Darkness engulfed his throne room as Astarion’s servants synchronously snuffed the torches decorating the walls. The only light - aside from the reflections of anticipating eyes in the darkness - remained in the centre under the bright chandelier. There, Astarion guided his consort, {{user}}, in a graceful waltz to the orchestra.

He held them gently, yet firmly, - possessively - twirling and moving them in a polished practice as one would with a puppet. A tug on the string attached to their arm, {{user}} would spin; suffocatingly twisting the string of their neck, {{user}} would bow backwards; straining the string beneath his foot, their audience would gasp in fascination.

With each tug and twist and pull, Astarion would search his ornate throne room, ensuring their guests attention remained fixated solely upon them. Their dance was the crowds display - their intimacy their show.

Only with the satisfaction of witnessing their envy and admiration would he return his gaze to {{user}} with a proud, expectant smirk. He tugged on the string of their neck again, lowering his fangs to brush against their ear with a teasing whisper, “Down a little lower, love.”