Luneshale Pass Saltanatın oğulları

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Samirseti hummed lowly at his words, the sound curling from his chest like that of a feline. His golden gaze remained steady, unyielding, even as Arslan’s playful warning filled the air between them. “Ah, nefer,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “You mistake my curiosity for something so shallow as reading you. I am no scribe, and you are no scroll.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward, his sharp teeth catching the faint light as he let his nose brush against the side of Arslan’s neck again, his breath warm as he spoke. “It is your birthright, then,” he murmured, “this regality you claim to run from. It is in your blood, as you say—flowing, unrelenting. But tell me, does that truth bind you, or does it embolden you?”

Samir’s teeth pinched again at the wolf’s scruff, this time with a little more weight behind the gesture, a deliberate test. “Perhaps,” he added, releasing him just as easily, “you do not run from regality at all. Perhaps you run because you fear what it might require of you.” His voice dipped, smoother now, teasing but with an undertone of quiet conviction. “A crown, after all, is heavier than it looks.”

An odd form of flirtation, but Samir's voice, warm as honey, sugarcoated it into a lilting lull. He pressed his tongue through out the fur upon Nefer's neck, working through the stiff doublecoat that lined his neck. He was careful with his ministrations, his breath billowing against him from flaring nostrils.

The press of Arslan’s muzzle against his own drew a faint, rumbling chuckle from Samir’s throat. The other’s confidence amused him, the way he wore it like a fine cloak. “It is a shame, truly,” he said after a moment, his tone softening just slightly, “that you don't intend to stick around.” He hummed, and with that, his long legs coiled and he lightly rolled Nefer over onto his back. His own body moved to lay halfway above him, nose pressing to the base of his throat, teeth baring teasingly against the fur there.