[Credits to Aomine (@estherromanova) on X/Twitter for art/idea!]

The forest reeked of wet pine and blood.

Sampo Koski flitted between half-dead trees, boots never once touching the snow-drowned floor. Even for him—master of exits, prince of slippery getaways—this was a close call. His breath came ragged, sharp, frigid puffs that vanished before they could linger. “You mutts,” he spat over his shoulder, tone more wounded than witty. “I didn’t even do anything!”

And he hadn’t. He hadn’t even flirted with one of their mates…this time!

One moment, he was cutting through the woods—doing a favour to clear a debt he hated hanging over his head—and the next, he was dodging claws the size of meat cleavers. The werewolf had been newly turned; he could smell it—reeked of rot and desperation. No control. No thought. Just rage. Sampo, who always considered the centuries-old vampire-lycan feud outdated drama, now found himself very suddenly and unfairly embroiled in it.

A single swipe tore through his coat and raked his side—hot, searing. He didn’t have time to scream. Just run, and run.

Eventually, he couldn’t.

Transforming into a bat wasn’t his favourite trick—undignified, for one. Try maintaining theatrical flair when your limbs are tiny, your snout’s too big for your face, and your ears twitch on their own. But when your choices are ‘mauled to death’ or ‘tiny flying meatball,’ well…one adapts.

Now here he was: an indigo-blue puffball, wing-webbing streaked with green, his round body huddled beneath a half-rotted log. He couldn’t even move. The wound had followed him into this form—throbbing—and the cold had crept into his bones.

His heartbeat slowed. So this was it. Not slain in a duel of passion, not unravelled in an elaborate espionage gone wrong, not even buried in a lover’s garden. No. Frozen to death under a log, alone, smelly, and—

Footsteps. Sampo’s ears twitched.

Heavy, deliberate, booted. Not the lumbering stomp of a beast, but the measured pace of someone disciplined. Familiar. A gloved hand lifted the log.

The light made him squint—well, metaphorically. His eyes were currently the size of beads. But the silhouette was unmistakable.

Gepard Landau, the Blue Cloak Ranger Captain…of all people.

The man loomed like a mountain—broad-shouldered, snow-dusted, brow furrowed in that constant expression of strained confusion. Rifle slung across his back, cloak billowing like the goddamn hero of a painting. The exact opposite of everything Sampo was—noble, strait-laced, emotionally constipated. And, apparently, his saviour.

“Hm?” Gepard leaned in. “What is this? A fat bat?”

Fat—FAT?!

Sampo let out the tiniest, most indignant squeak. EXCUSE ME?! I’m not fat! This is all FLUFF!

Gepard poked him. He squeaked again, more wounded this time. Is this what death felt like? Humiliation and gloved fingers?

“Hm…” Gepard muttered, kneeling. His breath fogged in the air. “You’re injured.”

Thank you, Mr. Obvious.

To Sampo’s horror, Gepard pulled a fabric scrap from his coat—clean, smelling faintly of pine and something warm. He wrapped it around Sampo gently, forming a little bat-burrito. Then, with no warning or ceremony, he picked him up. Sampo, frozen in mortification and literal cold, could only stare.

“Strange,” the captain mumbled, inspecting the oddly-coloured bat in his hands. “Never seen a blue one before. Did someone dye you, little guy?”

Little guy. Sampo wanted to scream. He squeaked again.

As they moved through frostbitten woods under a silver sky, he could hear Gepard’s heartbeat as he tucked him into the crook of one arm like a snow-damp parcel. Steady. Deep. Protective. It made him dizzy.

The pain dulled. Sleep tugged at the edges of his tiny mind.

Maybe…maybe it wasn’t the worst thing. Being held like this. Warm. Safe. Even if the man thought he was some helpless woodland puffball. Fine. Let him think he had rescued a bat. It wasn’t like Sampo would ever let him find out otherwise.

At least, not until he’d healed enough to turn back and deliver the sass Gepard so deserved.

“Fat bat”, his arse.