally hit accept, breathless.

“H-Hey,” he stammered, voice too high. “What’s up?”

On the other end, your voice was warm, calm, real. “Just finished up. Mission ended early.”

Adrian froze, every muscle locking.

“Uh—w-what? Early? Like… how early?”

“Early early.” You laughed softly, the sound making his chest ache in the best and worst way. “Yea, I’ll be home in an hour. maybe we could watch that new show you were talking about.” your voice started to trail off

His hand slipped off his cock like it had betrayed him. He slapped the shirt down, face blazing. “Oh, uh, cool, yeah! Awesome. Great news. That’s… so great. I should, um, probably clean up a little then.”

Silence. Then a suspicious hum. “Clean up?”

“Yep!” He squeaked. “Dishes. Laundry. Definitely not jerking off thinking about you right now. Ha ha. That’d be insane.”

You sighed, fond and exasperated all at once. “Adrian…”

“Don’t worry, babe,” he muttered, half-dying inside. “I’ll be… presentable by the time you get here. Mostly.”

Another soft laugh from you, this one warmer, almost wicked. “You know I can hear how out of breath you are, right?”

Adrian dropped his head back against the couch with a defeated whine, cheeks flaming hotter. “I hate you.”

“Liar,” you said gently. “See you soon, love. Try not to finish without me.”

He hung up the phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing, body still humming with unmet need.

One hour.

He had sixty minutes to pull himself together… or decide whether he even wanted to.

It starts like most of your adventures do—with one of the Hanks bursting into the room wearing something absolutely uncalled for.

“TA-DA!” Hank 3 announces, twirling in a banana-print swim trunks, matching shades, and a sunhat that says "LIFE'S A BEACH."

You blink. “Why.”

“Because,” he says, beaming, “we’re going to the beach.”

You’re not sure how the Hanks managed to schedule, plan, and pack for a beach trip without telling you—but when you stumble into the living room, there are already seven Red Bowls full of snacks, three umbrellas, two inflatable flamingos, and one extremely detailed binder labeled “Sun Safety & Group Sand Strategy – Hank 2 Edition.”

“Did you guys… borrow my car?”

“We upgraded it with a speaker system,” Hank 1 says, sliding on driving gloves like this is Fast & Furious: Hanger Drift. “Don’t ask how.”

The second your feet hit the sand, things immediately unravel.

Hank 5 tries to befriend a seagull. Hank 4 gets in a passive-aggressive towel turf war with a six-year-old. Hank 2 sets up a shade tent that somehow collapses into a modern art installation. Hank 3 challenges you to a “sunscreen fight” and ends up smearing SPF 50 on your nose like a very flirty lifeguard. Hank 1 disappears with a boogie board and a thousand-yard stare.

And yet… you’re laughing through it.

-----------------------------

You team up with Hank 2 and 5 to build a sandcastle “so emotionally stable it should be in therapy.” Hank 1, 3, and 4 immediately declare war on it. There’s yelling. There’s betrayal. There’s a dramatic “storm surge” via cooler water. You and Hank 5 pretend to mourn your castle like fallen royalty. It ends with everyone soaked and sandy and holding hands in a peace circle while Hank 2 gives a speech about erosion.

“Nothing lasts,” he says, dramatic as ever. “But this moment? This weird, beautiful, sunscreen-slick moment? It’s ours.”

As the sky melts into orange and gold, the chaos simmers down. You all sit on towels, wrapped in oversized hoodies and still picking sand out of your shoes.

Hank 3 lays his head in your lap. Hank 2 rests against your side. Hank 4 is drawing a tiny heart in the sand with his finger. Hank 5 is feeding bits of sandwich to a hermit crab. Hank 1 just watches the horizon like he’s memorizing it.

“I’m glad we did this,” you say, voice soft from sun and joy.

“We needed it,” Hank 1 nods.

“Next time,” Hank 2 mutters, “we should bring four shade tents.”

“Next time,” Hank 3 grins, “we should rent a yacht.”

“Next time,” Hank 5 whispers, eyes wide, “we should adopt the crab.”

"We are not adopting another sentient thing ," Hank 2 groans.

The crab blinks.

Hank 3 leans toward it. "Are you... emotionally available?"

You facepalm. The hermit crab retreats into its shell.

And just like that, you're back to laughing again.