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@marleysoffensive

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glxryhoskins:
There’s something about kitchens, the smell of food cooking, that reminds Glory of home. With so many siblings to feed, it seemed like someone was always in the kitchen, there, the smell of baking bread or hearty soup permeating throughout the house.
It was a chore that regularly passed between her siblings, but one that Glory usually avoided: it wasn’t that she didn’t know her way around the kitchen, because all Hoskins did, but she was far from the best. Since she spent most of her days outside, it usually fell on her to feed the animals, waking up with the sun to greet the chickens and the goats and whatever else they might have had at any given time.
But then, when she started staying out all night—(or almost all night, some friends’ pickup truck dropping her off at the end of their long dirt drive so the headlights and the engine didn’t wake up her whole family, leaving her to pick her way towards home, drunk and in the dark and in her illicit party clothes)—she stopped doing that. She stopped doing all kinds of chores.
If Justice punished her for it, well, he was always going to find an excuse to, anyway.
If you don’t count the dining hall—which Glory doesn’t—it’s been awhile since she’s had a home-cooked meal. Since the potluck at Abby’s right before Championships started. Christmas, when she stayed in Palmetto because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. And now, she follows her nose to Marley like a moth to flame.
“What’s in it?” She asks, leaning against the counter next to Marley so she can peer into the pot, frowning over her shoulder as Marley runs her finger under the tap. “That ain’t bad, is it? I can grab you a bandaid or something if you need one.”
She had no recollection of her mother’s cooking. Of course, Marley assumed that she must’ve done it, her father having been her father long before her disappearance, and she’d certainly never seen him in the kitchen using a knife for it’s intended purpose...but the traditional family meal he had been so obsessed with her taking over the mantle for, she had no memories of. Only the ones that he forced after the fact, but mostly, the hours that she would spend in that damn kitchen. Piecing a meal together from scratch, multiple courses and all, holding her breath while he took the first few bites when it was all done and ready for him, and his associates. Deeming it a good meal if it stayed on the table, comments through full mouths of how she was going to make some man very happy one day. And if not a good meal, Marley would go to bed hungry, no possible way of stomaching her food after having to clean it up off of the floor.
And yet, she was at ease, in the kitchen. Didn’t use the one in their apartment nearly as much as she’d done back in Virginia, but it was clear that she knew what she was doing. Came to her naturally, multiple things going on at once not even seeming to phase her. She knew exactly how much time was left in the oven for the bread, and that the beans were ready to be drained, and that the first aid kit underneath the sink would solve the problem of her finger and put her right on her way to adding those potatoes to the pot with everything else.
“Chicken, beans, potatoes...” She lists off absentmindedly, unable to keep from chuckling at Glory’s skeptic glance into the pot. “That’s just the chicken broth.” Her eyes cut briefly to the potatoes, and then back to her finger. “I’m okay, thank you, Glory...but do you mind actually just tossing those in for me?” Marley nodded her head towards the pot, reaching with her uninjured hand for the first aid kit, and pulling it out.
THIS IS YOUR GAME
Name: Marley Reid Age: Twenty Two Class Year: Sophomore Position: Offensive Dealer, #9 Hometown: Roanoke, Virginia
THIS IS YOUR MOMENT
TW: alcoholism, abuse, pregnancy, miscarriage
Born into a falling-down house on the wrong side of town, Marley was never supposed to amount to much, never meant to be anything bigger than the city she lived in and the name her father had given her. Her father was a criminal, but he was far from a mastermind, what small amount of infamy he had was due to being a small fish in an even smaller pond. But it gave him an exaggerated sense of his own importance, and with a small cadre of thugs to carry out his bidding, Patrick Reid exerted just enough control over his neighborhood and the surrounding blocks to be threatening. But no one was more afraid of him than his own children. Behind the walls of their run-down home he turned from a lowlife bookie and racketeer into something truly frightening: a monster soaked in alcohol, all flying fists and broken glass.
His wife left when their two daughters were still small, Marley hardly remembered her and her younger sister Emma didn’t at all. But despite his children’s lack of memory, her loss affected Patrick deeply: he held onto his children with an iron fist, viewing them as extensions of the mother they couldn’t remember, and thus just as prone to leaving, to disappointing him. They were guilty by association, and he punished them for her sins.
With their mother gone, it fell on Marley to be the responsible one, a surrogate mother to her sister and keeper of the household for her father. She took Emma to school and helped her with her homework, she cooked dinner for her father and whichever of his associates he brought home with him, she did the washing up when they passed out in the living room, holding her breath and hoping they wouldn’t wake up until she was finished and safely in her room. Those were her duties, but that wasn’t her life: her life, her real life, she tried to live in the snatched and stolen moments that weren’t dedicated to someone else—and she dedicated those to Exy.
At night, when it was just her and Emma in the small bedroom they shared, they dared to dream of a better life: of Marley turning eighteen and taking them both away from their father’s house into some bright but indistinct future. Marley thought, even if she never said it out loud, that Exy might be the key to it, and she gave the game everything she had, everything that wasn’t already pledged to her father or her sister. But maybe her sister knew that all their dreams were impossible flights of fancy, or maybe Emma just couldn’t wait that long, because her freshman year of high school she ran away with her boyfriend, and she left Marley all alone to face their father’s wrath.
And even though she’d thought her father’s grip was already suffocating, after that he held onto her even more tightly than before. He needed to know where she was at every moment of the day, like a malevolent shadow dogging her every move, ready to punish her if she arrived home even a minute later than she said she would. At night he would grab her by the throat, breath reeking of cheap vodka, and make her promise that she wouldn’t be like her mother, or her sister, that she would never leave him. If you do, I’ll kill you, he said, and she felt that promise in her bones.
By the time she graduated high school she was beaten down, and she’d given up on dreaming of Exy taking her away from Virginia—and yet she received an offer to join the Foxes, a full ride to Palmetto State. She held the contract in her hands, pen hovering over the dotted line, and yet she couldn’t make herself believe it. Joining the Foxes might have bought her five years of safety away from her father, but after that? College Exy seemed miraculous enough, being recruited to a professional team or making Court seemed like an even more impossible dream. And so Marley didn’t let herself believe in it, and forced herself down a different path, one she told herself was practical even if it was joyless. At eighteen she married Samuel Lawrenz, a bookie working for her father, and put down her racquet. ‘Til death do us part seemed a better guarantee of her safety than the five years she knew she’d get with the Foxes. It was only simple math.
SEIZE IT WITH EVERYTHING YOU’VE GOT
She passed hands: from her father’s care to Samuel’s, but soon it became clear that nothing had really changed. Though Samuel wasn’t a drunk like her father, he was a different kind of cruel. Sometimes, Marley thought, a worse kind: she would look in his eyes when he hurt her and see them clear and bright, and have no doubt that he knew exactly what he was doing, that he liked it. The home they built was full of violence and fear, somewhere Marley didn’t want to bring a child into, but a child was exactly what Samuel wanted—and if the world had taught Marley anything, it was that men like Samuel got what they wanted, and she never did. When Marley became pregnant, things did get better. He doted on her, full of plans for the future and their soon-to-be-child. When she miscarried, however, he became a monster, and the brutal beating he gave her was the last straw.
Coach Wymack? It’s, uh, Marley Reid. I just wanted to ask—is that offer still open? He was the only person she could think of to call, the only person she knew outside of the city she grew up in, and therefore the only person who could take her away from that place. And despite the fact that she was injured, despite the fact that she hadn’t so much as held a racquet in the three years of her marriage, Wymack gave her the spot on his line he had promised her all those years ago. She saw little gametime her freshman year, spending it re-acclimating to the sport—and going to court with the Foxes’ support to get a divorce from Sam—but this year, she’s determined, she’ll prove to Wymack, the team, and everyone else who questioned Wymack’s decision to recruit her that she was worth the investment.
MARLEY REID is portrayed by FLORENCE PUGH and is TAKEN
raph-peruggia:
Location: Fox Tower Roof Date: Thursday, March 21 Time: Night Status:(open)
The room is empty. Half of it is stripped bare. All of it is wrong. There should be a yellow comforter on the bed, a mess of video games and paper and pens on the desk, clothes in the dresser. It should not be empty. Lucas Ervine should be here. He isn’t.
Raph sits on the bed. The air here stills smells a bit like Lucas Ervine but that will fade in time Perhaps the ache will too.
This shouldn’t come as a surprise. Raph should just be grateful he had the chance to be near him at all. He certainly didn’t deserve to be. People have always been impermanent fixtures in his life. Everyone leaves and they do not come back. Everyone except for Frank. This isn’t the first time he’s had this thought. He’s always known this at his core. But it is the first time this has hurt so much, cracking something inside of him and sliding it out of place, the broken edges of it grinding against his ribs whenever he tries to breathe.
He leaves that place where nothing is right and the last trace of Lucas Ervine’s presence in his life is fading. The Fox Tower’s roof isn’t much of a hiding place but it’s close by and far off the ground and he can curl in the darkest corner furthest from the door and he can breathe through the awful, choking pain that’s filled his chest and he can try not to feel anything at all.
He doesn’t notice when the Fox Tower door slides open.
None of the girls were home. Marley didn’t very much like the stillness it entailed, though it used to be something she’d craved, reveled in when the rare opportunities arose that her house was hers to herself and she could breathe for what felt like the first time since whenever the last time she could breathe had been. Sometimes, weeks. Sometimes, months.
She could breathe in her apartment. Even when the girls were home, she found herself at ease, her shoulders light (or, as light as a Fox’s ever were). But she found that without them there, she was too aware of the sound of it. Didn’t like being left alone with her thoughts, trapped between four walls. It wasn’t an original thought--the roof--nor was there any guarantee that it would be unoccupied, but it was where Marley found herself climbing up to, bowl of reheated leftovers in her grip as she nudged the door open with her shoulder.
For a moment, she thought she was alone. Her eyes stared out into the distance, focusing on the lights of the city, the sound of the cars whirring past. People, living their lives. Returning home, leaving home, far from home.
She’d just been about to find herself a spot closer to the edge when she heard it. Her feet stopped in place, then, eyes scanning the seemingly vacant space, searching for the source of the...breathing? Choking? She couldn’t be sure. And that’s when she saw him, huddled in the far corner. Sympathy was something Marley struggled with--only having truly cared about herself and her survival for so long, but the sight of Raph on the roof may have just broken her heart. Part of her was tempted to leave, let him be with himself and his thoughts, but the roof was cold, and her food was warm.
Without a word, she made her way over to him, simply hovering, for a moment, before gently lowering herself beside him, legs crossing underneath themselves and, after a pause, her Tupperware container and spoon being placed in front of him, steam rising from it.
mrplantman:
“Shit, you okay?” Arlo steps fully into the suite, finally moving away from the spot where he’d been hovering, awkwardly leaning against the door jam. “I don’t think I’ve got a band-aid with me, but, I know I’ve got some sport tape and gauze in here?” He jiggles the duffel bag that’s thrown over his shoulder for emphasis.
“Oh, and sorry. You know.” He waves a hand, vaguely. “For sort of just standing there like a dumbass? I was headed out to the library but the smell sort of drew me in. And you looked so ‘in your element’ that I didn’t want to interrupt?” Arlo shrugs, shooting her a sheepish grin. “It was like watching the Food Network or something. You were so focused. You even have the fancy knife work, like Rachel Ray or something.”
He’s honestly a little jealous. There are times when the cafeteria food, as carefully planned and nutritious as it is, just doesn’t cut it. And, while he’s an adequate cook (had to have been, to look after himself in the years after his dad was incarcerated) he’s not great. He doesn’t enjoy it. It’s just another thing to keep him going. Another means of survival.
He wishes, sometimes - in the wistful way that people often do when they know the thing they want is so far removed from their reach - that his mother had left behind some of her recipes. The authentic, soul-satisfying food his Dad used to reminisce about as they ate lukewarm wings from the dive bar down the street.
It would have been nice. To have that - some part of her, no matter how small.
“I know you’re probably close to finishing up but, do you want some help? I can at least do the dishes or something. Give you a minute to catch your breath?”
Marley was quick to laugh off the concern (perhaps in an almost twisted sort of way, as she noted that the cut had hardly even phased her, or maybe because true, genuine concern for herself would always be a foreign concept to her). Her head shook, watching as the water ran a slightly tinged pink into the sink. “Not my first injury in this kitchen.” And definitely not the worst in any kitchen, but she still assured, one handedly reaching below the sink for the first aid kit kept there and raising it to his attention, as if to prove her point, before focusing hers on procuring the bandaid (and making sure the lima beans on the stove didn’t boil over, and the time on the cornbread in the oven).
She’d just finished wrapping her finger when he apologized, already at the stovetop and removing the lima beans from the heat when he did so. Her head turned over her shoulder then, glancing at Arlo with furrowed eyebrows, confused as to what he had to be sorry for (not that she would ever expect an apology, of course, even if he truly did), though her features softened at the sight of his sheepish grin. “You’re not a dumbass, Arlo.” She murmured back, lifting the pot from the stove over to the second compartment of the sink holding the strainer, and pouring the boiling water through. “She has a recipe for this, actually.” Her eyes lifted back to his through the steam, a smile that could be described as smug tugging at one corner of her lips. “S’not as good.” Didn’t call for potatoes.
Cooking was something she took pride in. The people she’d learned to cook for, not so much, but the food she put on their plates? How a good meal made by her hands could turn a bad night in a different direction? It’d been her means of survival.
“No, no, don’t be silly, Arlo. Sit.” She waved her bandaged hand towards the kitchen barstools. “Once it’s on the stove, it won’t take too long. I can send you with some to...” Her eyes fell back to his duffel bag slung over his shoulders briefly, before her attention drifted back to the lima beans. “...the library, huh?”

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Location: Room 324 Date: March 18th Time: 5:34 PM
“It’s called Brunswick stew.” Her voice was softer than the sound of the cut of knife, blade meeting the cutting board with each dice of the potato in her grip. She remembered a time when the knife in her hand had seemed more daunting, child sized palm barely wrapped around the handle, intimidated by the sharpness and size of the weapon. No, not weapon. Tool. But before being expected to take the helm of her father’s kitchen, Marley had seen it used more for the former than the latter. Waved carelessly around as the means of a threat, or more carefully aimed with precision, though it was always the carelessness that was scarier. The unpredictability of it, dependent on his anger, and the strike that had been made against him.
She’d mistakingly told him of her sister’s running away, in the kitchen. She should have known better. Should have waited until after dinner, but before the drinking, for that sweet spot in the middle where his belly was full and his mind was sedated by it. The food had almost been ready when he’d began calling for her sister. Once should have been enough for her to come running (had she have been there, there wouldn’t have had to have been a first call), but when the sound of her footsteps did not appear, he called again. The second call alone was enough to trigger his temper, her name called louder, more demanding, and still met with silence. His face had turned redder than the stew, hand hitting the counter and making Marley jump with the force, spit flying from his lips with the third, booming call of Emma’s name. It had been three calls too many, his body thrusting forward to go find her for herself, hand instinctively grabbing at the knife on the counter, and though not being there, being in no real harm, Marley found herself speaking up out of pure and utter instinct, to spare her sister. She’s not here, her voice tore through the tense space. Initially, she feared not reaching him, him finding Emma’s empty side of their room for himself. But his body stilled in the entryway of the kitchen, almost eerily so, the only movement being the rising and falling of his shoulders. What do you mean, she’s not here? She did not see his lips move, but could hear the clench of his jaw. She, she’d tried to swallow down her fear, but it sat there in her throat, mouth suddenly dry as she tried again. She’s gone, papa--Marley had barely blinked by the time that he’d turned on her, crowded her against the counter with such force her hand instinctively fell to the stove for balance. Searing heat met her palm, but her focus was on the blade of the knife poised at her throat. What do you mean she’s gone? Where is she? Where the fuck is she, Marley?
She’d been making Brunswick stew that night, too. Had to clean it up off of the kitchen floor, the cabinets, the ceiling...
A sudden sting brought her back, glancing down to find that she’d since found the end of the potato, but the tip of her finger. “Shit.” As to not contaminate her work, she was quick to pop it between her lips, already moving towards the kitchen sink and turning on the faucet. “Fingers aren’t part of the recipe, I promise.” She gave her guest a half-hearted smile, sticking her hand underneath the running water. “It’s been pretty chilly, lately. Best time to make it.”
Florence Pugh as Dani Ardor MIDSOMMAR 2019 | dir. Ari Aster
do u ever think about how much you’ve changed in the past 2 years and ur just like, thank god.
I’ve never met a strong person with an easy past.
Unknown (via wnq-anonymous)

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Fighting with My Family (2019) dir. Stephen Merchant
Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It means the damage no longer controls my life.
Akshay Dubey (via purplebuddhaquotes)
Florence Pugh © Associated Press [📷: Chris Pizzello]
Cities are built from ruins. I think people are too.
Midnight Excerpts #24 // L.H.Z (via lhzthepoet)

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