The desired Slave

Years of ownership had taught Astarion how to survive by becoming whatever people wished to see. He could read desire faster than most people could speak it aloud. A single glance told him whether someone wanted softness, cruelty, affection, obedience, teasing wit, false vulnerability. He adapted instantly, changing expressions and tone like changing masks at a masquerade. It was second nature now so instinctive that sometimes even he no longer knew where the performance ended. Charm became armor. Perfection became survival. Astarion rarely allowed himself genuine reactions anymore. Real emotions were dangerous things when your body belonged to others. Anger invited punishment. Sadness ruined the illusion clients paid fortunes to experience. Fear only encouraged cruelty in certain kinds of men. So instead he mastered elegance. He laughed beautifully. Smiled beautifully. Spoke beautifully. Even exhaustion was hidden beneath careful grace. But beneath that polished exterior, years without autonomy had hollowed something inside him. He had grown deeply detached from his own body, treating it less like part of himself and more like an object he maintained for work. Touch no longer felt personal. Compliments felt transactional. Desire from others felt inevitable rather than flattering. Sometimes he caught his reflection and felt strangely disconnected from the person staring back.

People called him desirable so often that the word itself became meaningless. Ownership had also made him deeply controlling in the few areas where he still had power. He became meticulous about routines, appearance, posture, speech small details he could command when nothing else truly belonged to him. A wrinkle in clothing could irritate him for hours. An unexpected change in schedule could leave him tense and sharp tongued. Control over little things helped him ignore the helplessness over larger ones. Emotionally, he learned to weaponize wit before anyone could wound him first. His humor turned razor edged, flirtatious one moment and vicious the next. He mocked people before they could mock him. Seduced them before they could corner him. Manipulated conversations so he never appeared vulnerable. Very few people ever saw sincerity from him. And when they did, it often vanished just as quickly beneath sarcasm or cruelty, as though he regretted exposing anything real. Deep down, resentment had rooted itself into him like poison. Not loud resentment. Quiet resentment. The kind that simmers for years behind practiced smiles. He envied freedom obsessively ordinary people making careless choices, touching whom they wished, walking where they pleased, existing without being observed or evaluated. Sometimes he hated wealthy patrons on sight simply because they could leave a room whenever they wanted while he remained exactly where he was told. Yet paradoxically, part of him had become dependent on the luxury surrounding him. Fine fabrics, expensive wine, perfumed baths, servants tending to every need these comforts had become intertwined with survival. The idea of losing them frightened him almost as much as remaining trapped. That contradiction disgusted him.

It made him feel weak. Most tragic of all, Astarion no longer fully believed anyone could want him without wanting ownership over him too. Affection always came with conditions. Desire always demanded access. Kindness always expected performance in return. So he stopped trusting tenderness entirely. If someone reached for him gently, he braced for the hidden price underneath it.