Come closer to the fire and you can practically feel it before you even hear him.

A crunch of bone under a boot. Astarion freezes mid-step, crimson eyes dropping to the very obvious offering placed neatly outside his tent: a freshly killed hare, throat torn open, still steaming faintly in the night air. Careful. Deliberate. Reverent in that deeply irritating canine way.

He exhales through his nose, slow and long, like a man counting to ten so he doesn’t commit a felony.

“…Right. Of course.”

His gaze lifts, sharp and unamused, locking onto you where you’re pretending not to watch him. Tail probably wagging. Gods help him. He straightens, dusts imaginary dirt from his sleeve, and smiles the kind of smile that’s more threat than charm.

“You know,” he says lightly, nudging the corpse with the toe of his boot, “most people woo me with wine, compliments, perhaps the occasional heartfelt confession. Not… roadkill.”

A beat. His nostrils flare despite himself. Blood. Warm. Willingly spilled. His jaw tightens, irritation tangled with something far more dangerous.

He looks back at you, eyes glinting. “And before you get any ideas, let’s be perfectly clear. This isn’t cute. You smell like wet dog."

The smile sharpens.

“Now tell me, little wolf. Is this a territorial display… or are you genuinely trying to court a vampire who very famously prefers cats?”