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Written by @Lassiter_SASBDB.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I thought as I leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the long table in the dining room. It was first meal and it was a packed house. Zhadist, a male with a face and ‘tude guaranteed to inspire nightmares was smiling at something his shellan Bella said as she put their young, over her shoulder to burp.  Vishous and Butch were in an animated discussion over the prospects of the Red Sox this season. Phury and Cormia had come to talk to the King and Beth had coaxed them into the dining room first. Phury held Cormia’s right hand with his left under the table, a man at his ease with his family. Rhage and Mary were talking quietly, a mixture of worry and frustration running off them but under it all was a core of love so solid it almost glowed. Tohr was picking at his food as the others shoveled it in, his hard-set face a mask over a ball of pain I couldn’t even begin to understand, but I was working on it, and on him as well. And there at the head of the table sat Wrath, King of the Vampires, nearly totally absorbed in his Queen. The little smile, the unconscious touches, the way he leaned in as she spoke, all told of a brother bonded to his very soul. They were a family. My family. MY family. How the fuck did I get a family? This was supposed to be my one and done path to redemption. Save Tohr from himself for Wellsie, get him back on his feet and bing, bam, bop, I’m back on top. But it hadn’t worked that way. Shoulda’ been simple. Woulda’ been simple but he wouldn’t let go of his dead shellan or their unborn young. Bringing Tohr back to the Brotherhood when the war had been going so badly had given him a reason to exist but he still had a death wish and wasn’t that just a big fat failure on my part? His young and his shellan were caught in the in-between and getting more lost in it every day. And if I succeeded in helping him move on so /they/ could move on what was my reward? A job above my paygrade. The new God for the race. God help me. And them. Although I don’t see how I could fuck it up worse than the Scribe Virgin already had. But I wouldn’t change it. I’d definitely developed relationships as I’d hung around trying to redeem myself and these people had become more than randoms to me. They had become people I cared about. People I admired and I was sick of seeing them get screwed over again and again. Most of the brothers were fucked in the head in one way or another, and all of them were noble and fiercely loyal protectors of a race that hadn’t a frigging CLUE as to what each sacrificed to keep them from extinction. And they /needed/ the other half of their souls to bond with, to heal that screwed up mess in their heads. Maybe that was why the Scribe Virgin had made the deal with me. I’d begun to care enough to fight for them. And I loved a good romance, so long as it wasn’t my own. But that’s another story. No, they’d sucked me in with the way they loved and they fought, with their loyalty and determination, their kinks and their honor. I’d found out I wanted to be a part of it so much that taking the SV’s deal had been a no-brainer. And I’d do a better job of it. Balance be damned. The shit the Omega dealt out was the balance for all the good the Brotherhood was doing. They didn’t need to be shafted by their deity as well. But how the Hell do I do this? I’m a screw up. I always have been. But I can’t screw this up. I just can’t. With a sigh, I step back from the doorway and let myself become visible. Perk of angeldom. I can look almost like a norm, be a blinding ball of light, or become totally invisible. Shaking out my long blonde and black hair, I glance down at the shimmering pink spandex stretched so tightly over my lower extremities that /nothing/ was left to the imagination, the white stretch boots pulled up almost to my knees, my chest laid bare but for my piercings and the straps attached to the spandex that slipped over my shoulders, and assumed my persona, because they never, NEVER, are allowed to know who I really am, what I really am. Striding into the dining room, I toss back the long mane of hair and strike a pose against the door frame as I sing out… “Ooohh, there’s a Meg Ryan movie marathon on tonight boys. Who’s going to be Sleepless in Seattle with me?”

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Forse è finita davvero. Credo che questo sarà l'ultimo banco di prova, e poi perderò davvero le speranze.

Non ha più senso provarci, continuo solamente a farmi male.

Mi dispiace buttare tutto al vento, forse per orgoglio, o forse per delusione, ma sicuramente per incomprensione; non mi capisco nemmeno io, non so perché mi aspetto che lo facciano gli altri.

Finché ho le forze continuerò ad urlare, silenziosamente, imperterrito, magari qualcuno capirà.

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