LYCOS | tacet anima mea [Wenclair Omegaverse]

SCALDING | moon | ii (4) | 3.8k

| ix |

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☼ ⋆⁺₊⋆

| (she bleeds) |

Your arm is being stitched raw.

In truth, you don't need this. The wound would've scabbed over within the hour or few, scarred by the day, lie as a derisory line by the next, before, devastatingly, it'd leave you clean by week's end.

(She still has marked you. She has claimed you.)

But knowing you will pull out the threads through a witching hour dwells you intensity. The anticipation is palatable.

Nobody else seems to share the same sentiment. Which, odd, though for all your years in life, you hardly find yourself surprised. You sit in the chair. The nurse remains horrified with herself, if not with you. Enid—

Oh, and yes, you convinced the nurse that Enid would need the bed more than you yourself, the clawed-victim. She griped about it for the first several minutes before, inevitably, Enid fainted face-first into the pillow. Admittedly, she lasted longer than you thought she would've.

The nurse glances between the two of you. Enid stirs, and you're face feels softer than usual.

She's disconcerted.

You're merely glad that, out of this mess, you managed yourself quite the slashing.

(What a reality to waltz to, in due time.)

| x |

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☼ ⋆⁺₊⋆

| (she follows a familiar path) |

For once, you stand in Weems' office purely to rattle-off an unbiased statement. Enid is the one to sit in your designated chair, while Ajax is awkwardly placed on the other side. You don't have a chair yourself. You stand beside the lofty desk.

The high of your slashing has been disquieted. Your sleeves — both blazer and blouse — take after tresses. Beneath that, a stanch white. A hide that you will shed in short notice, for it is a bane more than comfort.

Ajax sits pale in the face. You presume there was a lengthy conversation before you and Enid knocked on her door, then took your places. How much was actually said is ... unbeknownst to you. The more you piece together his complexion, then your principal's patience, the less you think conversation. Lecture sounds more appropriate.

Enid, she fares no better. Her hands lace through her hair. Her claws are drawn. There's a nervous energy. Across her knuckles, in her heel, she fidgets.

Weems is quiet. She keeps her lips pursed, and you know the eyes she has set on Enid. She watches her, the Alpha, without surprise, as though she knew this rut to boil over. It was only a matter of time, truly.

Her hands close together. The desk does its part to hide her domineering stature.

"What is the heart of the matter, then?"

Ajax shrugs. Squeaks, somewhat,

"Just ... arguing."

A brow arches, and Weems prompts through thrum,

"Enough to be a clear disruption between class periods, Mister Petropolus?"

"Uh, y-yeah." (His face is fumed. Eyes bleary. Cheeks wet.) "Um. Alpha things. That's ... all." (Angry, yet he is still trying. For her. Enid. The Alpha who swiped at him, slashed you.)