[Understand: he does not play favorites, not between his consorts. With them, yes; there is such a delight to elevating the two of them above all others in this coven, pointedly putting them first. But everything that Astarion gets, Fenris does too, and vice-versa, for he will not cheat one to sate the other, no matter how they might beg for it.
But that doesn't mean he treats them uniformly. That would be foolish; the relationship he has with both of them is unique, and so he cannot spoil them both with the same hand, as though there is no difference between them. And within those relationships, there are variances. Privileges afforded to each in turn based on their sired-order, and things that Vakares cannot deny. Fenris is the younger, and so he gets treated with a softer hand, and as for Astarion . . .
Astarion gets this kind of intimacy. This pointed dominance, this reversal of roles . . . oh, yes, this is his right. This is what centuries of intimacy has earned him, and after all this time, Vakares relishes it: the relief that comes from allowing someone else to take control. The joy of letting his eyes flutter closed as the air slowly expels from his lungs, his lips parting as Astarion bites at his throat. Impudent thing, he thinks, and slides his hands around lithe hips, both palms gripping full cheeks and tugging them forward.]
Nosy.
[As gentle as those bites. He'll let Astarion have his way, oh, yes, for that is the least of what he owes him, but he needn't be passive about it. His fingers grope at supple curves, blunted talons digging in as he pulls the other vampire forward, rut, guiding him along a grinding lapdance.]
We spoke of the past. Of my turning, and of yours— though when it came to you, I advised him only to ask of your past.
[No secrets revealed, no details offered. He is not callous.]
He wanted to understand why I made the decision I did— and why I had not simply made you heir instead.
no subject
But that doesn't mean he treats them uniformly. That would be foolish; the relationship he has with both of them is unique, and so he cannot spoil them both with the same hand, as though there is no difference between them. And within those relationships, there are variances. Privileges afforded to each in turn based on their sired-order, and things that Vakares cannot deny. Fenris is the younger, and so he gets treated with a softer hand, and as for Astarion . . .
Astarion gets this kind of intimacy. This pointed dominance, this reversal of roles . . . oh, yes, this is his right. This is what centuries of intimacy has earned him, and after all this time, Vakares relishes it: the relief that comes from allowing someone else to take control. The joy of letting his eyes flutter closed as the air slowly expels from his lungs, his lips parting as Astarion bites at his throat. Impudent thing, he thinks, and slides his hands around lithe hips, both palms gripping full cheeks and tugging them forward.]
Nosy.
[As gentle as those bites. He'll let Astarion have his way, oh, yes, for that is the least of what he owes him, but he needn't be passive about it. His fingers grope at supple curves, blunted talons digging in as he pulls the other vampire forward, rut, guiding him along a grinding lapdance.]
We spoke of the past. Of my turning, and of yours— though when it came to you, I advised him only to ask of your past.
[No secrets revealed, no details offered. He is not callous.]
He wanted to understand why I made the decision I did— and why I had not simply made you heir instead.
So curious about him, after all this . . .?