#katasstropheee

[talixagain]

Katherine, please. :)

the only thing these really have in commonly is that they're sort of all at least vaguely love or break-up songs

kiss me - ed sheeran

are we there yet - ingrid michaelson

this could take a lifetime - maria taylor

happier - a fine frenzy

easy silence - the dixie chicks

running wild - jules larson

it's you - annie stela

9 nine crimes - damien rice

electric - tristan prettyman

send me your name and i'll make you a playlist

[twelfthdoctvr-archive]

make me choose     ↳ katasstropheee asked: Clyde or Ms. Hudson?

[isthisrubble]

katasstropheee replied to your post: I need to finish this fucking fic

I’ll send you the inspiration you need. *throws food at your face and turns classical music up to maximum-ear-bursting*

oh my god

[isthisrubble]

katasstropheee replied to your post: talking to people is hard wow

*starts sweating* *breathing heavily* *hands shaking* … Hi. *panics* *runs away screaming*

it's more like

this is a sensitive topic how do I not make them feel worse

[zefyre]

Teen Wolf.

hmmm…

Stiles, Kira, & Scott!

[zefyre]

because katasstropheee asked, and it wasn't like i could resist...

a continuation of this & this, so read those first. 

~

“Did his—“ Sherlock shook his head, blinking his eyes tightly, certain that he was seeing things. “Did his eyes just flash blue?”

The other boy, not the one he followed earlier in the week or the blond he was speaking of that just sprinted by, but the one with dark hair and the tattoo, turned to him with round, brown eyes. “You mean Jackson?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded curtly.

Sherlock stared at him blankly as his friend, Stiles, he finally remembered—it was an odd name—let out a loud laugh and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good ole Scott,” he said, grinning. “You should make sure Jackson doesn’t get killed though, eh, buddy?”

Scott’s face turned serious. Giving a short nod, he squeezed Stiles' shoulder as he walked by. “Make sure you get Lydia out of here, him too,” he said, jerking a thumb at Sherlock, and the way he spoke...

It was almost as if he was giving an order, not a suggestion. But Sherlock didn’t allow himself to dwell on that because this teenager was about to go against someone whom he would be hesitant to pit even John against, ex-army soldier or not.

Straightening, Sherlock shook his head. “And what?” he asked sharply. As Scott came to a halt and turned, his eyes narrowed on him. “You’re going to take him on by yourselves? A couple of teens?” Sherlock scoffed, waving a hand in a cutting gesture. “That man was abnormally and extremely strong. If I didn’t suspect something else was going on, I’d say he was on some type of drug, but I doubt even steroids can give him that kind of strength.”

Sherlock watched as the pair shared a look, and the girl, Lydia, gave an annoyed sigh. “Just go, Scott. Help Jackson, we’ll take of things here.”

Scott nodded swiftly and turned on his heel, sprinting down the hall where the blond had gone.

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock whirled on the remaining teens. “You do realize you might have just sent your friends to their deaths?”

Lydia harrumphed and crossed her arms, looking intimidating even in her soiled dress and ruined heels. “I think I know my friends better than you.”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles interrupted, holding up his hands—one of which held a metal baseball bat. “I think we should just get out of here, alright?”

Sherlock let out a derisive snort. “I think you should have loaned your friend that bat, he’ll probably need it.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, no, I think we’re gonna need it more than them if we run into one of that guy’s friends.”

Lydia and Sherlock both turned to stare at him with a chorused, “There’s more?”

They all blinked. Sherlock and Lydia shared a look.

“Right, yeah, there are, so let’s book it,” Stiles prompted, tapping the bat on the ground impatiently. “Scott and Jackson can take care of themselves, c’mon.” Stiles jerked his head down the hall, opposite of where his friends took off.

“Fine,” Sherlock agreed shortly, stalking down the hall. “Then we can telephone the police.”

Behind him, Lydia and Stiles shared a wide-eyed look. “Right,” the latter drawled, nervously. “Yeah, sure, awesome idea.”

Lydia rolled her eyes.

~

“What are we going to do?”

“Why are you asking me? I don’t know!”

“But—Lydia! We can’t let him call the police!”

“So, what, are you suggesting we knock him out or something?”

Sherlock shut his eyes, pinching his nose. “And I almost thought they were clever,” he muttered under his breath, never breaking his stride.

“What?!”

“What? We have a problem. You have a bat. Problem solved.”

“Jesus—Lydia,” said the boy with the proper amount of exasperation and incredulity. Well, perhaps he wasn’t so idiotic, then. “This isn't going to knock him out long enough for Scott to wrap things up and us to get the hell out of the country! Our passports will get flagged before we even get to the airport!”

“Well, then, you think of something!”

Pivoting on his heel, the hem of his coat snapping at his knees, Sherlock glared at the pair.

They stopped in their steps and yelped, clutching at each other. “I swear,” he nearly snarled. “You even try to come near me with that bat and I will break your wrist,” he hissed furiously.

As they stared at him in open astonishment, Sherlock tugged sharply on the lapels of his coat. “Now, obviously something is going on here that you don’t want the police to know.”

Stiles, who had recovered from his shock rather quickly, gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Dude. We just rescued you guys from some dank basement after you got kidnapped. Score one for stating the obvious.”

Sherlock’s head tipped to the side as he regarded the teen coldly. “I was going to offer my silence, but if you don’t want it…”

Lydia was quick enough to smack Stiles’ arm and shook her head. “No, no, just ignore him. He gets bitchy when he’s panicking.”

“Lydia!” Stiles hissed furiously, eyes wide with betrayal.

The redhead only ignored him. “Your silence in return for what?” When Sherlock turned to her with raised eyebrows, it was her turn to roll her eyes. “Obviously you want something,” she briskly said, tapping a heeled foot. “So? What will it take?”

With a deliberating and piercing stare at the pair, he told them. “Answers,” he replied simply, “Tell me the truth—no lying, no tricks, the full truth about the wounds on that body, about why that man possessed such incredible strength, why you two believe a pair of teenage boys would be a match for him, and why one of them has eyes,” and he paused to send a sharp stare at Stiles, “that flash an abnormal shade of blue.”

“Then,” he concluded,  “After I know the truth, then perhaps I’ll keep my mouth shut about what I’ve seen, heard, and learned tonight, and then you four, providing your friends even make it out alive, can go on with your little lives.”

[zefyre]

Stiles Stilinski and BBC Sherlock Holmes - #9 and/or #15

#9: Drive & #15: Silence

Set after Stiles and the others have graduated.

Stiles knew he should have refused. Knew it. Ever since the moment Scott brought the trip up he had this bad feeling, felt it right in his bones, an alarm in the back of his head ringing loudly, saying - Do Not Go.

But damn Scott and his fricking puppy eyes.

He could have resisted Lydia and her attempts the twist his arm about going, but Scott… Scott knew his weaknesses. He was lucky that Scott was just too nice to exploit it all the time, but it also meant that when he did use it, Scott meant business.

Lydia so freaking owed him for staying behind so she could escape and tell the others. It didn’t matter that he offered to since he knew how the system worked and had practice talking circles around law enforcement when she didn’t, he told her that meeting with Jackson would end badly. But noooo, they just chalked it up to him being petty ‘cause he didn’t like the douchebag.

Ha, he thought, giving the cabbie directions to their hotel, this would show them.

Just before the cab started to move, the door to his left suddenly opened and Stiles started as some older guy in a long, expensive looking coat jumped in and joined him.

“Uh,” Stiles stammered, staring. The guy turned and sharp blue eyes zeroed in on him, giving him a once over before his expressionless face broke out into a nervous smile, and a rather creepy one at that, Stiles couldn’t help but feel.

His mouth worked silently. The hell?

“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t see you in here.” The cab had started moving by now and Stiles watched as an apologetic look—fake, his subconscious warned him—came across the man’s face. “Sorry about that. You don’t mind if we shared, do you?”

Since his hands were already in his jacket to get his phone, Stiles swiped his thumb and unlocked it discreetly. “No, not at all,” he replied politely, fingers tapping the necessary buttons to send out the distress alert text saying he was being followed to Scott and Lydia.

The man nodded and leaned forward to murmur to the driver.  Stiles took the time to give him a look over as well.

Most likely not a were, Stiles thought moments later as they spent the drive in somewhat awkward silence. Looking out the window, he could see out of the corner of his eyes in the reflection that the man was staring at him again, though he was being very subtle about it.

Stiles sighed and settled back in his seat, deciding to get this over with before he got to the hotel. “So, who are you? Police, right? You’re tailing me?”

The man stiffened, slowly turning to look at him with a perplexed expression. “What?” he said in a perfect imitation of a puzzled voice.

Can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Stiles thought, nearly rolling his eyes. “My dad’s a sheriff; I know the look of gauging a suspect,” he said slowly, and then he shrugged. “And you’re not as discreet as you’re trying to be about it.”

The confused face fell, a scowl replacing it. “Fine,” the man huffed. “But I’m not the police. I’m a consulting detective—Sherlock Holmes.”

Stiles went still, his eyes quickly narrowing, and there was a split second fissure of fear before his eyes widened in surprised glee. “You that Sherlock Holmes?”

Leaning back, Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve heard of me?”

Stiles nodded. “Don’t know why you’re following me, though,” he said, switching to unconcerned. “I didn’t kill anyone.” Even the police thought he just stumbled across the body. It also helped that he made sure to be on the phone with 999 when they arrived.

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock drawled, agreeing. “How could you? That body looked like it was attacked by an animal. It was torn to shreds.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, Stiles saw the widened gaze of their driver flicker to the rearview mirror. But apparently scaring their driver wasn’t something this guy was concerned about as he went right ahead.

“But the spacing between the individual claw marks were too far apart for it to be an animal, so the attacker is human—probably wearing some kind of weapon fashioned to look like an animal. Poor job done if that was what they were trying for, though.” Sherlock shook his head, his dark curls whipping left and right. “The kill was rather fresh and there wasn’t a speck of blood on you, so yes, you’re obviously not the murderer.”

Stiles could only watch on in mute fascination. The guy was as impressive as the papers said he was. Still, he was pretty far off the mark towards werewolves and so, Stiles couldn’t help but relax a bit.

It proved he did so too soon because Sherlock quickly followed up with another deduction. “You do however know something. Maybe it has something to do with the person you covered for when the police found you.”

Stiles head whipped over. “What?”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smirk, smug. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “There was another pair of footprints at the crime scene, fresh and placed right next to yours as if she was standing right next to you.” Sherlock shrugged. “I followed it over to a fire escape.”

“It wasn’t,” Stiles pressed urgently, shaking his head. “She had nothing to do with it. She was with me when we found the body, and she’s never been in trouble before with the police so I told her I’ll take care of it and pointed her to the fire escape. You think some five foot five girl in heels clocking in a hundred and seventeen pounds can do that kind of damage?”

Sherlock’s gaze was darting across Stiles face, his eyebrows furrowing. “You’re telling the truth,” he murmured, lips pursing. “Still, you know something and I will find out.”

And those were not the words he wanted to hear.

Shit, Stiles thought, mentally panicking. We’re so screwed.

[zefyre]

Tony Stark and Lucifer (Supernatural) - #61 and/or #77

#61: Fairy Tale & #77: Test

Set sometime after Iron Man 3

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

“Are you?”

Tony took a look at his surroundings, the bleak, darkened landscape, the various limbs strewn across the ground before nodding—there was blood and sinew and everything; appropriately grotesque and properly disgusting, he thought mildly. “Have to be. Pretty sure I’m not dead. I even remember falling asleep next to my brilliant and gorgeous girlfriend. So unless I had a heart attack or someone assassinated me while I was sleeping, then yeah, dreaming.”

His blond companion tilted his head appraisingly. “Funny how you make no contest about going to Hell once you perish.”

Tony shrugged. “Well, it would suck, especially if the place looks like this. You’re Satan, I assumed? You don’t get any interior decorators down here?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, as I was saying, it wouldn’t come as a complete surprise. I’ve done some shitty things.”

Blue eyes only blinked back at him.

“I will admit, though,” Tony added as an afterthought, taking a look around him once more. “I do have an overwhelming urge to repent and ask for forgiveness when I wake up. And to stop the midnight caps.”

“If you wake up,” Lucifer remarked casually, plucking a stray string from his shirt.

“If,” Tony repeated flatly.

As Lucifer wandered away to pick up a—Tony’s face twisted in distaste—lone and mangled hand by its pinky, his answer was simple and succinct.  “If.”

“Is this like some kind of fairy tale? Like my subconscious is trying to pull one over me, to teach me some moralistic lesson?” Tony gave the man a mocking smile. “Cause they’re not my thing, buddy.”

Slowly, Lucifer turned back to face him, a demented grin stretched out on his face. Tony tried hard and failed not to grimace because ugh, decaying skin. “Hmm,” the fallen angel hummed, pleased, “Then consider it a test, instead.”