I Will Run You Like A Thread (Fem!Stiles x Derek)

Sometimes this has a hot, sweet taste

"I'm not going in there. You can't make me."

Stiles is doing her best to sound confident as she says this, staring bug-eyed and frozen in front of the huge bay window of the bridal store that Lydia's currently holding her hostage in front of. From the way Lydia's glowering at her, all haughty and self-righteous, slender arms crossed imperiously, Stiles doesn't think it's really having the effect she'd intended.

"I mean it," Stiles hisses. "If I go in there, I'm gonna get hives or some shit." Plus, she thinks, glancing down at her grungy sneakers and ripped-at-the-knee jeans, the sleeves of Derek's much-too-large sweater curled over her twitching fingertips, she's not exactly dressed for a fancy place like this.

She doesn't say any of this out loud, but it's apparently written all over her face or something because Allison and Erica have suddenly appeared, flanked somewhat ominously on either side of her.

"They have to let you in," Allison says cheerfully. "You've got the golden ticket," she adds, pointing at the not-so-small engagement ring sparkling conspicuously on her finger.

"I don't care," Stiles says, "I'm not going to buy anything anyway, so I don't -- hey." She squeaks out of shock when Erica and Allison grab her by the elbows and drag her toward the door. The stream of swear words that follows gets her nothing. Erica pointedly ignores her, singing that damn Willy Wonka song gleefully under her breath.

The door shuts behind them, one of those doorbells that's actually a bell ringing annoyingly above their heads. Stiles scowls but doesn't even bother trying to run. She's fast, yeah, but she's also one thousand percent certain that Erica would relish the chance to tackle her to the ground in like an instant. Stiles doesn't think she'd even hesitate.

"I told you I'm not wearing a stupid wedding dress," Stiles says, and this time, yeah, maybe she does stomp her feet like a little child. Because she's frustrated, okay? "Or a stupid veil, or one of those dumb, frilly scrunchie thingies that get thrown at people --"

"Uh, you mean a garter?" Allison offers.

"Sure," Stiles says, waving her arms exasperatedly, "whatever."

Lydia has that wicked, kind of scarily hungry gleam in her eyes that Stiles definitely doesn't like, and more certainly, doesn't trust. "That's fine," she says, tossing a few bronze strands of flawless hair over an equally flawless shoulder, "that gives us plenty of other options to choose from."

Stiles blinks. "Choose...from? Choose what? What am I choosing? I don't want to choose --"

Lydia turns to Stiles, hands on her hips, as if having to explain herself is the most burdensome thing Stiles has ever made her do. Stiles isn't thrown by this -- she sees that face on her best friend a lot, particularly where Stiles herself is concerned . "Oh my god, will you chill? You've already said no to practically everything fun. You won't even let me buy bridesmaids dresses, so you're going to let me have this, okay?"

"Have what? What am I having? I don't want to have anything!" Stiles says, wincing as she hears her voice going embarrassingly shrill.

"Whoa, chill, dude --" Erica says, "because if you have a heart attack, Derek is definitely going to be mad at us."

"Like I care if Derek Hale is mad at me," Lydia scoffs, examining one of her crimson, talon-like nails for a purely-imaginary speck of dirt.

"Of course you can say that," Erica says, grimacing. "He's scared of you."

"Derek's not scared of Lydia," Allison says, which just makes Stiles snort because she knows for a fact that he definitely kind of is. Just a little. But it's not like it's anything to be ashamed about, Stiles thinks. Lydia could be truly terrifying on occasion, and Stiles can say that as someone who's witnessed terrifying on a massive, and admittedly, largely supernatural scale.