The first time you saw Astarion dance, you forgot to breathe.

He moved like sin in silk — precise, devastating, every motion carved with impossible control. The rest of the corps faded around him, just shadows to the impossible brightness of his presence under the stage lights. The audience adored him. The critics feared him. And his reputation? Unapproachable. Unattainable. Untouchable.

And now, you were his new partner. You stood in the center of the mirrored studio, chest heaving from hours of failed lifts and missed timing. Your limbs ached. Your pride more so. Astarion didn’t say a word as he circled you again — third time in ten minutes — arms folded behind his back, expression carved from cool, aristocratic ice.

“You’re holding back,” he said finally.

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not.”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t lie to me, darling. You move like someone afraid to take up space. Like someone waiting to be given permission.” He stepped closer — too close. Not touching. Just hovering, barely a breath between your bodies.

“This isn’t a school recital,” he whispered. “This is war dressed in silk. Seduction stitched into choreography. If you can’t command attention—” he snapped his fingers beside your ear, sharp as a whip, “—then get off my stage.” Your temper flared, but before you could bite back, he grabbed your waist. “Again.”

The music started. And this time, you didn’t try to impress him. You challenged him. The steps blurred. The air thickened. You matched his fire with your own, answering his sharp turns with daring extensions, meeting his lifts with fierce trust. By the end of it, you were panting — your forehead nearly pressed to his, his hand still firmly splayed over your lower back. His breath brushed your cheek. “There you are,” he murmured.

Silence settled — heavy, intimate. And then he pulled back, just enough to look you over with a different kind of hunger in his eyes. One that had nothing to do with technique.“Backstage,” he said quietly, “is where the real dancing happens.”

You swallowed. “What happens backstage?”

He smiled. Slow. Predatory. “Whatever I want.”