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"Put me down this instant, young man!" the white rabbit squeaks shrilly. "I'm late! I'm late!"
"Okay, seriously, I do not give a crap about how late you are!" Stiles shouts, trying to keep his grip on the wriggling creature—a freaking rabbit in a waistcoat with a golden pocket watch, what the hell—without crushing it. "What did you do? Where the fuck am I?"
"I'm late!" the rabbit cries, and with an almighty kick manages to free itself from Stiles' hands, springing up into the air and away fast as a bottle rocket. "Late! For a very important date!"
It darts away through the underbrush and Stiles swears and dives after it, moving as fast as he can through bushes and over tree roots, the ground dipping and rising like mossy waves under his hands and knees. The colors of the plants are a mass of neon greens and virulent purple, yellows shading into fiery orange and acid-bright red, and Stiles' eyes are watering with the intensity of it, his head reeling from the sugar-sweet scent drifting from the flowers as big as stop signs that he pushes roughly aside as he scrambles to his feet to really run.
That puffball of a tail bobs and zigzags in front of him and Stiles follows it blindly, arms up to ward off the branches that seem to reach for him of their own accord, grasping at his clothes and raking up long welts on his skin.
"Get the fuck back here!" he yells desperately, but the rabbit is leaving him behind, and he gets a foot on a rotten tree stump and uses it to lunge forward. He sees the ravine a little too late to do more than suck in a breath and brace for impact.
His fingers brush the rabbit's soft white pelt, just barely closing over the watch's chain before he hits the sloping ground and rolls, an uncontrolled tumble over rocky earth and knobby roots that knocks the breath out of him long before he reaches the bottom, leaving him flat on his back and gasping for air in the leaf litter.
It's darker down here, all shades of grey and black, red where Stiles' jeans have torn at the knee, red where he touches his forehead and his fingers come away wet.
"God damn it," he groans, eyes squeezing shut from the pain.
"Late!" the rabbit calls, too fucking far away. "Late, so very late!"
The pocket watch is in his hand, and Stiles lifts it to his eyes, squinting at the gold-plated face. The hand, a stylized cupid's arrow with a heart for a tip, is pointing to, "Late!" The times all have names like that, "Late!" and "Second Breakfast!" and something called "Frumptious Day!" Weird, but not the weirdest thing that's happened to Stiles today. Not even close.
"Ha," he says, feeling a little better. Maybe the little asshole will come back for it—
The arrow ticks, swinging from "Late!" to "Mortal Danger!"
Stiles stares at it, eyes widening just as a shadow falls over him.
"You're trespassing," someone snarls, and Stiles cranes his head back and sees ohholymotherfuckingshit the biggest fucking wolf he has ever laid eyes on, holy shit, holy shit—!
He defies anyone faced with that not to run screaming in the opposite direction.
The wolf catches him by the collar, hot blast of breath and pants-pissingly close scrape of teeth on his neck as he's jerked to a stop, then tossed back to the ground.
Stiles tries to scuttle backwards and the wolf stalks lazily after him, filling up his vision with bristling black fur and a mouth full of teeth as long as Stiles' hand.
"I—uh, I—"
"Shut up," the wolf says, fangs gleaming white as its lips peel back in an awful snarl. It pushes closer, closer, until it's standing over him and Stiles is pressing himself into the dirt so hard it hurts.
"Ah, um," Stiles starts again, and the wolf plants one massive paw on his chest.
"Shut. Up," it repeats, and Stiles stops breathing.
The wolf scents the air, twitching nose bumping up under Stiles' jaw, furred muzzle brushing over Stiles' cheek, and it punches something like a whimper out of his lungs.
"You don't follow directions very well, do you?" the wolf muses. "Be quiet, or I'll kill you."
The hot, wet drag of tongue along his throat makes Stiles twitch, but he doesn't say anything, and the wolf gives a wordless growl of approval, its teeth snagging on Stiles' shirt and tearing away like tissue paper, leaving his stomach bare and vulnerable under the weight of the wolf's paw.
Stiles knees draw up reflexively and hands press them back, legs pushing in between his own and in between blinks the wolf has become a man, gleaming pale eyes, dark fur-like hair on his head and standing in soft fluffy peaks at the apex of his thighs. He leans in over Stiles, warm insistent weight keeping Stiles pinned as fingers pluck at the button of his jeans.
Stiles makes a strangled, questioning noise, and the wolf sighs.
"For the last time, shut up," he rumbles, low and intimate, tongue running along Stiles' bottom lip as his hands slide under fabric. ""I said I wouldn't kill you, not that I wouldn't eat you."