Azar blinked, nonplussed at his surprisingly forward answer. "Me," she repeated numbly. "What does that mean," she asked, eyes narrowing.
Sarkan tilted his head to one side, eyes glittering. "Many things," he murmured, lips curving into a wide smile. But then he angled his head in the other direction, his expression softening. "But for now…It means whatever you want it to be."
A very small part of Azar that closely resembled Aysu went weak at the knees and became a gooey puddle. Azar actually felt her knees start to give way before she caught herself with a fierce mental scowl. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath and pretended for the brief span of that breath that there was not a Trickster standing less than a foot away, casually blocking her in. After she exhaled carefully, she opened her eyes and studied the man before her, trying to discern any visible emotions in his face.
After a moment, Azar growled under her breath: The Trickster was as unreadable as ever. He chuckled at her expression. "Most people ask questions instead of trying to find the answers via telepathy…Which is something I don't believe I endowed you with, Azar."
Azar shivered at the way he purred her name, resisting the urge to shrink back against the wall. "Why me?" she asked bluntly. Sarkan leaned his head back and laughed softly. Azar watched the pale column of his throat vibrate with the laughter, starting to feel angry. She reached up and shoved him. The laughter abruptly stopped as he rocked back from her push and his head snapped forward again to watch her again, eyes narrowing by a small fraction. "I am no one's plaything," Azar hissed, ignoring who the Trickster was for a moment. "If that's all you are interested in, look elsewhere Lokisson." She spat out his title as an insult and reminder, shouldering past him and walking away. When she felt hands on her shoulders she froze, a not-so-silent snarl audible.
"And that," A low voice murmured into her ear, making her shiver again, "is why you caught my eye. There are similarities between you and I, Azar." The Trickster stepped around to face her, his expression intent. "We bow to no one, we have little patience for perceived fools and we are very confident within our chosen fields." He took a step closer, something darker and hungrier flickering in his eyes. "And we can be ever so passionate and possessive," he breathed, staring down at her.
Azar went hot and then cold. She stared back up at him, trying to hold onto a thought long enough to form some sort of response. She inhaled deeply, inadvertently breathing in whatever cologne the Trickster used. Cinnamon, a small voice that sounded suspiciously like Aysu remarked. Cinnamon and pomegranate. Mmmm. Azar mentally swatted the voice and focused.
Trickster.
Her.
Trickster, wanting her.
"…Whatever I want it to be," she repeated, watching him. He nodded. "You have a reputation, Lokisson," she said carefully. "I refuse to become part of that reputation. Still," she said, considering the possibilities of what he was offering. "I find myself curious as to where this will lead." She smiled, the expression made crueler by the dark gleam in her eyes. "…Your move, Trickster."
With that final remark, Azar stepped past him and made her way down the hall of the bataclan and up to her loft.
AN: Eh, what the hell. It's after midnight, I've changed my pen name and this is one of my favorite drabbles. It also shows an important aspect of Sarkan and Azar's relationship: He always gives her the choice. She can always walk away or say no and he lets her. He is also allowed to say no to her- one of the most vehement examples is Manipulations- but he holds a position of great power. I want their relationship to be equal and balanced..High levels of physicality and possessiveness aside.
