|sam evans ( werewolf ) . (tamest) wrote in light_of_may,|
Though he didn't recognise it for himself -- not in the way most people would, at least -- Sam shocked and confused a lot of people with his behaviour, how he kept his eyes down and tended to slouch when he stood seemingly without reason, the nervous stuttering when he spoke and the way he wrung his hands. Those things weren't too unusual, merely surprising, simple signs of anxiety and timidity, but to weres it was so much more, August would see it for what it truly was. Sam's Omega tendencies weren't just pronounced they were intense, amplified far beyond the norm to the point where they essentially consumed every piece of him, dictated every little thing he said and did and thought. His rank had come to define him and that wasn't normal, not even for a submissive wolf. There were other things that made Sam who he was, traits and likes and dislikes that singled him out as an individual, but so much of him was simply Omega. The saddest part was that Sam didn't even see how wrong that was.
He needed to stop chewing the inside of his bottom lip, he'd done that too much before in the past and the taste of copper on his tongue always made him feel queasy. So he stopped, cleared his throat a little again, dared to turn his head enough so that he could lift his gaze briefly up towards August's face. When it dropped it found an unremarkable point on the table between them; someone had scratched the wood, possibly with a key or even the tines of one of the forks set ready to the side of each place around the table.
Was he here for good? Sam really should have known the answer to that, should have thought ahead so he had these answers ready and didn't waste so much of the Alpha's time. "Both. Maybe." It depended on August's reaction really but he wasn't so bold as to say that out loud. "I don't know what the issue is." He sounded apologetic when he said that. Something else he should have had prepared. His eyes came up again, just for a moment, at the mention of other packs. When Sam shook his head it was gently that he did so yet still enough to make his hair shift a little. Some of it fell close to his eye but he left it there. "I didn't know that," he admitted, one hand coming up, his fingers touching to the edge of the table, feeling the texture of it, the little imperfections and dips in the wood. Natural or man-made, he found himself wondering. Probably man-made, like the scratch on the top. "I only knew about yours." And that his parents despised the Summers Pack. Passionately.