Because I’ve had people asking via PM and really don’t have the energy today for reasons stated below: I’ve stated in several times in PMs, some asks, and in a prior post, it can take up to 5 days to ask the refugees if they’re interested in working with someone as there are at least 500 who are looking for homes and I have to do this for 10-12 people. Right now it will probably take a little longer (7 to 8 days) as reasons will be explained below.
Why do I not have the energy: I have had family emergencies, which can be draining on their own as an empath. I have also been attacked rather viciously spiritually/energetically/astrally, whichever way you wish to put it, twice (thought the jerk was down but he really wasn’t)- no, typical methods of protection did not work as they were not strong enough as this wasn’t your average spirit- within the past 36 hours due to some past life issues I will not go into publicly and really don’t want to discuss with anyone but my girlfriend @half-human-machine and our spirit family. Yes, the refugees are fine. Yes, the vast majority of our spirit family is fine- aside from the one mate of mine/companion of Vic’s who the incident was tied to. Yes, Vic is for the most part fine. Yes, I am for the most part fine.
I need 3 things right now: (1) Rest, (2) Patience from all who are inquiring about spirit adoptions, and (3) Time with my family, with my girlfriend, with our spirit family- including the refugees, and with my friends. I repeat: rest, PATIENCE, and time with my loved ones.
Those who have filled out RA forms or are applying for adoption of spirits who are posted and will be posted should know something Monday or Tuesday.
1. Do not fast when I have to work the next day
2. The day of the fast isn’t the difficult one, it’s the day after when I feel weak and sick
3. Writing down when I feel like eating is immensely helpful
4. I want to do it again, but it will be hard to find time since I have to have no big plans the next day
5. After going a day entirely without sweets, they were slightly easier to turn down today
The thing with Marcus’s parents was that they cared. The problem was that the amount of care they exhibited was proportional with the way it affected their image and whether that was a direct or indirect ratio was, most often than not, a bitch to figure out.
Marcus prided himself in having done so pretty well this far.
He’d covered a learning deficiency too shameful to be exposed with medals and trophies in sports and with googling most of his math assignments. He’d masked an unwholesome character with violence on the wrong side of the town, where his parents wouldn’t even glance for fear their eyes would burn in their sockets. He’d hidden his lack of attraction to girls with – well, he’d hidden it. He’d done it so they wouldn’t have to care to pretend caring and he thought it should have brought him a different place from – well, here.
“One phone call, son.”
The police station was cold. The chair he sat in was wet, his jacket was long gone and, handcuffed as he was, he was not exactly in a position to work some warmth into his limbs. Everything hurt, from his ribs to his jaw to his head that was unbearably pulsing.
He hadn’t even wanted to take up with Tom Riddle. His father had different ideas, though, and a ridiculous ambition to continue breathing, and Marcus had been the lucky bastard his life hung on. Fucker. And now he was here.
“I – mm – I don’t really have anyone to call,” he said, eyes glued to his shoes.
His father would not even pick up. Riddle – Riddle would just make sure someone with a knife tripped close enough to Marcus to seem an accident.
“You sure?” The old man scratched his ear, bewildered. “What about your parents? A girl? Hell, even your dog walker would do.”
An idea flashed in Marcus’s mind and, though it made his stomach churn, he grabbed it desperately. He didn’t have a dog walker, he didn’t even have a dog but there was someone who liked dogs whose number he just might be able to remember.
“Yeah, ok, I’ll – uh – try that. Yeah.”
The number was so seared in his mind he’d dialled before he caught up with himself and then it was done. One call. No turning back.
The phone rang once, then twice, then a third time – Marcus started wounding the cord around his finger. He answered right after the churning anxiety inside Marcus’s stomach had turned to ash and the fear in his mouth had soured.
“Wood,” the gruff voice said.
Marcus’s entire body jolted. He wanted to smash the phone back in his holder. He wanted to punch someone and cry. Then preferably punch someone again.
“Hi,” he said instead, fingers pressed so tightly against the plastic they whitened. “It’s me.”
“Who are –” A long pause. “Flint?”
Marcus wished he could see Oliver’s face because his voice was – expressionless and blank and doing strange things to his heart. He swallowed hard. Behind him, the policeman cleared his throat diplomatically.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said before he could lose his courage. “I know we haven’t seen each other in two years but, theoretically speaking, how many blowjobs would you have to be bribed with to pay my bail, Oliver?”
Can be found: here as part of my 36 hours AU challenge
Author’s rambles: why do I write these horrible things?
Oliver doesn’t mean to discover it.
Stubby fingers drum quickly on Oliver’s desk. An equally stubby hand snatches his latest diagram from out his quill and he doesn’t raise his hand soon enough for a sharp black line not to pass through what he’s pretty sure would have been Katie Bell’s head had Oliver had any actual skills.
He doesn’t. Maybe-Katie-Bell’s head is a stick just like everything else of Maybe-Katie-Bell’s is but Oliver doesn’t mind. He wants his strategy back.
Professor Flitwick doesn’t look like he’s going to return it.
“Do you know what we’re working on today, Mister Wood?” he asks and he doesn’t expect an answer but “Feather-Light Charms, Professor,” Oliver says promptly.
He knows this one. It does wonders for the heavy parts of his uniform.
Flitwick seems pleased by this unexpected proof of attention for barely a fraction of a second. It disappears quickly under the same persistent scowl of aggravation.
“Feather-Light Charms performed on beings, yes. Cats, to be exact.” The Professor clucks his tongue as if bewildered. “Could you tell me where your cat is, Mister Wood?”
Not on his desk, certainly, and Oliver hastily pastes on a winning smile.
“Best not to wonder about it too much, Professor,” he says, then lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Something could happen to it if you go on asking that left and right. You know what they say.”
Maybe, had this been a first time – or third or even fifth – offence, Flitwick would have laughed. Now, he looks like he cares less what they say by the minute and Oliver sags. He can already hear McGonagall tearing into him.
“Detention, Mister Wood,” and Flitwick summons another one of the many cats in the classroom that lands hissing on Oliver’s desk. It seems even less impressed by its treatment when Oliver flicks his wand, charming it lighter than dust. Just for the kicks of it, he flicks the wand again, making the cat sway gently in a breeze. It spits and hisses furiously. Oliver understands it on a spiritual level.
“Well.” Professor Flitwick shakes his head resignedly. “I suppose I could avoid sharing this with Professor McGonagall this time since you seem to be able to do the work. Just joint down the hour of detention, Mister Wood. We wouldn’t want you to forget yet again, would we?”
Oliver is not exactly sorry - the time he should have spent with Filch had made for an exceptionally good practice session. Nevertheless, he fishes inside his bag for a new scroll of parchment but all he seems to find is Snape’s permission note, folded and refolded and spattered with what he’s pretty sure is Flint’s blood. He takes it out and scribbles the time and place on it.
“I’ll check,” Flitwick says drily. “We wouldn’t want to miscomprehend like that other time, would we?”
He just glances at the piece of paper. Then squeaks.
Oliver wasn’t aware there was anything to discover.
All of them are like that. All. Of. Them. Even the Slytherin practice plan Flint handed him back in fourth year. Even the pathetic “I’m sorry for breaking bones from your body,” letters their third year Defence Professor made Flint send.
Oliver hadn’t known Flint was so good at Charms. Oliver hadn’t known Flint was good at anything other than Quidditch. He hadn’t been aware he’d been hoarding all those notes, either.
“Hatred,” he tells Percy.
“Delusion,” Percy tells him.
When Marcus finds himself swiftly dragged into a broom cupboard, he doesn’t expect to find Oliver Wood in front of him, holding a piece of paper like a shield.
“You’re cute. Let’s fuck,” it’s not exactly what he expects to come out of his mouth either.
“Flint,” Wood says shaking one of the notes Marcus has been charming for years under his nose. “What the fuck is this?”
Marcus swallows hard. “An offer?” he answers blandly.
“Still open?” and a nervous lip bite is not how he thought this would go but he doesn’t complain too much.
“Do you even comprehend how much detention you got me?” Oliver asks later.