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macaroni-rascal · 1 year ago

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Damn, I wish I had time to give the ladies a full writeup because gosh do they deserve it, but I have to do so much goddamn adulting this weekend, so just the ice dance it is.

Lovely color from W/L but there's a bit of a sense of dishevelment about them, they kinda looked like a bridesmaid and groomsman drunkenly hooking up at a wedding. I wish his shirt wasn't untucked and so oversized. The issue with this program is that, like Sandrine and Quentin, they aren't skating to the rhythm, but also not to the melody either? Not to mention, the choreo is very much a mishmash of standard Montreal moves we've seen a million times already, it doesn't move me, it doesn't grab me. They were easily the technically weakest team here, which sucks because they seem so sweet and committed. MF's jacket feels a bit too casual for the occasion, but her hair is back on point.

Now, usually I wouldn't be on board with a non-Jason Riverdance program, but this is a rare Carol slay in terms of matching the program to the team. Molly is killing it, although I felt they had more vigor in Lake Placid. I like this black dress way more for her than the white (was it?) from before. The costumes are a bit theatrical for the present day, but at least they're on-theme. I have no doubt the coaching team is courting the Irish fed with this after they offloaded Caro and Shane on it to die a slow death of low scores and no major fed looking out for them, I'd honestly be impressed if I had a single Machiavellian bone in my body of how they solved that problem for themselves. Molly is slowly becoming the star of this team and I love that for her, she seems so pure.

Such a step up costume-wise for German Jenn, gorgeous silhouette and color, but his shirt needs to be at least somewhat closed and the pink line in the back is just silly. Less is more, always. A tango is a good choice for them but that first half put me to sleep. She's such an intense presence that I'll always stan no matter what. Strong and interesting lifts from them but always a bit of shakiness. Igor stay away from her!

Initially I was thrilled Alicia and Paul were keeping this FD because it was one of my faves last year, but this year it's already feeling a bit tired, and it didn't help that they were so cautious here, although I understand that they can't afford another injury. Her dress is so lovely and soft, so it makes me wish his shirt was more of... something, maybe a layered, draped mesh like her dress or at least the same color as the piece of fabric covering the V, this just looks like long underwear. They have some stunning elements but they weren't at their best here. The levels issues persist, but I was glad they got more generous GOEs here than they've been used to. He gets too far back on the blade and gets shaky, they might need to spend the summer in Komoka to work on this. Judging by his outfit, Romain is the groom at the wedding W/L are attending.

God help me, Pate and Bye. Further proof that Igor would rather die than come up with an original program. The costumes, while well-executed, just further exemplify how many coaches are stuck in their respective heydays. They would've been all the rage on the circuit 10-15 years ago. The choreo step is the stuff of nightmares and very Vikita in Beijing. That tiara is like something out of an 80s fantasy adventure movie like the Neverending Story. I'm sending flowers whenever Igor decides to retire, but judging by his dyed hair and fake tan, he has no intention of sparing us from himself any time soon.

Z/K are wasted under this coaching team and I'm glad Mark mentioned Scott (although why the height jab?) because I'd love to see them with more mature material like CPom have been getting, and I think Emilea would thrive under Madi. I like BatB but it has no business playing at a senior GP. If it'd been all instrumental covers it might've been okay, but I didn't enjoy having my ears assaulted by Dan Stevens of all possible options for this. I actually prefer that they didn't go full Meryl and Charlie with the costumes like their training mates did, cause they're just too cool for this school. They'd be such a factor under IAM but I can't see anyone clawing this team out of Igor's cold, dead hands.

My issues with the Browns' material persist, they're too good for what they've been given, and I don't understand why they aren't going with instrumental classical music when it could complement their flowy skating so nicely. I thought they deserved to medal here just based on their fundamental skating skills, kudos to their childhood coaches (although let's hope it wasn't that pedo who gave them this gift).

R/A I feel are so close but so far from something with this program. I feel like it's too conceptual, too mime-y, and that final piece is too much in the vein of what they've given us before that I can't see this FD as a standalone in their repertoire. The costuming is too repetitive of previous ideas as well and I honestly found myself bored throughout this. I mean, vintage Euro techno again? The cutouts on her dress weren't very sophisticated and the slits on the skirt sub-optimal. The back of his shirt was confusing, I found myself wondering if he was wearing one of those back support thingies. I suppose Air Canada lost their free legs in transit again. Some interesting moments throughout but again, I didn't feel like they're challenging themselves or stepping out of their comfort zone. I feel like they have so much more to offer, that's the thing. Whenever I see a team grip the boards, I just wince at this point. Can we move past this, please? That and the cartwheels on the ice, pack them away.

It's so rare that a program actually insults me the way that this Rocky one has. And the music choices aren't that bad, actually, but the whole thing is way too hammy to take seriously, and the most baffling aspect of it all is the quality of the support team they have - nobody had the guts to tell them no? I just can't believe Maria-Francesca Dubrovnik-Lausanne would do this to me. And I really like them as people, that's the thing. The costumes are well-made and we know I love my velvet, but good god, why this approach? I actually could see this working in a way if they'd gone way less literal, but the fake boxing and all the other bullshit is just. too. much. Mark is just pumping their tires because a) they're British and b) he's trying to justify their scores before the rest of the world, but truth be told, their skating skills have to have improved, because if they'd gotten worse, they'd be falling over. The scoring of this team will remain a dark stain on ice dance for a very long time.

Now, coming into this as an avowed G/P hater, even I can admit that there are some points of interest in this program. It's not their worst, but we've already seen most of what they're doing here before, notably in that Hitchcock program. However, there is always a level of cringe with them that I just can't get over, mostly in their facial expressions. This was a way better concept and certainly better executed than the RD, but there's always going to be a sense of distilled trash juice with them for me and it's that inherent lack of self-awareness that permeates everything they do that I just can't get over. The opening moves are something straight out of a Torvill and Dean exhibition program 20-30 years ago. Then they move in and out of the Hitchcock mood with some of the Evita sprinkled in. Now, while her dress is really pretty and classic, she needs to give Polina Edmunds back that hair ribbon because the whole look is too juvenile for her. The choice of pink for a Wuthering Heights program is my biggest question mark of the event. Do you think they've read the book? Do you think they've been in the same room with a copy, perhaps? Was the intention to soften a story about isolation, generational trauma and people treating each other like shit? If so, how? Because I don't see how one could possibly. I don't understand Paul's proto-mullet any more than his silky shirt, the interrupted sleeves, the lace-up front or the choice of the color pink to portray an abusive douchebag. That man was not a romantic hero, and if someone believes that, they need therapy asap. If his top had been grey, then we might've been in business, but painting WH as a "love story" of all things... What a curse it is to have read a few books in this lifetime. It's like, I don't absolutely loathe it, but having seen what they're capable of with the Vincent and the Both Sides Now, I'm kinda iffy. This FD would've benefited from an outing prior to this, it looks underdeveloped still. I just, I... hate the current state of ice dance. I'm at a point where I'd be fine if no medals were awarded at Worlds, like in the Olympic team event. Maybe the Italians will change their RD and deliver us all.

It's a shame W/L have regressed so much, I like them, but they are having a tough time out there. That Caro and Shane drive by hit made my cackle so loud I woke up my cat. So true about Paul and his balance issues, it makes it hard for me to settle into the program cause he just seems shaky. Igor looks more soulless and dead eyed every time we see him, it's so unsettling. I'm glad the Browns came out as the top American team, but they need a lyric-less program, just give them pretty music so skate prettily to, as you said. I'm disappointed in the R/A free dance, it started with that weird pantomime and I didn't warm up to it at all after that. I can't even talk about Fear and Gibson or fl-flames flames! flames on the side of my face!! I'm gonna take a Mulligan on Piper and Paul, cause I just need Chock and Bates to not win worlds again, that's all I need.

#loved loved loved reading your thoughts as alwasy!#fashionista nonny #you're an icon #konner talks skating

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 1 year ago

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the shed

lilac, chapter ten

a/n: the drama is here, folks. it has arrived. welcome.

summary: “he’s here,” you shuttered, your words barely above a whisper.

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, lumberjack AU, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, kinda mob!ex-boyfriend vibes, angst, crying, violence

word count: 2358

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“Hey, Otto,” you smiled warmly as the small town’s sheriff untangled his scarf from around his neck and marched up to where you were wiping a small table down with a damp cloth, “Donna should be here soon if you wanna sit with her during lunch.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” the seasoned man sighed longingly, “but unfortunately the stack of paperwork I left at my desk won’t allow me to hear the latest gossip. She’ll just have to fill me in tomorrow.”

“So, to go then?” the rag in your grasp finished up its cleanly dance across the smooth woodgrain.

“Yeah,” he nodded, thinking out loud as he glanced down to stuff as much of the scarf into his left pocket as it could bear, “right now I’m thinking a sandwich, unless, what’s your special today?”

“Uh, it’s a dahl,” you informed him, carefully folding up the wipe as you stepped closer towards the kitchen door, the sheriff shadowing the short journey, “got lots of spinach and stuff in it.”

“Oh, it’s dahl day? Well, then forget about the sandwich, I’ll have some of that with rice, just rice, and maybe if you could also fill up my thermos with some fresh coffee, that would be great,” he opened up his coat and conjured the nifty decanter from a roomy inner pocket.

“You got,” you uttered before he handed the flagon off to you and your feet carried you the rest of the way into the kitchen, “hey, dad?” you gently patted his shoulder as you walked past his stance by the stove to get to the coffee maker.

“Yeah, sweetie?” he halted his stirring and tapped the turmeric-stained spoon on the edge of one of the simmering pots before resting it back down on a little plate to the side.

Unscrewing the top off of the pastel yellow thermos, you gingerly streamed in some of the requested brew, “can you pack up a portion of dahl with rice for Otto?”

“Yep, yep,” he fished out a spatula from one of the jugs on the counter that simply overflowed with various utensils, “tell him it’ll be one second.”

Entering the dining space once more, you handed off the filled thermos to sheriff Nilsen, “here,” who now sat on one of the chairs, “he says it’ll just be a moment.”

“Thanks, kid,” he flashed you a warm smile just before you turned on your heel, “you have a great rest of your day, yeah?”

“You too!” you glanced back over your shoulder with a small wave.

As you strode towards the lobby and the thick stack of mail you still hadn’t sorted through, a voice began to catch your ear.

“Fiancé?” old lady Edith’s shrill tone cut through from around the corner, “well, I had absolutely no idea she was engaged,” as you entered the lobby from behind the front desk, your gaze seized to take in the individual the elder was conversing with as your fingers were too busy scooping up the stack of letters, “and to a fella as handsome as you? Well, isn’t she lucky.”

“Well, she just likes to be modest. One of the many qualities I adore about her.”

Your body instantly froze as the man’s low timbre filled the inn. The shuffling of mail halted as terror shot down your spine.

Slowly raising your panicked eyes, they only seized to grow wider as they glazed over the back-turned individual standing opposite Edith. Shifting his stance, he uncrossed his arms and lowered them to his sides, the crisply up-twisted black button-down sleeves framed in and nearly made it impossible for you not to take in the sight of the recognisable ink that slithered out from under the hem, curled around the honied skin of his forearm and ended right on the back of his ring adorned hand.

As the letters fell from your grip and casketed over the desk and onto the floor like a fallen jenga tower, the dull commotion managed to catch the pair’s attention as Edith’s hooded eyes trained upon your frozen frame and to your horror, the very reason for you being back here in the first place, turned around as well to spot you.

“Oh,” a chillingly perfect smile spread across Preston’s lips, “hey, doll,” his tone ever casual as if he’d just talked to you two minutes ago, “there you are.”

With your heart nearly bursting out of your chest, you didn’t even register that your feet had begun to move before you reached the backdoor out through the sunroom.

Ripping it open, you sprinted out and over the porch, your speed only increasing as the dewy grass stained your shoes.

Your eyes were wild, raking across the terrain, franticly attempting to come up with a plan as you went, but swiftly they locked upon where the thick forest began to bloom just beyond the patchy field that stretched between it and the inn’s garden.

But as you glanced back over your shoulder, the panicked plan of escape withered and died as you spotted your ex marching through the sunroom, his visage clear through the latticed glass of the door.

Whipping your head around, you spotted the small decrepit tool shed just a few paces to your left. Rushing to the rickety structure, you sucked in a sharp breath as your desperate push to one of the tattered double doors caused the faintest of clangs to reverberate from the rusty dinner bell that decorated the outside as an echo of the past.

Gingerly shutting the door after you slipped inside, careful as to not evoke any more alarms and ruin your hiding spot, the lack of a lock on the simple doors had completely slipped your memory as your blurry vision stared down at the rudimentary pull handles and nothing else.

Hyperventilating and nearly feeling like you’d faint, you instead pulled over a dust-covered table and pushed it up against the exit, a few screws rattling and rolling off it as it settled in its new place.

Eyes transfixed on the doors, your feet began to back up, not halting till the rough wood of the far side wall stopped you. Reaching into your pocket, you blindly fished out your phone and dialled up the only number you could think of.

“Hey, I was just about to call you,” Frank’s contrasting tone flowed out from the receiver, “thought I’d maybe swing by when I'm done here in town–…” although his genuine words abruptly ceased as a shuttering cry trembled from your lips, “…Y/n? What’s wrong?”

Your body shook so fiercely that keeping a hold of your phone proved to be a daunting task.

“F–Frank,” you sobbed.

“What, what is it?”

“…he’s here. He’s here,” you uttered shakily through your tears, “I walked into the lobby and there he was, I–, fuck…” you squeezed your eyes shut a moment, “Frank, what do I do?”

“Alright, listen to me,” his tone changed in an instant, “did he see you?”

“Y–yes,” you tried your best to keep your voice hushed.

“Where are you?”

“I hid in the old shed out back, but, shit, I'm not sure if–”

Your fear then came to fruition as the doors suddenly rustled, bumping against the makeshift blockade before the attempt was dropped and a low knock instead found your ears.

“He’s here,” you shuttered, your words barely above a whisper.

“Doll?” Preston’s voice seeped through the rotten wood, “I know that you’re in there,” he tried to shove the doors open once more, the whole world seeming to quake at his attempt.

Eyes darting around the dim space, you spotted a small broken window to your left. Raising up your elbow, all of the adrenaline that pumped throughout your veins didn’t even let you register the pain as you slammed it against the remaining bits of jagged glass that were stuck to the window, as well as when the remaining short shards stabbed your palms and scratched up the screen of your phone as you desperately began to crawl out.

“Come on, just open up the door, I don’t have time for any childish games.”

The sudden sound of the door crashing open and the table scraping across the floor shot straight into your bones.

Already halfway out, your knee bent up to hoist the remaining half of your shaky form out of the narrow opening, but just as you twisted to do so, a bruising grip grabbed hold of the leg and tugged you back inside, sending you crashing down upon the concrete floor.

Motes of dust seemed suspended in the air as you coughed on the cold ground. Steadying yourself with your bloodied palms, your hazy vision found your phone by your side, shattered and completely dark.

Seizing the crown of your locks, he yanked you back up to your feet.

“Now why would you do something like that, huh?” he uttered in such a mundane tone that you’d almost rather have him yell. Dragging you with him towards the doors and still hung agape on the rusty hinges, he grabbed a petite shovel that rested on the messy table and jammed the wooden shaft through the loops of the two handles. Gliding his dominant hand up your frame as he backed you up, the long fingers swiftly enveloped your throat as your back slammed against a wall, “I just wanna have a little conversation with you,” like splintery sandpaper, the rough wood scraped against your spine, and your eyes squeezed shut, “uh uh,” the stinging grip he had on your hair loosened, drifting his knuckles down your cheek in a cruel caress as he demanded, “look at me when I’m talking to you,” your whole frame jerked as you felt him land a harsh slap across your cheek, “show me those pretty eyes,” and your bloodshot glare blinked open, “there,” he wiped the tears that trickled down your face, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” your gaze flickered down to the ominous ink that glazed the appendage clasped around your airway. The head of the snake that decorated the back of his palm nearly looked like it was about to come alive and bite into your jugular vein, “you know, if you wanted to go on a little trip back home, all you had to do was say so, we could have figured something out.”

Soon, your hands fluttered up to warily drift on either side of his, a shift that caused his jaw to clench.

“Doll,” he glared down at your lacking jewel, “where’s your ring? Did you misplace it again? If you keep doing that, then I’m just gonna think you don’t like it,” his head tilted to the side in an almost sombre manner, “what, was the diamond not big enough? If you want something more showy, you know all you have to do is ask, money’s just money. Maybe a sapphire? You could look like Princess Diana. Hell, if you want the real thing, I know a guy,” his face slowly inched closer to yours, “I would do anything for you, you know that right?” he proclaimed with an eerie smile upon his lips, “anything, that’s how much I love you. Even if you can’t always wrap your simple little head around the reasoning in the moment,” his free fingers moved to brush some of your dishevelled hair into place, “it’s always because I love you.”

“Preston, please,” your voice was low as you gasped, fretful fingers lightly tapping against his unyielding grip, “you’re hurting me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he warned softly, rage crackling in his fiery gaze, “you don’t do that,” ignoring your struggling, he went back to wistfully fixing your hair, “you just stand there, like the pretty doll you are and be perfect for me.”

“C–can’t breathe–”

“Oh, you can’t?” his brows furrowed mockingly, “is this better?” he asked as his ring-adorned fingers tightened around your throat and squeezed so taut that no air could reach your lungs, “you are mine,” he pressed his lips to your cheek as your eyes fluttered and your limbs fought against the inevitable fate of shortly passing out, “you will always be fucking mine.”

But just as the world began to slip out from under you, a loud crash found your ears. Forcing your eyes to open, you witnessed as the door got kicked in, the improvised lock shattering into shards from the blow and scattering across the dirty ground.

Glaring over his shoulder, Preston exclaimed, “who the fuck are you?”

Only looming in the doorway for a fragment of a second, Frank didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer as he rushed to rip Preston off of you.

As you crumbled to the ground, painful coughs escaped your frame. The shed still felt like it spun beneath you as your hazy gaze fluttered up to see Frank pin Preston against the wall. As if you were underwater, their voices seemed miles away as you watched Frank’s callused fist repeatedly collide with the side of your ex’s face.

This wasn’t how you wanted it to happen. Every thunderous crack prompted a dreadful pit to dig itself within your gut. You weren’t doubting that Preston didn’t deserve this, but you had also come to learn a fragment of the truth of just how few of those punches it took for Frank to have an individual no longer breathing.

Frantically casting your gaze everywhere and anywhere, past the garden, out in the driveway, the faint sight of the sheriff, lunch in hand, tossing his scarf around his neck and strolling back to his car, found your fuzzy vision.

Stumbling, you crawled out the door and weakly pulled yourself up enough to reach the short rope that hung from the old bell, the looming unconsciousness steadily catching up to you as you strained to do so.

Ringing the bell once, twice, and on the third time, just as you saw Otto whip his head around in your direction, your vision finally faded to complete darkness as you crumbled to the ground.

#court. darling. the love I have for you is indescribable. damn.#you're an icon #…comment reblog…#court🧣

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