#5plus1

one.

You are currently having an incredibly bad day, thank you very much.

The case files from the neighbouring precinct were accidentally brought over with evidence from the NCT heist from weeks ago, causing the entire police task force to be completely behind everything. 

This meant having to carry out your hero duties without your usual squad feeding information into your ear, which in turn meant that you did not see the comically large villain barrelling out from the side of a bank and right into oncoming traffic. Which, of course, meant that there was not only heavy damage to infrastructure, but also having to fill out forms at the office about why nearly fifteen civilians might need therapy from seeing a half-lizard-half-man bank robber go splat against the pavement after being hit by a bus. Which is how you end up here: temporarily demoted and trying to talk a graffiti artist from tagging the (unimportant) statue of a well-known superhero. 

So yeah, your day’s going fucking swell.

“No need to be so rude,” he chides, “I was just being polite.” 

“Spare me,” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as you stare him down. Your suit feels uncomfortably hot and sticky against your limbs; spandex – yet another ridiculous company requirement for heroes. “Just leave the spray cans and go, will you? I seriously do not have the energy to do this back and forth thing.” 

The vandal pouts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His gas mask is slung over his neck, a utility belt with numerous different spray cans hanging from his waist. Bright red hair peeks out from underneath the hood of his jacket. You feel another exasperated sigh rising; the punishment for failing to catch a criminal is dealing with delinquent college students, huh? 

You walk over, closing the distance as you speak, “Don’t make me use my powers, kid.” 

“Kid?” he laughs. The audacity- god, is that a migraine coming on? You nearly scream an expletive. “We’re the same age, Psyche.”

An eyebrow twitches; you can quite literally feel a vein about to pop on your forehead. Curse the public hero records. You take a large, steadying breath. The snap of your fingers yanks the spray cans from his waist and into oblivion. One flick of your wrist in the tagger’s direction lifts him off the ground, his startled yelp echoing through the deserted park. You flash him a disinterested grin and, snapping a fist shut, watch as he promptly disappears from your vision. Ah, the amazing power of psychokinesis. 

Another day, another statue saved. 

Still grumbling about the incident from this morning, you make your way towards the nearest McDonald’s. A McFlurry might just save you from telekinetically dumping hot coffee over your boss’s head when you return to the office. 

You wake up the next morning to twenty texts and several dozen missed calls from the company. The first thing you see on Twitter is a photo of a tiger’s head graffiti-ed on the side of the bank from yesterday. Around it, colourful letters in bright purple that matches your suit reads: lovely to meet you Psyche! xoxo Hoshi.

A lightbulb shatters.

two.

“Psyche, you’ve got a job.” 

You get up from your desk at the mention of your alias and retrieve the file from your manager. Excitement races through you at the thought of a case; sitting at a desk these past days has been torture. “Am I finally going to be allowed back on the field? It’s been a while since the bank.” 

“Technically.” 

The excitement fizzles out. You gape at the man before you, stumped, fingers halted from edging the file open. “Well,” S.Coups shrugs, a sheepish hand rubbing against the back of his silver head. “You’ll be heading out but you’re not going to like why.” 

You flip open the file and immediately groan. Not again-

“Hello, Psyche!” he beams at you from beside a half-done graffiti of a sleeping tiger. “I hope your day is going better than the first time we met.” 

“Hoshi,” pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhale. The mask plastered across your eyes feels tight as your patience starts trickling out. “Don’t you have better things to do?” 

He blinks owlishly at you. “Like what?” 

With your fifth groan of the day, you push off the wall you were leaning on. The location of the tag is weird – the back of an apartment complex only two blocks away from your office, hidden away from the prying eyes of the dinner crowd. The streetlamps flicker on in the alley you’re both standing in, suddenly bathing you in a dull yellow light. In the distance, the sounds of the city continue. 

You come to a stop in front of him. Hoshi is wearing the same dark hoodie from the day you first met him, this time with a bright purple gas mask hanging from his neck. You gawk at how badly it clashes with his hair. Instead of a utility belt jammed full of spray cans, there’s a box of at least six of them sitting beside the incomplete graffiti. You wave your hand over it, forcing it to lift upwards and blink out of existence. It’ll land on your desk safe and sound (but probably giving S.Coups a scare; it’s a win in your books).

Hoshi lets out a whine at the sight. “That’s the second time you’ve gotten rid of my spray cans. They’re not cheap you know!” 

“Maybe you should think about picking up a different hobby.” You raise an eyebrow, wriggling your fingers in the direction of the gas mask. It removes itself perfectly from his neck despite his attempts to grab on. Then, like the box of spray cans, it disappears. Grinning, you turn your attention back to Hoshi. “What should I vanish next?”

“Woah- easy, tiger.” He puts his hands up in surrender, a lazy smile on his face. He’s slowly backing away from the wall and towards the open mouth of the alley. Good, you think, though the nickname makes your face heat and your skin crawl. “I just wanted to say hi.”

You roll your eyes; this is such a waste of time. “Okay, hi Hoshi. It’s time to go now. Bye bye.” You bring your hand up, ready to flick it in his direction and send him to some random garden-

“Til we meet again, Psyche.” 

Hoshi winks – the nerve! – and gives a little performative bow. Irritation rushes through you so quick you let out a growl. Cheeks flaming, you wave your hand and deposit the ridiculous, shameless excuse of an ugh in the middle of the zoo, right in front of the tiger exhibit. Then you pop yourself back into the office and lug a box of spray cans (and a mask) home, mumbling curses about tigers and graffiti artists and wondering why you can’t get one day of normalcy. 

three.

Of course the day you finally go back out into the field is also the day you fail spectacularly at doing your job. The case was simple: teleport into the facility with Dino and wait while Woozi hacks the cameras, then signal The8 to attack while ambushing the guards from behind. On a normal day, you and your team would have been in and out in half an hour max. 

Today, an unexpected wrench by the name of Shownu is thrown in your path and two of you end up injured. With super strength abilities nearly surpassing the Dino’s hardening, the instigator of the weapons exchange deal managed to hurl both you and your colleagues in opposite directions before you could grab them with your telekinesis. It’s a miracle how you’ve still managed to capture all the dealers in the end. 

So here you sit, nursing a broken leg in the infirmary as Seungcheol (outside office hours, you’re allowed to call each other by name) paces the length of the room. Minghao had already healed you as best he could with his healing powers but he said the fracture would take longer to heal and that you’d probably be out of commission for a week. Chan, with only a few bruised ribs, would be ready to go after a good night’s rest. 

Still grumbling, you pop into the alley beside the office building, dressed in your regular clothes. The smell of greasy burgers from the restaurant next door wafts into the air. You nod, okay – grab a burger and a milkshake and then teleport home, easy enough. With a wince, you drag yourself towards the pavement and- 

Sigh. 

“I really think it’s time you look into other hobbies.” 

The vandal laughs, setting down the spray can and pulling his mask down. On the wall is the incomplete graffiti of a tiger’s paw. Hoshi pushes the hood of his jacket down as he stands, ruffling his wild red hair. He turns to you and pauses, tilts his head. 

“Psyche?” 

You’re about to roll your eyes again and grumble of course it’s me who else could it be, before you realise that you’re not in your usual superhero outfit. There’s no spandex clinging uncomfortably to your butt cheeks today. Eyes wide with the sheer mortification of being known, you stumble backwards. Oh shit, oh shit ohshit ohshitshithit-

“You’re just as cute as I imagined you’d be without your mask on.”

Cheeks flaming and blood roaring, your balance skews. You wince as your injured leg takes the brunt of your weight, crumbling; you gasp at the pain. Your vision swims. 

Hoshi unexpectedly appears, eyes narrowed and face screwed in what appears to be concern. Two strong arms wind underneath yours, suddenly lifting you upwards with no warning. He drags you as gently as he can over to the wall he was just tagging and leans you carefully against it. 

His fingers, hot against your skin, nudge your chin up to look at him. Without his hood on, you can see the furrow of his brows, the thin line of his mouth, the clenched jaw, the worry in his wide, imploring eyes. Worst of all, you can see how he is most definitely not a kid. Your stomach flip-flops so violently you nearly gag.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, thumb still pressing gently your chin as he angles your face around, eyes scanning for injuries.  

Oh no, oh nononono- 

With an undignified squawk, you push his hand from your face and promptly blink yourself back into your apartment. 

four.

The latest episode of some cheesy soap about doctors is playing on the TV. Relaxed for the first time in a while, you lean back into your pillows. Maybe being on mandatory bedrest is a good thing. Articles about your injury sustained at the ambush-gone-wrong has spread widely across social media. Fans and friends alike spam your inbox with messages and well-wishes. You’ve muted them all. 

Still, your phone pings loudly from its position on your bedside table. You bring it over with a wave of your hand; only one person could manage to get through your phone’s defences.

[5.12pm] Lee Jihoon: you’ll want to see this.

[5.12pm] Lee Jihoon has sent you an attachment.

You open the text message thinking it’s just another work-related thing but when the image loads you find yourself lost for words. It’s a picture of Chan and Minghao doing peace signs in an alley. But that’s not the important part.

There is a huge mural of you on the side of your office building. 

Your face stares out into the street, partially hidden behind a purple mask. There is a small tilt to your lips, as if there’s a joke that only you are privy to. A wreath of bright yellow flowers decorates the outer edges of the mural, a contrast to the various shades of purple splashed in the backdrop. From what you can tell, this was done in complete graffiti – in a style you’re now beginning to recognise very well. As if to confirm your suspicions, you catch a glimpse of something in the corner of the photo.

Beneath the mural sits a tiger’s paw.   

Heart racing, you click on the little blue application and see one Tweet with a photo of the mural sitting at the very top of your timeline. A laugh bubbles past your lips.

@ Hoshi1010Tags – Psyche. I’ve bought more spray cans. 

five.

Three days later, you find him vandalising yet another piece of public property. This time it’s a tiger cub swatting at the road sign sitting at the corner of the street. The box you’re carrying drops with a loud bang, startling the vandal so badly he falls back on his elbows. You turn your chuckle into a cough.

“Don’t give me a reason to take those away again.” 

Hoshi smiles, dusting off his hands as he stands to greet you; his mask and utility belt resting against the pavement. He jerks his head in the direction of your leg. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Much,” you find yourself smiling back. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and your heart stutters in your chest. “It’s not fun without you grumbling after me.” 

“I can’t say I’ve missed seeing you pop up everywhere.” 

He shrugs, “You’ll get used to it.” 

“Oh,” you quirk an eyebrow, hands on your hips. The smile that’s on your face only spreads wider as Hoshi beams back. Your stomach swoops. “Will I?”

“Kwon Soonyoung, performing arts student by day and vandal by night.” 

He holds out a hand, confident; waiting. 

You put your hand in his, relaxed; laughing.

+ one.

Soonyoung was having an incredibly nice nap, thank you very much. 

Which begs the question: who gave you the right to wake up him with a cold splash of wet spray paint across the back of his hand? 

Spluttering awake and nearly adding a magenta streak to his face, Soonyoung is beginning to question if his superhero is starting down the wrong alley. You sit at the edge of your bed, cackling at the disgruntled look on his face. 

“Now you know how I felt when I was assigned to your case only to meet a loudmouth.” 

“Oh yeah?”

He reaches across the space and wraps an arm around your torso, hauling you backwards and into his chest, the wet paint smudging all over your forearms. Two spray cans float over and, before Soonyoung even notices, starts trailing lines of neon blue and green down the back of his white t-shirt. His fingers start digging into your sides; you howl, twisting away as he tickles you without mercy. The spray cans blink away and he finally stops, gathering your wilted form into an embrace.

“I thought I was the vandal in this relationship?”

Your tongue darts out and blows a raspberry. “You’re a bad influence.”

Soonyoung leans down, closes the distance between your grinning faces, and captures your lips with his own; soft. His stomach churns, butterflies dancing as he presses closer, arm pulling you in tighter. Your hand snakes up to cup his face, thumb placed gently at the corner of his lips. And, as always, he kisses you deeper, like there’s more to you that he can’t wait to explore. You reciprocate in kind as his hands wander lower and lower and-

A Long Way To Go by tekmessa

Five times Derek happened to come across Stiles by accident, and one time Derek chose to seek him out.

i trust you by dragneels

5 times Stiles tells Derek he trusts him + 1 time Derek tells Stiles.

5 Times Stiles Hugs Derek and One Time He Hugs Back by allyasavedtheday

Never Enough, Always More Than by megxmas

5 Times Stiles Wasn’t Good Enough, and 1 Time He Stopped Caring

Where the Wind Don’t Change by BarlowGirl

Five times Derek gets hurt and Stiles patches him back up, and one time Stiles gets hurt. Plus feels and some sex.

Five Times Derek and Stiles Touched ‘Platonically’ and the First Time They Didn’t by 42hrb

It didn’t start off as anything other than friendship, werewolves are naturally touchy creatures and after everything that Stiles went through sometimes he needed physical contact to come back to himself. It really didn’t start as anything other than two guys who saved each other’s lives a lot, but it turned into… something.

Five Times Derek and Stiles Wanted the Same Book (And One Time There Were Two Copies) by mikkimouse

"Hey!" Stiles yanked the book back, but the other guy had a firm grip on it. "What are you--"

He trailed off when he set eyes on the leather-clad god with a glare that could strip paint off a car who also had hold of the book.

Stiles gulped, but he didn't let go. "Hey, dude, I had it first."

Those powerful black eyebrows bent down further. "Like hell you did."

Anchor Me In by linksofmemories

Five times Stiles was Derek's anchor and the one time he was Stiles'.

5 Times Derek Surprised Stiles and 1 Time He Didn't by heartsdesire456

Stiles expected after that first, dramatic, ‘thank God we’re all alive’ kiss that Derek might genuinely care about him. However, he never expected for what he hoped to be a potential ‘I like you, you like me, let’s have hot, steamy celebration sex when we don’t die!’ relationship to somehow turn into a ‘Derek Hale is a secret romantic, who knew?’ real-life relationship.

Basically 5 times Derek is secretly a romantic and 1 time Stiles totally expected what was coming.

5 Times The Pack Couldn't Wait To Let Go Of Stiles' Hand, and 1 Time Derek Didn't Want To Let Go by thegirlnamedcove

See, Stiles had night blindness. And he knew that sounded fake, but...he’d been diagnosed and everything, by a real doctor, who had attended medical school and still said the words “night blindness” out loud and in front of people, and that was a pretty big risk to take with your own reputation. At that point, Stiles had to consider the possibility that it was a real thing.

Lap Magnet by Prairie_Grass

Wherein an ill-advised floral arrangement leads to a whole new definition of obliviousness, accidental mate-bonds, and far more sex and tropes than one fic really needs.

or

Five times Derek and Stiles didn’t notice how close they were (literally) and then a whole bunch of times when they did...

Knot Again by prettylittlementirosa

Our friends they don’t know how to knock But dammit Derek I love your cock So stick it in It’s not a sin To knot me so hard I cannot walk

It was only seven o'clock, but Manly Dan was an early riser. “Git them trees before they’re full awake,” was his motto.

Gravity Falls was already stirring on that Thursday morning—a morning that threatened rain later, with low gray clouds. Mabel’s graduation present, a new Chevy Sonic (bright red, stick shift, a compromise because Mabel had requested a BMW M6, a wee bit pricey), took the curves well, though Dipper had to grip the edge of his seat from time to time.

“Off to college next month,” Mabel said. “So—you and Wendy are gonna room together, I guess?”

“Married couples do,” Dipper said between clenched teeth.

“Set the date?”

“Today.”

“No freakin’ way!”

“Yeah—squirrel! Squirrel! That was close. Just a civil ceremony, to make it legal. Then on September 15, we’ll have the church ceremony and you’ll be—”

“Maid of Honor! Yes!”

Wendy was waiting on the porch of the Corduroy house. She hugged both Mabel and Dipper. “Happy birthday, you guys! I now pronounce you technically adults. Mortgages and weight control forever!”

“Is, is your dad—?”

“In the living room, dude. Mabes, let me drive your car for a little ride with you?”

“Sure! Here’s the keys. Try not to hit any wildlife!”

Manly Dan glowered at him. “Well. Finally come around, did you?”

“Yes—yes, sir. I love Wendy, and she’s agreed to marry me. I—I—we—I—”

“Spit it out!”

Dipper gulped, feeling like a twelve-year-old again. “I want to ask your blessing on our marriage!”

For many seconds, Manly Dan just glared at him. “You think you’re man enough for my baby girl?”

Taking a deep breath, Dipper said, “If I’m not, I’ll die trying to be.”

Manly Dan cracked his knuckles. “Here’s the deal. Let’s put you to the test. Six, in fact. You fail ‘em, you can’t marry my daughter. You pass three, I’ll give my OK.”

Dipper clenched his jaw. “You’re ten times stronger than I am, and I know the kind of test you’ll put me to. Let’s say if I pass one, you’ll give us your blessing.”

“One. OK. I hope you know what you’re up against.”

“I think I’ll find out.”

The two trees were of identical girth. Manly Dan said “Ready, set, go!”

Their axes flew. Dipper had learned a little about tree chopping from Wendy—but Dan’s muscles and expertise had deep roots. Chips flew from his tree like sawdust from a buzz saw. When he yelled, “Timber!” and his tree crashed to the floor of the forest, Dipper had cut maybe a tenth of the way into the trunk of his own tree.

“One down,” Dan said with a fierce grin. “I’ll finish that one for ya. We don’t have all day.”

Dipper had seen Wendy do this a dozen times—loop the belt around the trunk, walk yourself up, quickly relocate the belt, repeat. Tree climbing, easy-peasy.

He got up five feet, lost two while repositioning the belt. Up ten, lost two more. Up fifteen—

“Two down!” Dan yelled from the crown of the tree. “You aint’ doin’ so well, sonny boy!”

“Let’s do something I’m good at,” Dipper suggested.

“Like what?”

“Math.”

Dan grinned. “How many board feet of timber are in that first tree I cut? We’ll measure it and calculate.”

Maybe if Dipper had ever heard of the term “board feet” he might have stood a chance. As it was—

“I got 2500,” Dan said. “Halfway through, and you ain’t come up a winner yet. You want to check my figures?”

“No, I’m sure you’re right,” Dipper said with a sigh.

“Three to go, son. You want to go through with this?”

“Sir,” Dipper said, “I’ll see it out. But if I fail every single one and you don’t give us your blessing—you know we’re still going to be married.”

“That so?”

“It’s so.”

They drove to the lake, to the place where back in July the lumbermen had thrown their get-together. In the pen a waterlogged, well, log, still floated. “Log rollin’,” Dan said. “I know you seen us do this. First one to fall in the water loses.”

For the first time that morning, Dipper gave Dan a run for his money. His track experience had given him speed and agility, and they were as important as sheer bulk and strength.

Forward, reverse, canny stop, leap, faster, slower—the log revolved in the water as the two struggled to stay on it.

And then something went wrong. Dipper’s foot slipped on the slimy log. Dan reached down and plucked him out of the water.

“Down to two, boy.”

At least Dan lent Dipper some of his son’s old clothes, though Dipper did not feel at home, really, in flannel shirt and overalls. Next was—the hatchet toss.

Dan had a target set up out back. “My baby girl,” he said, “can get five in the circle every time. Let me show you how.”

It was almost like a juggling trick. Dan held four hatchets in his left hand, one in his right, and onetwothreefourfive he threw, shifted another, threw again, and all five were in the air practically simultaneously. With solid-sounding thwacks! they embedded themselves in the wood and stuck there quivering.

Dipper … didn’t have the knack. The very first one hit handle-first and bounced off. In the end, he managed to get one hatchet to stick, and it was outside the circle.

“I got my doubts about you,” Dan said. “One chance left.”

“Next?” Dipper asked grimly.

Dan grinned at him. “Arm wrasslin’.”

“So …” Wendy said suspiciously, “Dad let you win?”

“Not exactly,” Dipper said. “We sat down at the table, got into position—he had to sit way back because his arms are so much longer—and when he said, ‘I’ll count to three, and then we go,’ I interrupted his count. I said, 'Sir, I just want you to know why I think I’m man enough. When I was thirteen years old, I slept with Wendy.’”

Wendy and Mabel both gasped.

Dipper shrugged. “He was so shocked that I think he was paralyzed for a second. That was when I slammed his fist down on the table and then, real quickly, explained that we just fell asleep watching TV on the floor in the Shack that New Year’s, and nothing happened.”

“And—you’re not a ghost, are you?” Mabel asked. “He didn’t kill you?”

“No. He laughed. He clapped me on the shoulder so hard I think I have a mild sprain. He said, 'That’s what I was waiting for, boy! I know you got the Pines smarts. Listen, I want me some good strong, smart grandkids from you and my daughter. You get to work on that soon.’”

Wendy blushed. “That’s my dad!”

“But,” Dipper said, “he also told me he was just funning with me. He was going to give us his blessing anyway.”

“Well-p,” Mabel said, “that’s one down. Now for Mom and Dad.”

“Two down,” Wendy said.

“Say what?” Mabel asked.