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staticl0ve · 3 years ago

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The Boy Next Door: You Drive Me Crazy - Pt. 1 (Nines x Reader)

A human AU for the RK boys.

Parings: Human!Nines / Female Reader Rating: Explicit/ NSWF 18+ Chapters (AO3): [ Part 1 ] [ Part 2 ] Tumblr Link: Part 1, Part 2 Word Count: 4.5k (this just keeps getting longer) Warnings: minor character death (otherwise, a SFW setup chapter) Summary: Meet Cain, the perfect Anderson son with all the achievements and trophies one could ever win. He’s the best at everything. Right?

A blue and gold football jersey creased and stretched around the taut muscles of Cain’s back as he began his routine warmup with pushups. Bunched at the concave dip of his shoulders was a big and bright number nine. Sweat dripped down his brow, a single bead falling onto the well maintained grass of Detroit High’s football field. A group of runners jogged around the edges, their sneakers pounding along the clay colored track. The occasional coach whistle, sharp and clear, cut across the intermittent chatter and the obnoxious giggling from the stands near him.

“Hi Cain!” A girl shouted at him.

“He’s so hot,” another girl murmured.

It was all background noise to him, his arms flexing to push off the ground. A small tingle crept up his wrist, quickly spreading like a fire searing across his tendons. His eyes narrowed at a blade of grass before him, honing all of his senses on one focal point.

Seventy-four.

Footsteps crushed urgently into the grass around him, the distraction sending another flare of pain across his biceps. Luther, the team’s defensive lineman, pushed down onto his arms, lowering himself to Cain’s eye level in a plank position. There was a palatable excitement in Luther’s honey brown eyes as he regarded his best friend who was too far into his warmups to heed anything else.

“Yo Nines, you seeing this?”

Seventy-five.

“Nines.”

Seventy-eight.

“Cain!”

Without breaking his form, Cain addressed his friend, “Yes?”

“The track team just got a recruit and it’s the new girl,” Luther said, his face pressed deep enough into the grass to finally look Cain in the eye. “She just beat your mile time!”

While Cain was a perfect specimen of intellect, brawn, and hauntingly handsome features, he had one weakness.

He hated being bested.

His record time was five minutes, three seconds and twenty milliseconds. A few guys in the track team had set out to beat it and none were able to rise to the challenge. The girl and boy team records were kept separately but his ego got the best of him. He allowed himself to count to eighty push-ups, an even, neat number before pushing himself up off the grass.

“What was her time?” He asked.

“Five minutes, as in Five-Oh-Oh!” Luther answered and added a few less than helpful gestures with his fingers to emphasize the numbers.

Five minutes, a rounded mile time. Stone gray eyes scanned the tracks, spotting a runner that was casually leaning into a clipboard held out by a coach. As sharp as his eyesight was, she was far enough that her features weren’t obvious to him but her silhouette alone made him uneasy.

The period after Physical Education was lunch. It was warm for a fall afternoon, leaves scattering and fluttering around a table underneath the shade of a red maple. The break had barely begun and there was much excitement to be had. Backpacks were strewn over the tables, lunches already ravaged by the hungry appetites of a Football team. Go Bears!

It was the first day of Cain’s senior year and the team was catching up on their summer shenanigans. Luther was the calmest of the bunch, politely adding to the conversations while maintaining an air of friendliness unlike Cain. Despite his serious tone, Cain was their captain, the guy that knew how to pull the team together with just one sentence. It didn’t stop them from giving him a hard time about being so…intense.

“Why so serious, Nines?” A teammate joked in the tone of a famous clown villain. A couple of the guys snickered, their voices hushing as soon as a sliver of silver flashed in their direction. Luther was quick to defend his childhood friend.

“Nines is a babe magnet because he’s so mysterious,” Luther responded and gently socked Cain’s arm. “Aren’t I right?”

Cain shrugged. “I would not have noticed.”

“You’d have to be blind to not see the flock of chicks—“

“Luther,” a voice, as soothing as a lullaby called to the tallest of the group. A sweet faced girl with a brown ponytail approached the table, flanked by an entourage in matching cheerleading uniforms. One outfit stood out from the sea of cheer skirts, a plain white shirt and blue track shorts.

“Kara…baby,” Luther greeted his girlfriend, immediately pulling her into his arms.

“You won’t believe it. My old childhood friend moved back into the city!” Kara exclaimed and managed to untangle herself from Luther to introduce you to the team. Cain’s eyes landed on you first, panning down your track uniform, his eyes widening in recognition.

Your eager to please and sweet demeanor with the other guys quickly turned into an arrogant hip sway, your arms crossing over your bosom. “Hey, Cain.”

“Shit, you guys know each other?” One of the guys asked.

“Oh, we go way back,” you chuckled.

Years ago, there was a woman Cain once loved. He remembered her being beautiful, the way her skin glowed radiantly in the sun. Her voice was gentle where his father’s was thunderous, shaking the room with his laughter. Whenever Cain tripped and fell, she was there, the scent of roses wafting over him and hugging him in the tightest embrace.

“I love you, Cain. You’re so brave,” she would say.

He heard the same line when he was but a lost little boy in a fluorescent lit room, the walls a dim and faded beige. Machines he didn’t understand beeped, their tubing and wiring plugged into his mother. His father’s hand, big enough to engulf his entire shoulder, was not enough to unfurl the darkness swallowing his mind. He never heard Hank cry before, his father collapsing in tears when the machines went quiet.

She was buried in her favorite flower, rose petals fluttering around Cain as he watched her disappear into the Earth. To say that his mother’s death marked him would be an understatement. She affectionally described him as a cheerful boy, one who climbed rocks he shouldn’t and laughed with friends on the playground. He was seven when she passed, old enough to have felt the warmth of her love and the fury of her discipline. Once, he did more than incur her wrath by jumping out of a tree. Tears streamed down her face while she inspected his legs and he promised her he’d never try it again.

On their last night back from the hospital, Hank tried to make her famous ‘breakfast for dinner’ treat. Cain silently observed his father stumbling around a kitchen he wasn’t familiar with. Hank was surrounded by a sea of dirty mixing bowls, flour all over the counters and a plume of smoke that would have triggered the smoke alarm if not for the powerful hood vent running on max. His large hand pushed away the magazines on the dining table, making room for two plates. Laid out before Cain was a pile of overcooked eggs and pancakes so burnt no amount of maple syrup would save it.

“I’m sorry my boy, I’ll get it right one day.” Hank said in defeat.

Cain’s teachers would say that his parents saw their child through rose tinted glasses, that he wasn’t a bubbly boy that frolicked around the playground. They would say he had always been an old soul trapped in a little boy’s body. He was inquisitive, observant, and patient, the last to race to the birthday cake table. The kind of kid who didn’t turn his head whenever someone entered a room.

Cain was the boy who turned heads.

He dug his fork into a blackened pancake, smiling up at his distraught father. “It’s okay dad, come sit and eat.”

Hank mourned in his own way with the occasional glass of whiskey after work and quiet contemplation in his favorite recliner. When the home was dark, save for the dim light of a television, his son could hear him crying when Hank thought he’d gone to bed. Cain took on a different method and buried himself in his studies, ironing out his focus to avoid the prickly trellises of sadness that plagued the Anderson home. He promised his mother that he’d be good, his young mind assuming she meant schoolwork and achievements.

Her exact words were a little different, taking a softer tone than what he remembered. “Love, Cain. Love is what gives me and your father strength, it’s what will make you strong. Promise me you’ll be good and watch after him?”

He nodded, a small hand reaching out to cup her ashen face, “Yes momma.”

Hank worried about his son as the years went on, saw the signs of a boy shrinking into his own shadow and did what a good parent would do: sign him up for a scouting program. Besides, what preteen wouldn’t enjoy being away from his studies to enjoy some tranquil nature and all the bug bites in the world? Ironically, Cain was nose deep in a book when Hank shared the good news.

“Why do I have to join the scouts?”

“You need adventure! Some fresh air, roasted marshmallows and friends to tell ghost stories with,” Hank explained.

It’s how he met you.

Midsummer was a popular time for scouts to go camping. Daylight lasted for what felt like forever and school was out so all of the kids were in good spirits. All of them except Cain, who was glaring up at a white pine. The needles of the tree rained down on him as the branches shook. He took one step to the right when a pinecone came rustling straight down for his head. Your name left his lips in the most annoyed tone, as if you were wasting his precious camping minutes with more of your little games.

“Bet you can’t climb higher than me,” you badgered him from high above.

He caught sight of you in between the earthy browns and greens, your clothes blending into the foliage. This game you’ve both started out of spite was getting ridiculous. At the beginning of camp, there was a potato bag race where it came down to you versus him and you crossed the finish line first. What began as playful and very poor sportsmanship teasing on your part had spiraled into the most childish game of ‘anything you can do, I can do better.’

Cain should have been above it.

So when you teased him and he won the next challenge, a match was lit. Some of the other kids really caught onto it, rooting for you or him. The wins and losses see-sawing between you until the difficulty had upped itself and you were now perched in a tree.

“You should get down from there before you get in trouble,” he said.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared, Cain.”

He scanned the other branches below your foot and noticed your footing was a bit off, unsure. You had climbed too high up to get back down easily.

“You’re stuck,” he said with a smirk.

“I am not!”

“Did you call me here because you need help?”

“No!” You scoffed and childishly stuck your tongue out at him.

He ran a hand through his dark locks, pulling his curl out of his eyes while watching your foot timidly reach for another branch and failing. You were a cat stuck in a tree and he did not have the heart of a firefighter. He could help you, for a price.

“Admit I’m better and I will help you, or I leave and a camp counselor will find you,” he offered.

You couldn’t risk the wrath of your parents should they get a call about your wild antics but you had too much pride to listen to him. The world stilled when he watched you shift, one foot committing to dropping down a branch. Your descent wasn’t particularly graceful or impressive but your determination made it impossible for him to tear his eyes off of you. There was a ferocity in your eyes, an intensity that he’d only seen in his reflection. A knot twisted in his chest, a neglected piece of him longing for the company of a kindred spirit. It was easy to ignore when this was but a game and there could only be one winner.

He was only human and barely on his way to being a grown man, so if there was any woodland magic or destiny at work, then the universe would give him the push he needed. Pine needles drifted all around him when you hopped off the last branch, your balance unsteady as you tumbled forward into him. You were so small compared to him, your fingers barely wrapping around a fraction of his arm while looking up at him with wide eyes.

Normally, Cain exuded an aura that made other kids too afraid to approach his bubble. The competition broke through those barriers since you weren’t afraid to play dirty, sometimes grabbing his arm or elbowing him to get to the goal. The longer camp went on, the more familiar he was with your touch. He wasn’t phased with you pressed so close to him, all warm and soft against his hard and lean frame but when the scent of roses wafted from your hair, he froze.

You sounded flustered, his ears catching the tail-end of your mumbled apology before you tore yourself off of him. The warmth from your hand prickled his skin as the heat faded. When met with silence, you made a small stink about how this point didn’t count because he didn’t participate and left him alone in the company of his thoughts. Cain heard nothing, your voice muffled by the raging pounding in his ears. He began mindlessly stroking the now cold spot on his arm while he waited for the world to move again, for the bird songs to shake some sense into him.

Roses. Why did it have to be roses?

The game really should have ended when you were almost stuck in a tree, but it was a little too late to think about that now that you’ve both managed to scale a cliff that neither of you should have been at.

“Are you satisfied?” He asked while calculating the steep climb down.

“With a tie? Never.”

He smirked. You were the first to the top but there was no winner until either one of you managed to get down first. When you started your attempt, he was already halfway down so you took the riskier path, your feet slipping as loose gravel rolled away from you. His hand barely made it in time to catch yours as you fell, your body colliding into his, again.

You cursed into his ear and he had a snide remark at the tip of his tongue until he heard you whimper. Tears beaded at the corners of your eyes, your expression twisted in pain. You were clutching your ankle, the muscle likely twisted. Strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you off your feet and cradling you against his chest.

“I’m okay, Cain. Let me go!” You said through clenched teeth, your hands pushing against the cage of his arms.

“Stop moving,” he demanded, cold eyes glaring down at you. “You’re going to make things worse thrashing around.”

Before you could sock his chest, he leaped down what was now a short drop. Upon landing, he assessed the damage by gingerly raising your injured leg into the light. You knew in your gut that you wouldn’t be able to make the three mile hike back to camp. Cain saw it too and suddenly, winning was the least of his concern.

“Let me take you back to camp,” he insisted.

“I refuse to be carried like some princess. I can walk,” you insisted, despite literally hissing the words through your teeth, the pain in your ankle spiking into your calf.

You squirmed like a cat trying to wriggle away from a vet, wincing when your injured ankle caught his meaty bicep. His arms were stronger than welded iron and it was a hopeless endeavor wrapping your head around how a preteen could be so strong. Cain’s patience with you was wearing thin so he offered what he knew your ego couldn’t resist.

“You win. Now will you listen to reason?” He scolded.

“Fine.”

“Good. I expect you to behave because it’s a long walk, princess,” he added with a cocksure grin.

You couldn’t tell what was worse: the now searing hot pain or having to stare at his smug face a mere inches from yours for three damn miles. It was the longest walk for him as well with the heat of your skin sticking to his arms, your head on his thumping chest and the intoxicating smell of your floral shampoo.

When the summer of roasted marshmallows, ghost stories and a sky full of twinkling stars came to an end, Cain was relieved he’d never have to see you again. You didn’t live near him or attend his schools, he would finally be freed from your company and little games. As hard as he tried to forget you, your face haunted him with visions of a hunter perched in a tree, fierce and breathtaking. Luckily for him, he’d need not rely on faded memories as you’d reappear like a weed in his perfectly groomed garden.

You transferred to his high school because your parents moved to Detroit for work. Of all the places in Detroit that your family could have chosen, it had to be next door to him and Hank was more than delighted to meet his new neighbors. By simply existing, you managed to get under Cain’s skin, a pretty distraction running circles around him in the shortest track shorts while he worked on football drills. Your after school schedule lined up with his, your presence inescapable for every pizza night with his and Kara’s crew.

The pizza joint was every teenager’s favorite spot for cheap, fatty carbohydrates and an excuse to not go home to nagging parents after school. Checkered white and black tiles covered the floor, the tables were plastic and beige, the seats were red pleather stools that squeaked whenever someone spun around in them. A few dart boards lined the walls in one corner along with some arcades games for a blast from the past. The endless pop music from a digital jukebox was as cheesy as the pizzas, which were now cold and mostly devoured by the group.

Naturally, the new girl label made you very interesting to the single fellas on the football team. You were never sure of it, but it always felt like a pair of eyes were burning a hole into the back of your head whenever someone draped an arm over your shoulder.

“I don’t understand him,” you said to one of the cheer girls, Echo. “Cain glares at me all day like he wants something from me and when I try to talk to him, I get the cold shoulder!”

Echo, who’s blue hair was currently draped all over her girlfriend’s shoulder shrugged back at you. Of the entire cheer team, only two girls weren’t head over heels with Cain, or Nines as his bros called him. One of them was Kara, who was happily paired with Luther and then there was Echo, who had a natural immunity to Cain’s mysterious draw by not being into guys.

“I tried asking Kara, who asked Luther and the big guy would not budge,” Echo explained. “It’s gotta be something juicy if it’s protected by a bro code.”

“Did you piss him off?” Ripple, the girl who’s shoulder Echo was resting on chimed in.

“In middle school, I may have started a really dumb competition with him and I won…kind of,” you shared. “He wouldn’t have a chip on his shoulder from that right? I mean, we were kids.”

“Cain’s a puzzle no one can solve,” Echo said.

The puzzle was not as complicated as you may have imagined. Cain intended to become a valedictorian and leave Detroit for an Ivy League of his choice. He hated every interaction with you, especially how you said his name. Of course, in your mind it was a casual greeting, a flat and boring, “Hey Cain.”

But to him, it was stronger than a siren’s call, your lips twisting it and coaxing him with your alluring voice. His mind spiraled around your presence and he could not afford new distractions this school year, not when he was close to the finish line. Even a game of darts at the pizza joint wasn’t safe for him. You landed a number of bullseyes and ended with the same score as his, your eyes full of fire when you winked at him.

“Think you have the energy for another round?” You asked him. He knew what you were doing and he wasn’t going to fall for the bait.

“I could do this all night, but I have better things to do,” he answered.

Your interactions were slim across the duration of your senior year, the occasional conversation couldn’t always be avoided, but he gave you a wide berth like you were radioactive. Everything changed when he needed your help.

You laughed in his face at his request, your hand slamming your locker door shut. “No, no. Let me get this straight, you’ve been avoiding me all year and you want me to be your prom date?”

You had a few prospects, some guys on the football team had asked and oddly enough, Leo Manfred from your history class was interested. The wannabe artist murmuring something sleazy about hoping to see what type of gal you might be on prom night.

“I am expected to make an appearance and you do not have a date,” he vaguely answered.

“The great Cain, reduced to bending at the slightest peer pressure,” you teased. “So…this would be purely transactional? You know I have other people asking—“

“Do you really want to go with them?” He asked, his arms crossing over his jersey.

God, it was hard arguing with a guy who’s shirt was fighting for it’s life to remain in one piece. You let out a sigh, dragging your fingers over your face for dramatic effect. His head craned to one side as he leaned on your locker and to anyone else, it would look like the football captain had found someone worthy to woo, not goad into becoming a frenemy date for prom. He had a point. You didn’t want to lead any of his friends on and you certainly didn’t want to go with Leo.

“Okay, you’ll pick me up at 6. My dress is red, so make sure my corsage and your tie matches.”

“Your wish is my command,” he replied dryly with a slight lift to the corner of his lips.

Hank was elated. Apparently, your parents shared a great number of stories about you and your camp days with Cain so he knew all about you. In fact, Hank was so thrilled for his son, that he let him borrow his Range Rover that mostly idled in the garage. As expected, Cain was a timely date, conversational even as he tried his best to contain his eyesight from wandering over your red gown. Which was difficult when it hugged your curves, the thigh slit running down your legs tantalizingly.

Prom wasn’t in some smelly gym with cheap decorations, the school had gone all out from the proceeds raised by the football games and rented a domed galleria with the night sky twinkling over the dance floor. Bowls full of punch swirled as guests filled their cups. There was a long queue for the photo booth, groups of people cramming to fit their friends in one small square. Teenage bodies swayed off beat to the music on the dance floor with adult chaperones and shy wallflowers lingering at the edge in seats.

As it turned out, the whole charade of being Cain’s date was so Luther would have his best friend around for his last high school dance. Which was an unexpectedly sweet gesture from Cain trying to appease his approachable other half. He survived the onslaught of photos with you and your friends and the jaw dropping looks of disbelief on people’s faces when he walked around with you in his arms. He endured Kara’s light hearted teasing and gushing over your matching outfits with your red dress and his all black attire and red tie. It was worse when he saw Luther’s proud smile, the larger man embracing him with too much enthusiasm and murmuring something quietly in his ear that made his face tint red. All of that was expected as far as prom cliches went, but Cain wasn’t prepared for the slow dance portion.

You were standing around bored with the rest of prom still raging on and the stuffiest date until the music changed. With a gasp you cried out to him, “This is one of my favorite songs! You wanna dance?”

The look he gave you said he could not be seen debasing himself in such a way. You spun away from him with a shake of your shoulders, a twist in your hips and the smell of roses in the air. His feet shot out ahead of him, following you before he realized he was moving. Once on the dance floor, you cautiously approached him, your arms draping around his neck. He lightly held onto your waist as if any more contact would burn him. In a moment of rare shyness, you smiled at him, his gaze lingering on the red shimmer of your lips before trying to stare at anything else in the room that wasn’t you.

There wasn’t much that he could do about your chest pressed flat against his or your head that rested on him, his heart pounding faster than the slow melody. Every nerve in his body that touched your skin was screaming, his hands unconsciously slipping from your waist to your back. When you sighed and eased into his arms, he finally relaxed. For once, it was a calm quiet between you. No tension, just a pair of heartbeats thumping to a love song that neither of you really understood. There was no game to be won, no points to be scored and he had never felt more aimless spinning around a dance floor. If love was a game of chicken, then neither of you would ever be the first to fold.

So when you realized you were both headed to Harvard, Hank and your parents had the brilliant idea of the two of you carpooling your belongings to the new campus. It wasn’t just you who was headed in that direction, Kara and Luther both got in as well. You tried getting out of it by asking Kara what her plans were.

“Sorry, I already promised Luther we’d make a fun little road trip out of it,” she replied, clearly holding back the emphasis on the fun part. You immediately protested, already dreading the incredibly long journey.

“It’s going to take a few days if we take breaks! I’ll be trapped in a metal box with him for hours, and probably share the same crappy motel room…”

“You and Cain are going to be fine.” She grinned at you with a twinkle of a secret in her eyes.

Resigned to your fate, you filled a car to the brim with yours and Cain’s stuff (he had a quarter of what you had) and agreed on taking shifts driving. With the playlist selected, the climate set to ideal preferences, you laid your head back and shut your eyes.

“Wake me up when it’s my turn,” you said.

“As you wish,” he replied sarcastically.

He futzed with the radio, skipping one of your cheerier pop tunes and the next…and the next. You could feel his judgement as he sighed and settled back into his seat.

This was going to be a very tough drive.

#my writing #detroit become human #dbh fanfic #reader insert #dbh nines #rk900 #dbh nines x reader #nines x reader #rk900 x reader #the boy next door

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blog-sliverofjade · 5 years ago

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Hearth Fires 1: Ultimatum

Pairing: Remi Denier x OFC

Summary: Lorel Maddox just wants to live as a human, run her bakery in peace, and forget. Unfortunately, the alpha of the local leopard pack has very different ideas.

Remi Denier doesn't know what to make of the female Changeling who wants nothing to do with him or the RainFire pack. He does know that he has a driving need to protect her. Even if it's from herself.

While they're embroiled in a battle of wills, there's a war brewing on the horizon. The outside threat could not only destroy everything they hold dear, but tear apart the fragile new bonds of the Trinity Accord, plunging the world into bloodshed to rival the Territorial Wars of centuries past.

Word count: 2056

Hearth Fires Masterlist

Beta read by the inestimable pandabearer

Lorel hummed along to the bluesy song that twined with the smells of dozens of sweet things filling the air. Swinging her hips slightly from side to side, she counted out the day’s totals to figure out what to bake tomorrow. The maple pecan cupcakes were sold out, as were the pear sticky buns. Maybe she’d switch it up for the weekend and make chai cupcakes and maple sticky buns.

As she tallied, she mentally designed an upcoming wedding cake order. The couple wanted silver accents, which was in vogue and nearly to the point of tired and overdone. Maybe arabesque flowers outlined in a royal blue and the silver? She could gild the edges of sugar paste flowers. Would it be too on the nose to mimic the flowers in the bride’s bouquet?

The door opened almost soundlessly. One of the first things she’d done was rip the bell off; the jangling was hell on changeling hearing. Finishing up the note she was in the middle of, she turned around to greet the customer.

“Hi, how can I help you?” The chirpy greeting died off as her nose caught up.

Spices like cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla had temporarily masked the threat that had snuck up on her. A threat that smelled like moss and oak, and a dominant predatory changeling male. Her blood turned to ice water. The power of him filled the shop and had her animal in a crouch, waiting to see whether she should run or would have to fight. She wiped her palms on her apron and plastered on a smile that probably more closely resembled a grimace.

The stranger scanned her with a coolly appraising eye from the top of her frizzy hair to her flour-dusted hands. She froze in place and avoided eye contact by focusing on his right shoulder while still watching him like a rabbit he’d decided was dinner. Fear spiked in her scent, strong enough that even she could smell it over the mixture filling the place, and he could probably hear the thundering of her heart. He turned, locked the door, and turned the sign to closed. Her cat was clawing at her to run far, climb high, but she was too busy doing her best impression of a deer in headlights to pay attention.

His presence, reinforced by his actions, could only mean he wanted one of two things: either he wanted her gone or he wanted her for himself.

“Ms. Cain, I’m Remi Denier, alpha o’ the RainFire pack. Please, ‘ave a seat so we can talk.” The bayou dripped like Spanish moss from his words. He pulled a chair from one of the bistro tables by the front window and gestured for her to take the other seat. He was laying the southern gentleman routine on thick.

“It’s Maddox now, and I’m comfortable right here.” The strained pitch to her tone gave lie to the statement. It did not bode well that he knew her birth name; she shifted her weight in preparation to dash out the back door.

“Ya won’ get very far, Ms. Maddox." His brilliant topaz eyes flashed gold in stark contrast to his mild drawl. The alpha, and he certainly looked the part at somewhere over six feet with line-backer shoulders, sat where he could watch both the front door and the one that led to the kitchen. He stretched out long, jeans-clad legs; he was making himself at home. On her turf. “I ‘ave de alley covered.”

“What did I do to deserve such an honour, Mr. Denier?” she asked crisply and folded her arms. While she wouldn’t stand a chance against a predatory changeling alpha determined to hurt her, that didn’t mean she would go down without a fight. She just had to wait for her opportunity.

“You’re in my terr’tory.” His eyes had gone leopard-gold. Shit. Heart hammering, she felt her cat settle into a crouch in preparation for a pounce. Adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream and she wanted to bare her teeth at the threat, but strangled the urge before her lips did more than twitch.

“No pack can control a mixed-race city, and your border ends at the Madison-Haywood line.” Their boundary was the next county over; she had made certain before she took over the bakery. The hard look in his eyes said without words that the cat didn’t care about semantics.

“RainFire does now. Say, could I get a cup o’ coffee?” His accent was so thick she could practically cut it with a knife.

“Sorry, I’m not in the habit of feeding strays.” The acerbic retort popped out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. Swallowing, she dropped her hands to fist at her sides in preparation for a full shift and not just to hide the talons that had sprouted from her fingertips.

Remi Denier didn’t attack, didn’t even growl. To her utter consternation, he laughed. The sound was rich and filled the bakery like the tones of a brass bell. Her cat sat back on its butt and cocked its head in confusion.

“We’re small and growin’, jus’ expanded our claim last month,” he explained, spreading large hands wide. And she had purchased the shop five weeks ago, which was when she’d checked that no shifter groups had marked the area as theirs.

“I took over this place before that. I won’t be run off my land.” Said land wasn’t even an acre in total, and it was technically just the home she shared with her aunt since the storefront was on a lease, but it was hers. Every survival instinct screamed at her to stop challenging him, even as her animal was pacing in circles, waiting for the right opening to go for his throat.

“I never said not’ing ‘bout chasin’ you off. Jus’ like knowin’ who’s in my terr’tory,” he shrugged and hooked an arm around the back of the seat. The relaxed posture didn’t fool her one whit; one didn’t become an alpha without catlike reflexes.

“You already know that if you know my name.” She folded her arms again and leaned back against the counter behind her.

“Lack o’ criminal record don’ mean much.”

“Not much to know,” shrugged Lorel. “Raised by my human grandparents, some university, bounced around some, and then my aunt wanted to retire. But you probably knew all that already.”

“You were born into the RedRock pack.” Her stomach sank.

“I was just a kid, I don’t remember much.” She leashed the need to snarl at the alpha. She couldn’t expose any potential weaknesses; if he thought she was hiding something she’d never get rid of him until he uncovered it. Damn cats.

“Never joined another pack.” A statement, not a question. Meaning he already knew the answer, he just wanted to see if she would lie to him.

“Never saw the need.” Rounded shoulders rose and fell jerkily instead of in the fluid way they should have moved in feline changelings. Remi filed that away the same as he had the talons that appeared when she’d thrown out the crack about strays. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called that, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last.

“Never felt need for family?”

“I have family.” Lorelei gestured around the bakery that had been her aunt’s. While she couldn’t make eye contact, the hard ice in her voice hinted at a hidden backbone, a reminder that submissive was not synonymous with doormat.

“But do they understand you?” That spine, which was already rigid, snapped so straight he worried it would snap under the strain. Judging by the white lines bracketing her mouth she probably wasn’t about to reply any time soon, but the lack of an answer was an answer in itself.

If he was a better man, he’d feel remorseful about baiting a woman so far down the hierarchy she didn’t even risk a glance at his eyes for fear he’d see it as a challenge. As it was, he only felt a twinge of guilt. The most extensive background check in the world couldn’t tell him how she would react under duress. Being cornered, no matter how temporarily, with a strange, dominant predatory changeling alpha was an effective stress test for most people.

“Unless you’ve got a sweet tooth, I think you’ve wasted your time, Mr. Denier.” Her folded arms shifted, pushing her breasts up even higher until they nearly spilled over the heart-shaped top of her apron. Instead of plain black canvas, hers was an ice blue that brought out the colour of her eyes, with cupcakes decorating the full skirt and ruffles of the same fabric edging the bodice.

“Hmm…” He gave her a slow once-over. Damn if she didn’t look like a treat herself with generous curves and freckles sprinkled generously over her creamy skin. “Not worth the cavities.” The cat laughed as her jaw dropped in affront at the deliberate provocation.

“I promise I’ll only stick to the woods in this county, and I’ll let you know if I have to cross through your territory,” she said firmly, recovering quickly from the barb. “I just want to run my business and not cause any trouble.”

Her cat was no doubt pissed he’d invaded her territory, but her eyes never flashed gold. Other than the tiny shift to claws briefly, her other half never surfaced; as an alpha, he could tell. If he hadn’t known beyond a doubt- and his nose never lied- what she was, he wouldn’t have guessed that she was changeling. A few slips on her part were to be expected under the circumstances, which was a large part of the reason why he was there in the first place; he needed to see how she reacted. But the sheer amount of control she had was bizarre for someone who had only lived among humans.

“How ‘bout you join RainFire?”

She gaped at him.

“No!” she cried once she realized he was serious. Remi waited for her to elaborate upon her refusal.

“Why not?” he asked when it was obvious nothing else was forthcoming. She continued to stare at him as if he were a few bricks shy of a load.

“Leopard,” she said slowly, pointing to him. “Ocelot,” she pressed one hand over her heart. Each word was carefully pronounced.

“DarkRiver has a jaguar and a lynx, we have a tiger. The old way of thinking was hurting more’n it was helping. No room for that in RainFire.” Lorelei seemed genuinely taken aback by that; she must have deliberately avoided any and all news touching upon changelings. “Is it because of what happened at RedRock?” Women typically didn’t respond well to his bluntness unless he was seducing them, and by her full-body flinch, Lorelei It’s-Maddox-Now-Thank-You-Very-Much was no exception to the rule.

“You want an honest answer?” Thin ginger brows climbed up her freckled forehead. When he nodded, she pushed off the counter with muttered “fine” and a deep sigh.

“I just want to be left alone and nothing you can say will change my mind.” Hands on her hips, her pink lips pursed into a bow that was probably poutier than she realized.

“You’ve managed pretty well on your own, sticking to mostly human areas.” When he stood and stretched to his full height her breathing and heart rate quickened, but otherwise she gave no sign of being intimidated. “How well do you think you’ll do now without pack to protect you? On your own, you’re prey for psy, changelings with a ‘tite more dominance on you, even humans if they're cunning enough.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Denier?” Her face was a bloodless mask, yet she held his gaze with a hard stare of her own. The contact only lasted as long as it took a heart to beat, but he felt electricity shoot through his body. It wasn’t entirely sexual, despite his reaction. There was something off about her he just couldn’t put his finger on.

“No, but this is.” The scent of fear sweat filled his nose, stronger than before. “You’ve got one month to either join RainFire or leave town. Au revoir, Ms. Maddox.” With a shallow nod of his head, he strode out the door and into the warm autumn afternoon.

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priestessofspiders · 2 years ago

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Angel Numbers

There's a certain macabre beauty to automobile accidents. Why else should we turn our heads to observe such wreckage as we pass them by in our own, undamaged vehicles? To see the aftermath of a car crash is to bear witness to a magnificent feat of engineering and industrial might having been rent asunder by simple inertia and human stupidity.

The car was red, as I recall, and rather sporty in appearance. I'm afraid I don't recall the make or model, just that it looked like the sort of thing a moderately wealthy businessman undergoing a divorce fueled midlife crisis might purchase in between binge drinking and flirting with women half his age. A status symbol with all the subtlety and sophistication of gold plated toilet seat.

The ruby testament to poor taste had smashed into the divider of the freeway, evidently at high speed, judging by the intense damage. The accident caused quite a bit of a traffic jam, granting me ample time to indulge in a bit of gawping.

The whole front of the car was crumpled, shortening its overall length and wrinkling the metal in such a way as to give the wreck an almost puggish appearance. A police cruiser was parked nearby, its red and blue lights flashing uncomfortably bright for late afternoon. Two black uniformed officers motioned for commuters to move along, their borderline mask-like faces showing only the faintest hint of annoyance in response to the carnage behind them.

Next to the cruiser was an ambulance, and as my own vehicle moved slowly past, I spied two paramedics carrying a limp, bloodstained object on a stretcher. Its head slumped towards me, revealing an almost sardonic grimace and two vacant eyes peering off to something in the distance. It was the mocking, sightless stare of a corpse.

The last thing I noticed before I had to cease my voyeurism and continue along my merry way was the unfortunate vehicle's license plate. I only caught a glimpse, and was thus able to discern just three numbers; 333. As I drove away towards my apartment, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

It was about a week later when I next encountered that same series of digits again. I was absent-mindedly skimming the news on my phone over a breakfast of cheap coffee and slightly burnt toast when I noticed an article that caught my attention. The headline read "Senseless Killing Leaves Community Reeling" or some similarly sensational phrase.

Evidently there had been an altercation of a violent nature between two next door neighbors in the otherwise idyllic mundanity of suburbia. Let's refer to these two gentlemen as Mr. Cain and Mr. Abel. The two men had been at odds ever since they first made contact, with Mr. Abel being a dedicated member of the local homeowner's association, while Mr. Cain's attitude towards his community seemed somewhat less than friendly. The pair had frequent shouting matches over the top of Mr. Abel's white picket fence before, but prior to the incident in question had never resorted to any form of physical aggression.

Apparently Mr. Cain has been violating some obscure HOA regulation regarding appropriate lawn ornamentation, and Mr. Abel had took it upon himself to enforce said edict by removing the offending object himself. Mr. Cain noticed Mr. Abel doing this, and took matters into his own hands with the assistance of a semiautomatic pistol.

All of this was, of course, interesting in it's own morbid way, but two elements stood out to me especially. The first was the address of Mr. Cain's home: 1333 Maple Road. The second was Mr. Cain's mugshot, in which the wild-eyed man bared his his teeth in a hideous grin like that of an enraged chimpanzee. His eyes seemed to bore straight through mine and right out the back of my skull.

Now you may think me mad, or at least a touch paranoid, for connecting this entirely unrelated event to the car accident to which I had previously bore witness. In my opinion, any other time you would be entirely right. The human mind is accustomed to noticing patterns which aren't there, symbolism which means nothing. Critics, conspiracy theorists and philosophers alike make their livings drawing imaginary lines between disparate events, noticing faces in the fog. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not, however, in this case.

I began noticing the number far too frequently after my discovery in the news to keep exact track of the sightings. It felt almost like some sort of morbid game to me. Whenever the negativity soaked algorithmic slop of modern social media pushed an article on some fresh tragedy in my direction, I'd scan the page for any mention of my numerical quarry, and more often than not I would find it. It could be an airplane accident, leading to the untimely deaths of 333 hapless passengers, a serial killer charged with the murder of three 33 year old women, or a study showing that air pollution of such and such region had gone up 33.3% since such and such year. In all cases, the number was universally related to something terrible.

On occasion I tried my luck looking for the number in more pleasant circumstances. I'd search through countless sickly sweet feelgood articles that left my brain with the aspartame tang of corporate faux-positivity, but it would never show up. It only appeared when there were mentions of death, violence, and suffering.

Now believe me, I'm aware of the so-called phenomenon of "Angel Numbers". I know all about the deluded morons walking about claiming that some higher power is sending them "positive vibes" just because they spotted a dove at 11:11 AM or some other such nonsense. I even looked up what 333 was supposed to represent according to these self-styled numerological gurus, and, as I expected, got such a conflicting variety of answers that I quickly gave up in disgust.

It took a few months until I was actually confronted in my own life by the number. I was at home, enjoying a rather strong drink and watching some puerile entertainment on my second-hand TV, when I received a call on my phone. The caller was unknown to me, and I would have simply ignored it, were it not for the last three digits of their phone number. Dear reader, I'll give you one guess as to what those numbers were.

I answered the phone, only to be confronted with a man's voice speaking in a thick southern drawl, an accent which I have laboriously worked to remove from my own speech patterns as soon as I was able to successfully escape the small-minded hellhole that was my birthplace. He introduced himself to me as a lawyer, and referred to me by a name I haven't gone by since I was 18 years old. I didn't bother to correct him.

He informed me that my mother had died, pausing for a moment after his proclamation to give me time to show some appropriate sign of grief. I did no such thing. After the awkward silence passed, he continued with his monologue to inform me that the funeral would be held on March 3rd at 3:00 o'clock, and that I needed to come down to fill out some paperwork regarding a will. I did raise an eyebrow at the mention of a will, since I hadn't expected her to leave me anything more than a hurtful note after her death, but I figured that perhaps she had undergone a change of heart in her old age.

I was given the address for the gathering, and the caller hung up after an apologetic "my condolences for your loss". I put in a notice for my bereavement leave via email to my employer, and began packing for a trip to my hometown.

The funeral itself was deeply unpleasant, even granting the normal depressing atmosphere of such occasions. At least at a typical funeral you will generally know the people in attendance, and even if you don't you will at least have a common love for the deceased. This was not true in my case.

My mother was deeply ashamed of me, and I don't really think the attendees even knew that their dear old church friend had a child, much less some tranny college dropout. I stuck out like a sore thumb among the well-to-do elderly mourners, with my ill-fitting black dress and inexpertly applied makeup.

Some of the more edgier atheist types are prone to likening deeply religious folk to sheep, or cattle, but I never really felt that way. They always seemed to me more akin to bloodhounds. I could feel their eyes slide over me like spotlights illuminating a fugitive, their noses wrinkling at the scent of my cheap perfume. They could smell the sin on me.

It was a closed casket funeral, I remember from a young age my mother insisted that after she passed she didn't want anyone staring at her body. She had some unusual beliefs to say the least, she didn't want to be cremated lest her ashes fail to rise for the day of judgment, but nonetheless she didn't want her body to be seen until then. "Too voyeuristic", she would say. Unfortunately, this meant I couldn't even play the part of the grief-stricken child, reduced to speechlessness at the sight of my dear departed mother. I had to mingle with the other guests.

A few individuals asked how I knew her, I'd tell them she was my mother, they'd offer their condolences, and that would be that. I tried to ignore the looks of disgust, the probing eyes, the forced grimaces. Fortunately it wasn't long before it was time for the burial, and we all shuffled our way out into the hot afternoon sun.

A balding, sunburnt preacher stood before the casket and started making his speech. He was babbling something about the kingdom to come, how those chosen by God would one day live in everlasting paradise, the usual spiel. He spoke of my mother, of how she was a beloved member of the community, and a true child of God. While he spoke, the coffin sat on a little wooden platform in front of the open grave. I found myself staring at it, as if by some foul miracle my mother would pop out, alive and well. I imagined her jumping up and laughing at me, all the mourners turning around to point and cackle, guffawing at the idiot queer who fell for the bait. A trap for a trap.

I'd long since tuned out the preacher while I contemplated this hypothetical scenario, but suddenly everything snapped into sharp focus as I heard him utter a series of numbers.

"Proverbs 3:33 says 'The curse of the LORD is in the house of the wicked: but he blesseth the habitati-'"

Before he could finish the verse, the sound of wood splintering assaulted my ears as the platform beneath the coffin gave way, collapsing from the weight of my mother's corpse. The casket's lid fell open, revealing the body within, and I couldn't help but scream.

My mother's face was contorted into a vile, grotesque grin, just like that of the car crash victim, just like that of Mr. Cain, her doll-like dead eyes staring endlessly into nothing.

I skipped town immediately after the funeral. I didn't even bother with the will, at this point it didn't matter. Things escalated quickly after that, some infernal mechanism behind the scenes shifting into high gear.

A mysterious purchase for 333 dollars was made on my credit card, and when I went to the bank to try and fix the issue they ever-so politely proclaimed they couldn't do anything about it. "Nothing suspicious about it, sorry sir- I mean ma'am", explained the gray-haired banker boredly from behind his computer monitor.

There were calls from strangers who just breathed heavily and laughed, all from phone numbers with the area code 333. Once I got so sick of it I screamed at the pervert on the other end, demanding they stop calling me. They just cackled and recited my home address before hanging up.

I began noticing the numbers everywhere, from billboards to addresses to bills. I once went to fill a prescription only to find that the RX number contained those same hateful digits. I decided against taking the medicine in question. I was being followed, hunted, by a string of 3s.

I began to check my watch obsessively, awaiting with tense horror the second the clock struck 3:33. When I was at work during such occurrences, universally something would go wrong. A customer would trip and break their leg right in front of me, the cash register would crash to a blue screen, or a Brazilian wandering spider would crawl its way out of a bunch of bananas. I started taking strategic bathroom breaks to avoid being on the sales floor whenever it got close to that accursed minute.

After a few months of this torment, it all came to a head last night. I was coming home from work after a long shift when I saw smoke pouring out of the hideous concrete prison which held my apartment. Licks of flame could be seen on one of the upper floors. A firetruck was parked nearby, and several uniformed men and women were rushing about, working to try and contain the fire. I saw a crowd of people standing around, watching the spectacle, and I asked a neighbor what had happened.

"Some idiot on the 3rd floor, I think apartment 33, left their stove on", she muttered, glaring at the conflagration.

I felt queasy, and swiftly got back into my car and headed for a nearby hotel.

The receptionist, an elderly woman with slightly crooked glasses, looked up from her book as I walked through the front door. I explained that I needed a room for the night, and she sighed and began typing into her computer to see what was available. After a few moments, she had me pay for the room and handed me a plastic keycard.

"Room 333 honey. Isn't it funny when numbers line up like that? Must be your lucky night."

I began to cackle nervously, visibly startling the receptionist, and taking the card from her, made my way to the elevator.

I'm waiting in the room now, I've spent the past couple hours typing up my story, such as it is. My phone keeps ringing, but I'm not answering it anymore. I don't need to hear any more heavy breathing and laughter.

I haven't told anyone else about what's happened. They'd all just think I was crazy. Can you imagine being afraid of a number?

It's a selfish hope, I know, but perhaps if someone else reads this, it will let me go. Maybe it will start following them instead. Maybe my life can go back to normal. The digital clock reads 3:28 AM now. Just 5 more minutes. Nothing that bad can happen in just 5 minutes, right?

#horror #horror story #horror fiction #cw slurs

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sywtwfs · 8 years ago

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A Preview for 2017 World Team Trophy (aka. The Most Important Event of the Season)

Thought the season was over? Not quite! The last competition of the 2016-17 season, World Team Trophy, will take place in Tokyo, Japan, from April 20-22! The top 6 countries based on world standings will participate, and unsurprisingly, those countries are Canada, Russia, USA, Japan, China, and France. We'll be seeing lots of familiar faces here, so this preview will focus less on individual skaters and more on teams as a whole.

Streaming information for WTT is available here.

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COMPETITION FORMAT

What the ads tell you to expect: A fierce battle between the top countries of the world!

What will actually happen: K&C parties, silly hats, streamers, vuvuzelas, no one taking the event seriously, messy performances because everyone’s tired after Worlds (let’s be honest here), basically one last bit of fun before the reality of the Olympic season sets in. Watch this video to get a preview of the WTT experience.

World Team Trophy is a team competition hosted in Japan every other year starting in 2009 (the 2011 competition was postponed to 2012 due to the earthquake in Japan). Each team is composed of two ladies, two men, one ice dance team, and one pairs team, for a total of 12 men, 12 ladies, 6 pairs and 6 dance teams. Skaters earn points for their team based on their placements in both the short programs and free skates. For the singles events, 1st place earns 12 points, 2nd place earns 11 points, and so on until 12th place, which earns 1 point. For the pairs and dance events, 1st place earns 12 points, and so on until 6th place, which earns 7 points. Teams are represented by a Team Captain in the press conferences. As WTT is an ISU Competition, scores recorded there count for season's/personal best scores and world records.

But let's be real, the most important part of WTT isn't the competition itself, but the kiss n' cry, which is truly the life of the event. Skaters cheer for their teammates with silly hats, costumes, noisemakers, props, dancing, anything they can come up with. (Sometimes even the officials join in.) The most creative and enthusiastic team is awarded the Team Spirit Award. Team France won the Team Spirit Award in 2012 and 2013, but Team China is the defending champ from 2015, and we can't wait to see all of them bring their A-games to the K&C.

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TEAM CANADA

Captain: Kaitlyn Weaver

Ladies: Gabrielle Daleman, Alaine Chartrand

Men: Patrick Chan, Kevin Reynolds

Pairs: Kirsten Moore-Towers/Michael Marinaro

Ice dance: Kaitlyn Weaver/Andrew Poje

Competition prospects: Team Canada is fresh off one of their most successful World Championships in years, buoyed especially by their two ladies’ medalists in a discipline that has often been their weakness in recent seasons. However, the team that Canada will send to Tokyo is missing some of its biggest stars; the absence of Virtue/Moir, Kaetlyn Osmond, and their top 3 pairs teams could make the results more unpredictable. But with a deep field in every discipline, Team Canada still has a very solid shot at the WTT podium and will be fighting primarily with Team USA and Team Russia for their first WTT title. The team will be led by Weaver/Poje, Gabby Daleman, and Patrick Chan with solid backup from Kevin Reynolds, while Alaine Chartrand and Moore-Towers/Marinaro - strong skaters in their own right - will use WTT as another opportunity for competition experience and to finish their seasons on a high note.

K&C prospects: Expect many moose hats, mountie hats, and maple leaves, tried and true symbols of Canadian patriotism. Alas, Scott Moir isn’t here to tell us he hates this event, which has been a real highlight of Team Canada in the past.

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TEAM RUSSIA

Captain: Ekaterina Bobrova

Ladies: Evgenia Medvedeva, Elena Radionova

Men: Mikhail Kolyada, Maxim Kovtun

Pairs: Evgenia Tarasova/Vladimir Morozov

Ice dance: Ekaterina Bobrova/Dmitri Soloviev

Competition prospects: Team Russia isn’t fooling around this season, sending their highest-ranked skaters from Worlds to Tokyo next week - the sole exception being Elena Radionova, who can use this competition as another opportunity after missing her country’s European and World teams. Evgenia Medvedeva, Bobrova/Soloviev, and Tarasova/Morozov will be the anchors of the team, while Team Russia’s final placement will likely depend on the performances of Elena and the men, who can be a bit of a wild card. Russia didn’t start sending their strongest skaters to WTT until 2015, where they took the silver medal, and if this year’s team can skate to their potential, Team Russia might just win the entire competition.

K&C prospects: Team Russia’s K&Cs have a wide range of quality depending on who’s on the team. They can be a lot of fun or they can be a snooze; their performance this season is a bit hard to predict.

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TEAM USA

Captain: Ashley Wagner

Ladies: Ashley Wagner, Karen Chen

Men: Nathan Chen, Jason Brown

Pairs: Ashley Cain/Timothy LeDuc

Ice dance: Madison Chock/Evan Bates

Competition prospects: Three-time and defending WTT champions, Team USA has what it takes to win once again. Fielding high-level competitors in singles and ice dance, they’ll be looking for consistent performances across all disciplines in order to snatch the gold. Team USA has some very strong skaters, but there are a few questions up in the air: Has Nathan Chen fixed his boot problems? Will he attempt 6 quads in the free skate again? Will he survive this competition in one piece? Will Karen Chen continue her rise? Will Ashley Wagner and Chock/Bates redeem themselves from Worlds? Will someone try to start a “U S A” chant, only to be shut down by Captain Wagner? All this and more will become apparent next week in Tokyo!

K&C prospects: Expect at least a few “U S A” chants, and for the team to be bedecked like a Fourth of July parade. The enthusiasm is usually there, but may require more creativity to truly contend for the Team Spirit Award.

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TEAM JAPAN

Captain: Kana Muramoto

Ladies: Mai Mihara, Wakaba Higuchi

Men: Yuzuru Hanyu, Shoma Uno

Pairs: Sumire Suto/Francis Boudreau-Audet

Ice dance: Kana Muramoto/Chris Reed

Competition prospects: Team Japan has medaled at every WTT held so far, with 3 bronze medals and one gold (in 2012). As the host nation, Japan is allowed to participate in WTT by default, but Team Japan is always high enough in the rankings to qualify anyway. Although pairs and dance are Japan's weakest disciplines, they are still a podium contender by virtue of having some of the strongest singles skaters in the world. However, unless their pairs and dance teams can pull off a miracle, Japan is unlikely to contend for anything higher than bronze this year. Their biggest potential point-getters are the men, Yuzuru Hanyu and Shoma Uno, fresh off gold and silver medals at 2017 Worlds. (Then again, if they’re a disaster here, we would not be surprised either.) Team Japan's final placement will likely come down to the performances of their ladies, who are capable of high scores when they're on; Mai Mihara brings consistency to the table, while Wakaba Higuchi will no doubt be looking for revenge after her Worlds debut. Muramoto/Reed and Suto/Boudreau-Audet will also be looking to end their seasons on a good note after just barely failing to qualify for the free skates at Worlds.

K&C prospects: Japan's K&C performance has ranged from lackluster (2015) to good (2013), with their best years coming under the captaincy of legendary uncle Daisuke Takahashi. Ice dancer Kana Muramoto will lead the team this year, and it will be interesting to see how this young, rather shy version of Team Japan gels together.

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TEAM CHINA

Captain: Yang Jin

Ladies: Zijun Li, Xiangning Li

Men: Boyang Jin, Tangxu Li

Pairs: Cheng Peng/Yang Jin

Ice dance: Shiyue Wang/Xinyu Liu

Competition prospects: Team China has never medaled at WTT and that's not about to change this year, either. Boyang Jin and Peng/Jin have the best chance at high placements, Xiangning Li and Wang/Liu have risen steadily this season, and Zijun Li will be looking for redemption from Worlds, but it’s unlikely that Team China will place higher than 5th overall. But truthfully, who cares?

K&C prospects: This is where Team China shines. With a close-knit group of skaters all around the same age, Team China really feels like a team. Their enthusiasm and creativity in 2015, as well as their mastery of props and choreographed dancing, nabbed them the Team Spirit Award. If they can bring the same quality to their K&Cs this year, Team China has a shot at defending their title - but those performances from 2015 may be hard to top. Personally, we're looking forward to Boyang Jin's WTT debut, and whatever machinations Zijun Li comes up with to raise Team China's K&C game. (Yang Jin is listed as the captain, but we know who’s really calling the shots.)

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TEAM FRANCE

Captain: Morgan Cipres

Ladies: Laurine Lecavelier, Mae Berenice Meite

Men: Chafik Besseghier, Kevin Aymoz

Pairs: Vanessa James/Morgan Cipres

Ice dance: Marie-Jade Lauriault/Romain Le Gac

Competition prospects: Sixth-place qualifier this year, Team France will probably fight with Team China for 5th place in the standings. With the exception of James/Cipres, the members of Team France are unlikely to place very high at WTT, and they're really just here to have a good time.

K&C prospects: If previous years are anything to go by, Team France will be fighting once again for first place in Team Spirit - they won the Team Spirit Award in both 2012 and 2013, and put up a good fight in 2015, too. Their efforts in 2012 and 2013 revolutionized K&C cheerleading with the use of costumes, props, and themed acrobatics. And you’ve really gotta give props to a team that cheers wildly when they hear they’re in last place, and will likely stay there. However, team composition is also important when considering K&C prospects, and Team France is missing some of its big K&C players of the past, so we’ll just have to wait and see what they come up with this year.

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#figure skating #world team trophy #world team trophy 2017 #team comps #season: 2016 2017 #events #preview

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