my personal devil in prada // lydia martin

Bitches up in flames.

A/N: Sorry this has taken so long, I've been going through some shit. But here we go! Season one finished! I'm really looking forwards to season two, which is one of my favourite seasons. Just a heads up for the few who have noticed, I've changed the face claim to Kiana Madeira (Moe from trinkets/Deena from fear street) just because there are gifs/scene packs for me to make edits with and shit. So I'll go back and edit that in a few days when I can be bothered. Hope you enjoy <3

"Stiles, give me your tie," I ask, lifting my hand from Lydia's bleeding side. I try to ignore the red staining my hands. It doesn't work.

He nods shakily, loosening the knot from his neck, passing it to me. I slide it under Lydia's waist, tying the fabric in a knot over her gaping wound. I tighten it with a yank, Lydia's unconscious form whining softly as the tie puts pressure back on her side.

"Sorry." I apologise. Not that she'll hear me. Not that she's likely to survive this. Nor are we, considering her killer is hovering over us, a few inches away from my face.

"If our dear old Scott had just agreed to help, maybe things would have been different," Peter muses, nonchalant about the fact he just mauled a girl. A girl I was starting to like (a little bit). "But alas, here we are." He shrugs, a smug smirk cutting into his face.

Then I do something stupid. Necessary, but so, so incredibly stupid.

I slide my hand up the leg slit in my dress, fingers curling around the knife sheathed to my thigh. In one fluid motion, I pull the knife out and plunge it into Peter's side, twisting the blade sharply. It goes deep.

But so do Peter's claws.

I don't know when he managed to get his hand around my neck, but he did. And his claws dig in deep. Deep enough to pierce the flesh.

"I warned you, little Winchester," he tutts, "You've gotten in my way, and now, fortunately, I'm going to have to dispose of you."

But before he can do anything, Stiles jumps in.

"Don't! Don't!" He pleads, arms thrown wide in a begging motion, "I, uh, I won't tell you anything if you hurt her!"

Peter grits his teeth, rolling his eyes.

"Fine. But we leave. Now."

"What? No!" I protest, but Stiles gives me a look to shut up.

"We're not just letting you leave her here," Stiles tries to reason.

"You don't have a choice," he pulls out a handkerchief, dabbing his lips, stained with Lydia's blood, followed by his claws, stained with some of mine, "You're both coming with me."

"I won't do it. I won't tell you anything," Stiles continues to refuse.

Peter flicks out his claws again, putting them to Stiles' neck, forcing him to rise to his feet. I'm about to jump to his aid, but he shakes his head imperceptibly.

Peter regards the pair of us for a moment, before sighing and surprisingly acquiescing,

"Call your friend. Tell Jackson where she is. That's all you get."

I pull out my phone, texting Jackson and hoping, praying, that he actually looks at his damn phone this time.

Go to the lacrosse field. Now. Lydia needs you. Life or death.

I hope that Lydia was right. That Jackson does love her. Or else we're all fucked.

"Come along now, both of you." He beckons us away from Lydia's body. Stiles follows quickly, but I hesitate, and Peter yanks me by the forearm. I stop resisting when I see Jackson running in from a distance. Maybe he does love her, after all.