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as fate would have it | gem zero: future is prologue
A/N: The first gem is hereeee. Super excited to start officially posting my original writings. I'm working on putting a formal cast list and masterlist together, but I figured I would go ahead and post the first chappie. She's over 9k and thique, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.
TW/CW: language, angst, betrayal
SYNOPSIS- Tex Aurelius is thrown for a loop when he’s thrust into a world where beings other than humans exist and he’s poised to one day, become a leader to an entire sovereign. Along the way, he forges friendships and rivalries with other future leaders at Cascadia Academy.
Sibyl Aurelius was pleased to say that she had taken successful measures in protecting her son from a life in which destiny overrode desires. When Tex decides he wants to take saxophone lessons in elementary school, she excitedly signs him up, eager to sate his musical curiosities simply because he had them. When he joins the varsity basketball team in high school, she’s at every game she can make, appreciative to raise a son who was afforded the luxury of pursuing his interests. She knows she can’t protect him forever, but dammit, if she doesn’t wish she had more time.
The first clue that something’s up is the car she notices when she leaves for work early this morning. It’s a simple black sedan, but her past has made her more observant than the average person. That’s why there’s a small, niggling feeling in the back of her mind all day at the fact that the vehicle had no tags and no visible driver.
She works in an office, mostly glued to her computer and phone. Today, she’s working hard to convince herself she’s paranoid at the way the computer screens zap sporadically throughout the day as if there are interruptions in the connection. She grabs lunch from across the street and nearly stumbles in the middle of the intersection when she thinks she sees intangible blips up above, almost like there’s someone unzipping and zipping the linings of the sky.
She feels sweat start to prickle under her arms and her nerves are too high-strung to be worried about the inevitable stains in the royal blue blouse. She stumbles in her heels as she walks to her car that evening and forces herself to control her breathing once she’s in the driver’s seat. She uses her hands to ground herself, gripping them to the steering wheel as an anchor.
When she gets home and walks from the garage into the yellow linoleum-tiled kitchen, she refuses to acknowledge that the stove and microwave clocks were in need of a reset, much like after a power outage. Refute, ignore, deny.
She has the night to herself at home while her son spends the night at a friend’s and so she orders takeout instead of facing the beeping digits of her appliances and eats on her burgundy tufted couch in front of the fireplace before reading her current mystery novel and heading off to bed.
Only she hears the front door slam as she reaches the top of the steps and shrieks at the sound.
Tex.
He looks up at her, taking out one of his AirPods, bewildered at his mother’s outburst.
“What?”
She heaves a heavy sigh, clutching a hand to her chest, “What are you doing here? I thought you were spending the night at Tyler’s.”
Tex shrugs, “He got grounded. Got kinda boring when his dad took away the Xbox.”
He takes note of the way she’s still taking deep breaths as a means of calming herself.
“You good?” he asks.
Sibyl briefly closes her eyes, more worn down than usual. She suspects all this worrying and paranoia has expended a lot of energy. “Yes. It’s late, come on and get into bed.”
She gives him a light kiss on the forehead as he climbs up the steps and passes her in the hallway. It’s summertime so she knows her son’s not going straight to bed, but she knows she’ll sleep better tonight with him under their shared roof.
The summons comes without ceremony. It’s a secured message that comes through, requesting Silas’ presence at the Council Chambers. There’s no distinct urgency in the memo. The words immediate or promptly needn’t be used when the message is coming from the Chamber Speaker.
The room where he’s waiting to be briefed is ordinary in appearance, with its nondescript furniture and standard office design, but Silas is no fool. The room is completely proofed. No one outside of it has any chance of seeing or hearing through its walls. The full contents of this discussion are never to leave this room.
Only him and the Chamber Speaker are present.
On his way inside, Silas sees several people hustling back and forth between the two large congregation rooms across the hall. They walked with a frenzied purpose and it was then that Silas knew.
The opening words from the Chamber Speaker’s mouth was no surprise.
“The Honorable Arch Hendrix passed twenty minutes ago. The succession protocols have commenced.”
Silas breathes in.
“May his transition have been peaceful.”
Speaker A’dez nods glumly.
The truth of the present is only now beginning to set in, though Silas has been preparing for this for a couple of months now. He looks beyond, the room and A’dez dropping away as he takes in Cascadia, its synchronized rhythms and pulsing waves.
The city was alive and it was watching him.
Speaker A’dez crossed his hands over his knee, his grief palpable.
“I imagine you have some important conversations you need to have.”
Confessions is more like it.
Silas nods. “Yes. I should go promptly.”
“Very well. The announcement will be going out shortly. We must proceed with preparations forthwith upon your return.”
There’s nothing else to be said, nothing that will unbind the ties that have led them to here.
Silas pauses on his exit at Ade’z’s parting words.
“He picked you for a reason. You were meant for this fate, whether you choose it or not.”
Silas stares at the door in front of him.
“I choose it unreservedly. I just don’t know what that means for Cascadia.”
He walks out intently, for better or for worse, as the imminent Honorable Arch of Cascadia.
Tex’s eyelids lift blithely after over eight hours of restful sleep. His body naturally relaxes under the streams of sunlight that peek through his half-open blinds. He stretches, loosening the tiny remnants of tension in his frame. The bed squeaks as he shifts with all the laziness he’s afforded on weekend mornings. His laptop is still open on his night stand and he wakes it up, resuming the lo-fi playlist he reserves for Sunday cleaning.
The soft sounds of chilled drum beats aerates throughout the room as he begins picking up discarded clothes off the floor. He figures if he starts having all of his chores done without being prompted, his mom will be more inclined to let him go to the upcoming music festival with his friends that she’s been on the fence about. He starts to haul his hamper towards the door, cursing when the heaping pile of laundry nearly topples over. He balances the linen sack with one hand while opening his door.
The smell of chicken fried steak and eggs immediately wafts in Tex’s face, a familiar welcome on weekend mornings.
What knocks him for a loop is the sound of a resonant, masculine voice sounding from downstairs.
A familiar, comforting voice no matter how long it’s been since he’s heard it.
“Dad!”
Tex rushes down the steps and raises his arms outward to avoid crashing into the wall in his haste.
Silas looks up and immediately bears the widest smile. He’s embraced in a hug before he even gets a chance to stand and he savors the physical affection they so rarely get to share.
“What are you doing here? Mom didn’t mention you were coming to visit!”
Sibyl turns away from the stove, swiping a quick glance at Tex. “I was surprised, too, honey. It was a spur of the moment kinda thing.”
For as long as Tex could remember, his father had worked as a diplomat, stationed in multiple foreign nations over the years and constantly on the go. He visited every few months as much as time allowed and communicated often, though never lived with Tex and Sibyl.
His focus turns back to Silas, waiting for a response.
“I missed you, son. It’s been too long,” he says.
“I’ll say. Things must be pretty busy in Tanzania.”
Sibyl clears her throat. “Si, we have water, grape juice, or tea. What would you like?”
“Tea, please.”
Tex and Silas sit at the dinette table as Sibyl places down everyone’s breakfast.
Tex immediately digs in, heaping a large portion of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“How long are you here for?” He smacks in between bites.
Silas finishes chewing before answering, “Not sure yet.” He takes a sip of his drink.
Tex’s eyebrows raise. When his father came to town, it was usually planned weeks in advance. The surprise drop in was certainly welcome, though anomalous. “Did you take off from work?”
Silas sighs and puts his glass down, pausing as if combing for words.
“Something like that.”
Tex’s eating slows. He watches as Silas and Sibyl briefly glance at one another. There’s weight and significance exchanged between them, unasked questions and silent answers.
“You’re being weird,” he accuses. “Is something wrong?”
Silas chuckles, though there’s no humor to be found in his tone. He shakes his head. Sibyl reaches a hand over, placing it on top of his, briefly. It’s only an instant but he swears he sees his father’s fingers briefly curl around hers in that swift second before she retreats.
Tex glances at her and he’s met with a small, off-kilter smile.
“I don’t know if you had plans today, but I’m sure your friends wouldn’t mind a rain check so you can hang with your dad,” Sibyl suggests.
“Of course not.” Tex looks at his dad. “I’m all yours, today.”
Silas’ sincere, content smile is back. “I’d like that.”
Breakfast continues with Tex catching Silas up on his latest comings and goings. There’s still something looming that he hasn’t quite captured yet. It’s not tension and it’s not uncomfortable but the ambience feels atilt. Nonetheless, he’s forthcoming in sharing that his GPA had gone up after nailing his finals and that he was enjoying a lazy summer break before junior year starts.
Sibyl gleans proudly at Tex. “Can’t believe our boy has grown up so fast.”
“Mom..” Tex drawls as he gathers their plates. He exchanges an amused look with Silas as he heads over towards the dishwasher. “I told her I was considering taking some AP classes for college credit and you would think I told her I was moving out and getting married.”
Silas snorts.
“I’m sentimental, sue me,” Sibyl retorts. “Besides, it feels like it wasn’t that long ago that I was carrying you in my belly. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that you’re almost all grown up.”
Tex walks back over to table, leaning a hand on Sibyl’s shoulder.
“I still rely on you for rides and lunch money, so I’m not that grown up.”
His parents laugh and he absorbs the lightness in which they’ve always interacted with. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe they’re divorced. He’s never asked his mother why they split, too fearful to bring up the potential for heartbreak, but a minor part of him would always wonder what was standing in their way from them being together.
Sibyl brightens as she stares out the open casement window over the sink. “Anyways, I was thinking if you’re not too cool to hang out with your parents, we could have a Blind Mice Day.”
Tex chortles. He has fuzzy memories of singing nursery rhymes on the day trips the three would take together whenever Silas was in town. His four year old cover version of Three Blind Mice had obviously made an impression enough for their rare occasions of quality time to have been dubbed with the ridiculous reference.
His smile dims. It’s been too long since they’ve spent time together as a family.
He grasps his father’s shoulder, his other arm still wrapped around his mother, and he looks between them, relishing in what he wishes he had more of.
“Blind Mice Day sounds perfect.”
Draven: Just checking in. You need anything?
Silas looks down at the message with defeat. There were a lot of things that Silas needed, but the unfortunate truth was that there wasn’t anything anyone else, including one of his closest friends, could do in his stead.
Silas: I’ll let you know when I’m back.
He types out the quick message, letting out a low sigh at the tall list of tasks waiting for him once he returns. His head turns up at the sound of approaching footsteps on the tiled patio deck. The sun was nearly tucked in for the night after a full, eventful day. Blind Mice Day had consisted of a mini road trip out to the nearby lake with an adventurous hiking trail around its circumference. Even after walking the trail, Tex, Sibyl, and Silas spent hours talking, lounging, and playing games in the balmy breeze. Afterwards, they ventured back into town, grabbing food at Tex’s favorite Ethiopian spot and enjoying dinner outside. They stopped for sundaes on the way home and Tex’s gait was sluggish with satiety as they got settled inside.
Silas had excused himself to the deck to gather his thoughts, though he wasn’t the least bit surprised that Sibyl had come to check in on him not long after.
His eyes follow her as she leaves the sliding door cracked and nimbly approaches him. Her radiant glow and soft-angled features still enrapture him without effort. It never feels like enough when they’re around each other.
Even still, he lets the silence linger between them for a few more moments of respite before there’s no more avoiding reality.
“Are you going to tell him before you leave?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have a choice. The transition period has already commenced.”
“Si, it’s not like this was a complete surprise. We always knew this day would come.” She rests a hand on his arm.
“I know,” he exhales. “I just can’t help but feel like I’m setting him up for failure.”
“You’re not. And he’s not going to fail. You won’t let that happen.” Sibyl asserts.
Her confidence in him has always sliced him. There were many things he shouldn’t have let happen. Too many aftermaths that he should have prevented.
Inside, Tex’s voice drifts as doors slam and feet shuffle in the background.
“Hey mom, have you seen my gym shorts?”
“Just washed them, try the dryer.” Sibyl calls back.
“Got them!”
Sibyl turns back to Silas, alarmed at how painfully tight his eyes are shut.
“What is it?” She inquires concernedly.
“That noise…” Her eyes blink in confusion before he elaborates. “The noise of him existing in this house. The boy has zero problems, Sibyl. I’m taking him away from a perfect life.”
Sibyl sighs with a quiet understanding. She’s remarkably calm given the present circumstances. In his inner swirling turmoil, Silas admires how intact she’s remained. Knowing her had always made him feel like he lived in abundance, and yet he’s never felt so alone and deprived in the world. If he didn’t love her so much, he’d probably be resentful at her togetherness.
“You did that, you know?” She peers up at him, grasping his hands as if she could physically transmit her convictions. “You gave him that perfect life. By taking him away, you gave him a life where he could be happy, a life where he wasn’t raised surrounded by hatefulness. And now you’ve given him a world that he can come back to.”
“We did that.” He amends. “I couldn’t have done this without you. I don’t understand how you’re being so strong.”
Sibyl shakes her head. “Silas, I can’t-”
Her words break off with a crack.
“Can’t what?”
The words reach him though she never gives voices to them. His frame settles with realization. She was calm because she wasn’t going to do this. Couldn’t do this. He mistook her expression as composed, when really she was stricken.
He knows his words are futile, but he speaks them nonetheless.
“Sibyl, you know that it’s safe-”
His words halt at how vicious her head shakes.
“I can’t go back there.” Emotion strangles the light buoyancy from her voice. It’s almost like Silas is in her mind’s eye, watching the spine chilling flashbacks of a darker, deadlier time. She’s had to live through unspeakable things in the name of love. Something deep in Silas gnaws at all that she’s had to endure. He watches her in the throes of anguish, curling into herself, and he leans closer with an arm outstretched.
She scurries back. “Stop!”
“Mom?”
The two twist back at the cracked patio door. Tex steps out, approaching concernedly.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” Sibyl ekes out.
Tex looks on unconvinced before turning to Silas.
His father’s sigh is one of resoluteness. The time for lingering was no more, if there was any.
“What do you say we go inside and talk?”
The threads of unease from this morning have found themselves in a quilt of tension that covers Tex immediately. Silas takes a step towards the door and Tex’s eyes veer back and forth between his parents. Sibyl looks up and her face expresses a poor mask of blankness. Still, she gives a half-hearted smile and nods encouragingly. It’s notable that she doesn’t follow the two inside as they head into the house.
They reach the living room, Silas leading and Tex more so wandering.
Silas imagined himself having this talk, releasing these words, for well over a decade now. It’s funny how one can have all of the words available when it’s not the right time, but there’s nothing to be found in the moment that counts.
“What’s going on?” Tex implores once more. “Why are you here? It’s starting to feel like this is more than just a spur of the moment pop up.”
“It wasn’t so much as ‘spur of the moment,’ but more so a day that I anticipated, but am utterly unprepared for, nonetheless.” Silas supplies, gesturing for the two to sit. “I need to tell you something and it’s long overdue.”
“You’re not dying, are you?”
Silas chuckles flatly. “Not hardly.”
He gazes at his son. His warm, open eyes and limber limbs. His chestnut, brown complexion and his thick, cloudy hair. His son who stole his mother’s nose and his father’s angular elements. His muscles and vasculature that aren’t quite so human. Seeing so much of himself in him, despite living vastly different lives, is as bewildering as it is heartening.
“You’ve lived in this world your whole life,” Silas starts.
Tex tilts his head with a frown. “Yeah… I’m still doing that.”
“There are places beyond this world, Tex. …Other worlds that live in parallel to this one.”
“As in other continents? Like with third-world countries?”
“No.”
Tex chuckles, “As in other planets?”
“No.”
“Well, what then?”
“There are layers to what you know as life. Dimensional realms that mirror but also diverge in the ways of life and humanity.”
“You starting to sound like one of them conspiracy people. You be going down them Facebook rabbit holes, old man?” Tex jokingly elbows his father’s shoulder but notes of anxiousness flair when he takes in the solemn expression Silas wears.
“I need you listen closely to what I’m about to tell you and understand that I’m telling the truth.”
Tex’s pulse picks up.
“There’s a place called Domea,” Silas tells him.
The name registers as foreign to him. He aced his Geography class last year, so he feels like it should impress upon him, at least vaguely.
“Never heard of it,” Tex admits.
“That’s because it doesn’t exist in this world,” Silas resumes, “Not in any way a random person could simply access. It exists on a completely different dimension from the one we’re in now.”
“Hold up. You’re saying there’s an entire different world out there that just exists??”
Silas assents.
“And what? It’s like a secret?”
“Not completely, but very few people of this world are aware of it.”
Tex sucks in a quick breath. This was far from however he expected this conversation to go.
“Okay, so how do you know about it?”
There’s an instant of silence before Silas can no longer stifle what he’s hidden from his son for over sixteen years.
“Because I live there.”
Tex’s brows furrow. “I thought you lived in Tanzania.”
“No, son.” He rests a hand on Tex’s shoulder. “That’s just what we told you.”
“Why did you lie? And why are you telling me now?”
Abruptly, Tex stands, his father’s hand sliding off his shoulder at the acute movement. Silas watches his son pace on the cognac colored wood.
He doesn’t answer the first question, skipping to the second.
“Because you were born there, my son.”
The words ring in Tex’s ears and jerk his feet to a halt.
“You and I are not from this world. And we’re not like other people.”
Silas affords himself a brace he knows he doesn’t deserve. But the fact of the matter is, he knows his and Tex’s relationship will never be the same.
“You’re a synoid.”
Tex blinks. “I’m a what?”
“A synoid. Your body has bionic capabilities, like most of the people in Domea.”
Silence permeates between them. Tex paces once more before stopping and starting again. When he stops once more, he gazes as Silas head on, scoffing. The look he wears is not only of disbelief but also of appalled concern.
“Did you just say I’m a fucking robot?”
Silas’ lips go flat. “Robots are inanimate. Your heart and mind function just the same as they do here.”
The look of trust and respect wasting away in Tex’s face hits Silas viscerally.
“Are you crazy?” It’s asked with a level of cautiousness likened to gently approaching someone mentally unsound. Silas internally shrinks into himself, feeling the utter essence of inadequacy. “You’re not joking right now? You’re serious?”
Silas’s head lowers. “Yes. You’re a synoid.”
“Synoid.” Tex repeats. He tests the word several times, feeling wholly unsettled at the new term.
“Yes,” Silas says once more. He lacks for better words, unable to describe simply what is. “Not all that different from other humans, just with a different genetic makeup. Cybergenetics, if you will. You have heightened abilities; sight, hearing, strength, perception, healing…”
Tex’s mind once again streams in several different directions. His eyes flit with a scoff. “I don’t have any of that.”
“Not here, no. As I said, the world exists in many dimensional paradigms. Your abilities are only active in ours.”
Tex flinches at the word ours.
“So why are we even here? Why are me and mom living in this…” Disbelief pauses his questioning. “Why are we here and why are you in another dimension?” He turns his head back to the closed patio door, straining to see his mother in the inky dark outside.
“For many reasons. The most important being your safety. Cascadia wasn’t always a safe place. Not for you and especially not for your mother.”
This time, Silas peers at the patio door, longing for so many things to have never happened. His mother once told him that a life with regrets is a life thoroughly lived. Sometimes, Silas wished he had never lived.
“Cascadia was not always safe to people who weren’t synoids and many people suffered for it. Even synoids themselves who sympathized. When things came to a hilt, I decided that you and your mother needed to live somewhere away from a world that only wished you harm.”
Silas stands finally. He had sat down, needing steadiness to unleash a long harbored truth. He chances a step towards Tex who stands still, not approaching or sinking back.
“Your mother is a human from this world, which means you are as well. In the same vein, I am a synoid, and that also makes you so. Once upon a time, there were many people who’d ignore that you were a synoid just like them and hurt you simply because part of your ancestry lies here.”
Tex exhales. “I still don’t understand why you had to hide all of this. Why are you telling me now?”
“Tex, you’re barely handling this now at sixteen. I don’t suppose you would’ve handled it any better at what, say five??”
“Well shit, it might’ve been more believable then! You just dropped the craziest shit I’ve ever heard in my life. How am I supposed to react?”
“Son, please,” Silas entreats. “I know that my revelations are neither trivial nor fair, but I have much to tell you with too little time.”
Tex stares, mouth nearly agape. Silence struck, he queries to himself just how much more he could fathom. How much more secrets there were to be thrown at his feet.
“The leadership in Cascadia is mostly structured through lineage. My uncle, your great-uncle, passed away yesterday. He was Cascadia’s Arch, its ruler.”
Even never knowing this family member, Tex’s face creases with compassion at his father’s distress.
Silas continues, “My cousin, Dorion, has abdicated his rightful role in succeeding his father and thus the role now falls to me. I officially assume office in a week’s time.” The spew of his cousin’s name is harsh and striking in a sea of words that’s otherwise said with resignation.
“That’s why you’re telling me then,” Tex’s expression molds in scorn. He chuckles, “You’re off to be some big shot leader in a crazy ass fantasyland and you decide, ‘Hmm, now is a good time as any to tell my son his whole life’s been a lie’.”
“Your life has not been a lie.”
“I have gone my entire life not knowing I’m the prototype to the fucking Cyborg comic books. What else is it, if not a lie?!” He snatches his shoulder back from Silas’ outreached hand, his stormy steps heading towards the stairs. “You can defend your shit all you want, but I deserved to know.”
“You did. You deserved to know, son.” Silas walks over to where Tex has halted near the steps. “And you deserve so much more than being forced into a corner at the drop of a hat.”
Tex’s confused guise briefly wipes away as the patio door glides open. His mother is tear-stricken, the utter portrait of devastation. Ice slides through his veins. In just the past several minutes, Tex has felt his life changed several times over. He looks into his father’s eyes and knows that is has changed once more.
“As the Arch’s heritor, your presence and habitation is required, effective as of this moment, to begin succession training as the next Arch of Cascadia.”
The open, clear glass pivot doors of the Garden of Eat’n bring in a breezier draft that cools the sole restaurant’s patron as he enjoys a late lunch. The man is a mineral collector that works at the nearby pier and the Garden happens to be the closest restaurant for grabbing a quick meal. What used to be a teeming, busy establishment, merely 24 hours prior, is now more likened to a graveyard. A lot of Cascadian citizens view it as deserved. An unspoken message of loyalty to this city’s heritage and an admonishment to the prodigal son who’s abandoned it.
The back office angles off from the kitchen and it’s much stuffier than the front dining area with no windows and deep-colored velvet walls. Dorion Hendrix stands in the middle of his office under a barely working ceiling fan, a figure of calm, despite mourning his late father. He’s looking down at a peridot signet ring in his hand. His father’s. Striking in simplicity with a smooth, gold band. He supposes it’ll be looked upon as an heirloom in the years to come, a precious relic that symbolizes freedom and mobility. Dreams, even. Such a funny, little concept stemming from a land that shackles and stripes.
Dorion thinks he’ll burn the ring. Soak it in colorful chemicals beforehand to ensure that there’s nothing left but scraps.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks his thoughts.
Draven Slade stands in the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered, people straighten immediately when he walks into a room. Donning a dark, collared shirt and black boots, he’s got no less than three weapons cloaked in his wardrobe. Hell, he is a weapon.
“Most people have to be dragged out of power. Here you are, rebuking it.”
It’s the most welcome greeting Dorion supposes he’ll get from a man like this.
“People who have to be dragged out, kicking and screaming, were never fit to hold it in the first place.” Dorion expects an insult, maybe a frown. While indirectly, he had just insulted the deceased Arch, his father, a stubborn man, who refused to relinquish his authority, even at 98 years old.
Draven’s gaze is assessing and his expression doesn’t morph an inch even with the scathing words.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” His head dips. “May his transition have been peaceful.”
Dorion grimaces. Doesn’t bother to say thanks. He turns away, turning on the pedestal fan near his desk.
“There’ll be a memorial segment at the inauguration, but the funeral’s tomorrow. Private for family and associates only, but of course, it’ll be streamed to the public.”
“Ah. For the whole world to shed tears and proclaim to anyone who’ll listen about what a magnificent leader he was. I suppose I should be happy, it was what he wanted most, after all.”
To be regaled. To be worshiped.
Talking about him in the past tense feels wrong. Something trembles in his limbs at the thought of someone once so full of life was now no longer more. If Draven captures the hitch of emotion, and of course he does, he says nothing. Pauses for a moment out of respect for his grief before speaking.
“This is everything now that you are executor of your father’s trust,” Draven passes him a thick, enveloped packet. “Obviously the Tower is not up for grabs, but his private properties and personal investments are now conceded to you.”
“I don’t want any of that.”
“Tough shit.”
Dorion scowls, “If I didn’t want to take over his role at the Arch, what would make you think that I want his inheritances?”
“I actually don’t give a fuck what you want. Keep it, give it away. By the looks of things, you might need the money.” Draven’s voice raises as he gestures towards the kitchen. The cook was leaning against a counter, hunched over and reading a book, having not moved since the mineral collector’s meal had been prepared. Draven had walked in and saw a waitress sitting at the bar, searching up job hirings without shame. “You want to abandon your responsibilities, fine, but I’m not here to grant three wishes. Be lucky I even did this.”
Dorion’s jaw ticks. They stare each other down, Draven’s features, daring him to bite back. Instead, it’s Dorion that looks away first. Curses to himself because life is terrible but it’s not worth getting killed in his office for.
His wrist flickers. His Bionex has a message.
The band is a simple, chrome silver and the screen shoots out into a holographic display as he twists his wrist to the side.
The news coverage all day had been relentless with Silas being officially announced as the forthcoming Arch. Draven positioned to be the Tusk. News reports had been alternating between tributes to Arch Hendrix and celebrations of Silas’s ascension.
Dorion nearly flicks his wrist again to dismiss the notification before halting at the headline floating in front of him.
BREAKING: ARCHIVE DATA LEAK REPORTED IN BETWEEN ARCH TRANSITIONS
His eyes race through the article, first pulled to the byline: Restricted substance referenced in redacted documents hundreds of times. He gleans further, shaking his head as he reads further.
A significant data leak, seemingly from the Bureau of Technological Advances, has confirmed what used to be viewed as a debunked conspiracy theory: the government is aware and has had control of a redacted illicit substance for several decades. The leaked documents, a relatively short file of only 30,000 kb, imply that the Cascadian government has experimented with the substance in unauthorized clinical trials dating back to the Desperado era. The Desperado era, of course, includes the Rusville Massacres-
Dorion stops reading. Jerks his wrist so that the article disappears. He glances over to Draven, the perfect picture of calm. It’s only the slight flair of his nose that tells Dorion that the man is murderously livid. He must be suicidal for stoking the fire.
“I guess your first day on the job just got damn interesting.”
Draven cuts his eyes at him, but that’s it. Damn.
“A car will pick you up in the morning for the funeral.”
He leaves without further farewell and Dorion is left to himself, unfamiliar with how to live anymore.
It’s pretty difficult to pack when someone tells you you’re moving to a different country in some other parallel universe. It’s more difficult when that someone is your dad and you can barely stand to be in the same space as him.
His duffel bag lies half open on his bed, a random assortment of his clothes thrown in without care. Shoes. He’s gotta pack shoes. Shit. He needs underwear and socks, too. There’s only so much that’ll fit in the bag that he won on his field day in the ninth grade.
He’s leaving. Moving away. This is really happening.
No more sleeping over at Tyler’s, staying up all night playing video games. No more flirting with the cute girl behind the register at Johnny Rockets.
His life here was over. For how long? A few years until he was an adult and could do whatever he wanted? Until Silas’ term as Arch was finished? Forever?
This can’t be happening.
A soft knock sounds at his door. He shakes out his distraught haze, lumbering over to his door.
When Silas appears from behind it, Tex grabs his favorite pair of sweats from the drawer. There’s only centimeters of space left in the bag and he manages to get it half-zipped.
Silas stays near the door. “You ready?”
“We’re leaving right now?” Tex’ face scrunches up.
“As soon as you’re ready,” Silas nods, looking down. “We don’t have much time.”
Tex sighs, abandoning the zipper. “Mom.”
“She’s downstairs.”
Hoisting the bag on his shoulder, he grabs his laptop and wallet, tossing them into his bookbag. He brushes past Silas on the way to downstairs and immediately sets his bags down.
“You ready?”
Sibyl looks up. She’s slumped at the dining room table, sitting down with no bags nearby.
His hearts plummets.
“You’re not coming.”
A sob forsakes her mouth in the place of saying no.
Tex’s eyes sting. “Please.”
She cries harder. Silas approaches from behind Tex. He leans down, kissing her forehead. Tex shakes his head in confusion. Nothing has made sense since this morning. He’s living a completely different life than when he woke up and now he’s doing it without his mother.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she blubbers and heaves, “There’s so much you don’t understand.”
That’s not my fault, he thinks.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault.” Silas declares.
“Si!”
“What does that mean?”
Tex and Sibyl’s words blend together and Silas speaks over them both.
“She’s not going because I say she’s not going. I’m not giving her the choice.”
Tex starts. “You’re a son of a bitch.”
Silas doesn’t hide his hurt and Tex wishes he could revel in it. But even that feels like too much. He needs his mother. She rises out of her chair, also visibly hurt, but outreaches her arms anyway.
How is he supposed to do this without her?
It’s almost like she can read his mind.
“Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”
She can’t promise him that, especially because he doesn’t believe it, but he melts into her embrace and pretends he does. Her hand cups the back of his head, an automatic gesture after comforting him hundreds of times.
It lingers and it doesn’t feel like enough when they part.
Tex swallows. “You know you can tell me anything, right? You know that I can handle it?”
“I know that, baby. And I’m so sorry. There’ll never be enough words…”
He nods, acknowledging the apology, though not even in the vicinity of being ready to address it further. Instead, he hugs again, tighter, even though he knows his heart will break just a little more when they part once more.
“This isn’t goodbye. Things are moving fast, but everything’s going to work out. The dust will settle. You’ll see.”
Sibyl looks over Tex’s shoulder to Silas. He only barely registers that the words were meant for him, too.
“You gotta go,” she says as she releases her son.
“I gotta go,” he agrees sadly.
Their hands are the last to unbind. If he looks back, he know he’ll have to be dragged out of his house. So he walks out the door without looking back once.
Tex is too out of it to realize they’re at the local neighborhood park down the block from the house. He’s been trailing behind Silas, his mind running a mile a minute. Too many emotions flair within him, tearing him in ten different directions. Everything is surreal.
He comes out of his daze only when he realizes that Silas has stopped in the middle stretch of grass covering the empty playground. The suburban street’s lights illuminate the surrounding area as he digs into his pocket.
“What are we doing?”
He pulls out a slim, metal square device, almost reminiscent of a floppy disk.
“It’s better to do this away from the houses. These things can sometimes cause interference with the technology here.”
Tex steps closer. “What is it?”
“It’s a Sieve. It’s how we get to Cascadia.”
Silas holds the disk up in the air. The image of the playground ripples like water. It bends and contorts. Silas lifts his other hand and suddenly the playground is torn away like curtains. His father gestures for him to go. He stops him, however, right before Tex steps in.
“It’s going to feel different when we walk through.”
Tex pauses.
Silas explains further. “Your bionics. They’ll activate as soon as we cross the threshold. You’ll understand very quickly.”
And though this is the last thing he wants, though he wishes this day to have never happened, he can’t not feel curiosity, even excitement. He’s being reacquainted to a part of himself he never knew and that part also happens to come with superpowers.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Silas says.
Tex takes a deep breath and then walks through.
It feels like shit.
Like a train has run over his face and the rest of his body has been smothered in fire.
Entering the Sieve feel just like walking through a door, except he feels like he’s been electrocuted as soon as he walked through.
He’s confused on if his body even truly belongs to him.
His knees buckle and an invisible ligature squeezes around his throat.
“Tex.” The voice is clear as Silas is standing right beside him, but so is every other noise. The humming of the light above them. The chirping of insects all the way from outside. The sound of transportation from who knows how far away.
Silas clutches his arm, grounding him, and Tex opens his eyes. When did he close his eyes?
A film is raised from his orbs and suddenly, there’s no speck that’s too small for him. The small layer of grime on his sneakers, the missing piece of chipped paint from the corner of the wall, the microscopic, fibrous septations on the leaves of the plant in the corner.
He hears his father call his name again and he might as well have blared it with a megaphone.
“I’m-“ He inhales deeply. “I’m fine.”
He’s not. Everything feels like too much. He closes his eyes again and the removal of one sense helps moderately.
“Breathe. Just breathe.”
He does as such.
Inhales and exhales hoping it brings his heartbeat to a slower pace.
He can hear his heart beating.
“I’m hot,” he announces suddenly.
“It’s probably your muscles adjusting. Here, let’s get you upstairs and maybe get some water.”
Silas guides them to an elevator. Before the doors open, Tex glances back at the room in which they entered. It’s narrow in width, but cathedral-like in height with lights that illuminate like stars. The floors are obsidian black with lines of gold, almost like circuitry. There’s seating areas and a stand that possesses another of those metal disks. The space is otherwise nondescript and informal.
Tex closes his eyes once again on the elevator, the only thing that’s helping him feel less overstimulated.
“Where are we?”
“The Tower. It’s where w-, It’s where I’ll live as Arch.”
The doors open and Tex realizes he’s got to be damn near close to the clouds with how high up they are. He looks out the window in the hallway and Cascadia sprawls before him. In the night sky, the city should present like an army of glowing ants. Instead, Tex can see the dense verticalities and the sprawling greens, with startling detail. The vibrant colors and the curved buildings. The sky itself seemed alive with movement as a drone passed by. In the distance, he could see what looked like a train traversing on a line heights above the buildings in town.
Cascadia was undeniably stunning.
Silas stands there for a minute, allowing Tex to take everything in. Then, he heads towards the door across from the elevator. Tex watches him hold his hand across an adjacent panel before the door slides open. He hoists his two bags and follows his father inside.
The residence has warmer lighting compared to the hallway which makes things easier on his overwhelmed senses. The floor to ceiling windows give an even more fantastic view of Cascadia than the window just outside. Tex gives a quick sweep around, discerning that the size of the domain occupies the entire floor they’re on. The kitchen, dining room, and living space all blend into one another with low, clean, and functional furniture. With an appraising eye, Tex takes note of the absence of artwork, photographs, or knick-knacks.
Like a jolt, he has the sudden realization that there’s more than just the two presences of himself and Silas inside.
Right when his heart rate ramps up once more, Silas takes a step toward the non-lit kitchen.
“Ah, you’re here already.”
The figure steps out under the living room lights.
Tex starts in shock. “Uncle Draven?”
The man’s face breaks out into a grin. “The one and only!”
It’s been years since he’s seen his godfather in person. The hug is long well-earned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, though a fleeting thought in the midst of thousands of others, he had wondered what all of his father’s lies meant for the stories and connections he’d learned through him. How Silas told Tex how he and Draven met didn’t matter anymore. It wasn’t true, but it felt familiar and comforting that their relationship still held verity.
Draven looks at Silas, chuckling, “This is a grown man! What the hell?”
Silas snorts. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
Draven pats Tex’s shoulder. “Welcome home.”
Tex stiffens.
“Don’t overwhelm him.” A tinny voice rings from the offshoot sloping off the living room. A petite woman with silky, wavy hair, and in platform stilettos emerges.
“Aunt Serenity.” Tex gapes once more. He had no idea his father spent his every day with these people.
The short woman squeezes Tex, hugging him side to side. “You missed me more than Draven. It’s okay, you can admit it.”
Draven scoffs.
“I’m kinda shocked that you guys are even here.”
“Well, where else would we be, silly?” Serenity turns to Silas. “All your stuff is moved out of your old place. You’ve got the basics already furnished, but let me know any suggestions you have for decor. I’m gonna go ahead and hire an interior designer.”
Silas sighs, “On my growing list of thousands things to get done, decorating this place will be at the very bottom.”
"I don’t understand.” Tex marvels. “Wait, this means you guys are synoids, too?”
“Actually, I’m not. I’m a sanguinx,” Serenity reveals.
“What is that?” Tex tilts curiously.
“Kinda similar to a synoid? Except my parents were both human, so I wasn’t technically born with bionic abilities.” Serenity briefly glances at Silas and back again to Tex. “But that’s a story for another day. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up with each other.”
“Draven and Serenity are both taking positions alongside me. Draven will be Tusk, Serenity the Sine.”
Tex blinks.
Draven chuckles. “We can save the government lesson for when it’s not the middle of the night.”
“Plus one of the classes I registered you in is Government,” Serenity pitches in.
“School. I guess there was no getting past that.”
“Now who’s overwhelming the kid?” Draven twirls a lock of Serenity’s hair before she smacks his hand away.
Silas sighs. “Listen, I know I’ve got a million of things to do, but I think I can be afforded a few hours to settle in and get some sleep?”
Tex tenses again. Leave it to his father to break up a long-earned reunion. Such a petty thing to be angry about in the pile of transgressions.
“That’s a good idea. Actually, do you mind if I debrief with you for a minute before we leave?”
Silas nods, glancing at Tex with remorse.
“Why don’t I take you to your room?” Serenity chirps at Tex. She leads him to the hallway behind the living room. “You totally get a say on decor, too, by the way.”
Tex’s room is wide in its expanse. Even if it were completely furnished, the room would more than likely still create echoes. The bed is huge and after a long, exhausting day like today, he wants nothing more than just to sink in it and sleep his problems away. The walls are a smooth, matte gray with polished wood flooring. The closet, with a panel sliding door, was across from the bed and there was a simple work desk close to the bedroom door.
He drops his bags near the closet, not bothering to unpack a single thing. Not even pajamas, he’d just take off his clothes and leave it in a pile near his bed.
He looks back as Serenity toys with a panel on his wall. It must control the lights as they dim moderately. However, she presses something else, and it’s almost like a gauze dampens his senses.
“It absorbs the noise from everywhere in the house. Like sound proofing,” she explains.
His growing headache doesn’t dissipate but the ache is less nagging.
“Today’s been a long day. If you can, try to get some sleep. Your body will thank you for it.”
Tex hums. “Thanks.”
Sleep is already swamping him as he sits on the bed to chuck off his shoes.
Serenity stands at the door, pauses just slightly before opening it.
“I don’t have any words to comfort you or bring you peace. But fifteen years ago, there were plenty of people who wanted me dead. I don’t kid myself into thinking that there aren’t some people out there right now who wish that for me. But the good always prevails. And it’ll continue to prevail as long as there are people in power who lead and live by what’s right.” She winks at him. “That’s going to be you one day.”
"My life would be slightly easier if you told me that it was you who leaked those documents within twenty four hours of being selected as Tusk.” Silas leans against the massive desk in the center of his newly minted private study. Sitting in the executive chair behind the desk seems too unnatural given that it’s where Arch Hendrix was found deceased.
“Even I’m not that brash,” Draven smirks.
“And not that thoughtless. The timing is terrible. Why would someone wait until the Arch is dead to release government files that paint him in a bad light?”
Arch Liness Hendrix was a well-liked ruler, considered to be fair and judicious. He ruled for over six decades with generosity and a stark calmness, weathering natural disasters, massacres, and a war with ease. His administration rarely encountered controversy and he maneuvered through years of an unruly economy without bringing Cascadia to financial collapse. Now, the megalopolitan that he had helped build into what it is today is closer to a utopia than not. His reward is his name being tarnished directly after his death. Tributes and memorials were now being cut and interspersed with commentary segments regarding the implications of a covert substance being utilized in government trials and Arch Hendrix’s role in such. Silas had his own confused thoughts about why his uncle might’ve signed off on it, but his mind was more so inundated on how to navigate government data leaking before he takes office.
“I don’t know, but it is real. I know that much. I’m having a team look more into it. I’ll check in for a status report in the morning.”
Silas gazes, impressed. “Not even inducted into office yet, and you’re already making moves. I knew you’d be a good Tusk.”
Draven scoffs. “Shut up.” He shuffles his pockets, toying with his lighter. “How’s the kid doing?”
“I guess I should be grateful it wasn’t worse? I just don’t think I was prepared for looking into his eyes and seeing how betrayed he feels.”
“Si, he’ll forgive you. It’s gonna take time for him to understand why you did what you did, but he’s your son. He’ll come around.”
In the meantime, Silas will walk around as a father with his heart outside of his chest. Between his son’s deserved enmity and leaving without Sibyl, he feels like tiny shards of glass are implanting into his chest, removable yet taxing on his soul.
Almost like her essence floats in the air, Draven brings up Sibyl. “Is Sibyl tying up loose ends or-”
Silas gives a pained, disbelieving head shake.
Draven abandons his question, sighing before placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “She’ll come around, too.”
Suddenly, he’s not here anymore. Not in this year and not in this office.
He’s back in a world of horror and bloodshed fifteen years prior.
Draven holding his arm, grasping him as Silas walks alongside him, stunned. He’s shell-shocked.
Other images flash in his mind’s eyes, reminders of the things he’s lost.
He finds her in the aftermath. Sibyl stands in front of him, drenched in blood, head nodding absentmindedly. He walks closer and realizes she’s holding something. Silas looks down at her hand and then on the floor in front of her.
Sibyl’s voice cracks.“I had to.”
To this day, he doesn’t know the full story. Her agony didn’t let for straightforwardness or accuracy.
Sounds. Noise rings in his ears. Sometimes, when he sleeps, the screams stab him into awareness. He’s slept alone for well over a decade and sometimes he still hears those sounds as he lies in bed.
“I didn’t know.” Her voice cracks in a whisper.
He didn’t know what this meant at first. He knows now.
The door behind Draven opens and he shakes his mind loose. Serenity appears, closing the door behind her.
"You’ve got a busy day ahead of you tomorrow, so I’ll keep things short,” she starts, “You have a few briefings tomorrow. The funeral, of course. Plus, there’s this Chancellor summit meeting starting tomorrow. I already told them that you’d be pretty occupied, but maybe you’d be able to make an appearance sometime this week.”
Serenity’s zealous list of tasks subsists and Silas closes his eyes, knowing without a doubt that he’s chosen the right people to preside in this administration along side with. Draven, cunning and forceful, made to be Tusk. Serenity, hyper-focused and pragmatic, the perfect Sine.
When she finishes the intimidating tabulation of action items, Silas nods, arduously.
This is his life, now. Surreality has no time to set in his bones. There’s too much to do.
“Thank you both,” Silas affirms, ready to see them out. “I’ll see you both in the morning.”
Serenity smiles kindly, heading towards the door. Draven pats his back, before following. “You’ve got a security detail now. Someone will be waiting for you when- ”
A startled scream rips from down the hallway.
Silas’ eyes widen with alarm. Serenity and Draven’s expressions mirror his own as they rush out the study.
Sleep fights Tex’s form as soon as his head hits the pillow. He doesn’t bother unpacking a thing, instead opting to take his shirt off and lie in the vast, round bed. It’s his skin against the cold sheets that make him realize the overheated state of his body. There’s tension, too, grasping for purchase in his tendons and ligaments.
The cold is a momentary relief, snapping him out of his frenetic mind.
He laughs in the quiet space. Disbelief settles as he realizes he’s in a place that he hadn’t known existed, mere hours prior. Another world. He looks out of the vast window that nearly takes up the wall, and looks beyond at this foreign earth. Serenity had eclipsed the lights before she made her exit. And yet still, he could squint and recognize some indistinct detail down below at the city that sprawled ahead of him. Curving roads with parked vehicles and strobing neon lights on posters and signs in the thick of the interurban.
This is where he lives now. This is the place that he’s expected to lead in the future.
A metallic taste fills his mouth. He feels his every nerve tingle. The heat suddenly becomes unbearable, deluging his entire body in flames. A stark stabbing kneads his head.
Is he dying? This feels like dying.
His throat feels like it’s closing.
Visions of his mother flood his mind.
He’s dying. He has to be.
He supposes he shouldn’t die quietly. Another twinge of excruciation pierces his temples. He yells, reaching for air, and rolls to the floor. His body tenses into a rigor, he feels himself shaking.
The door bursts open and footsteps shuffle on the floor. Hands and arms grab and touch him. Feel his head, twist his face.
“Tex, can you hear me?”
“Shit. I think he’s going into rejection.”
More footsteps scuff the floors. It’s the sound of high heels rapping against the timbered panels.
“I’ll go get a doc,” Serenity dashes out the room.
Sound begins to muffle, the voices above him becoming subdued. Vision blurs. His heart feels like it beats with intervals of haste and then molasses-slow.
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Summary: In the hazy comfort of his apartment, surrounded by takeout containers and the low hum of Jodeci, Elijah Moore, a man who commands every aspect of his life, is confronted with a vulnerability he can't strategize his way out of. His best friend, Kennady, the one person who sees past his carefully constructed armor, offers a lesson in patience that blurs the line between friendship.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, explicit language, drug and alcohol use, friends-to-lovers trope, established friendship, grinding, praise kink, dirty talk, and emotional vulnerability.
The air in Elijah’s apartment was thick enough to chew, a sweet and heavy haze of expensive weed, the lingering ghost of fried catfish, and the low, steady hum of his sound system playing some old-school Jodeci. The only light came from the floor lamp in the corner, casting long, dramatic shadows that danced with every flicker of the flame on the blunt Elijah was currently nursing. It was his sanctuary, this space, all dark woods, leather furniture, and abstract art that looked like spilled ink on expensive paper. And tonight, it was their arena.
“Nigga, you cannot be serious,” Kennady breathed, her voice a low, raspy melody that cut through the smoke. She leaned back against the plush arm of the sectional, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out to nudge his thigh with her bare foot. Her long, wavy hair, a wild cascade of dark brown and honey-gold, was pulled up into a messy bun on top of her head, but a few rebellious strands framed her face, catching the dim light. She was wearing one of his old HBCU sweatshirts, the faded maroon fabric swallowing her frame, and the sight of his last name across her chest did something stupid to his chest every time he looked at it.
Elijah didn’t look up from his cards. He just took a slow, deliberate pull from the blunt, the cherry glowing like a dying ember in the twilight of the living room. The smoke coiled from his lips, a perfect, ethereal ring that drifted toward the ceiling before dissolving into the haze. “Serious as a heart attack, Ken. Draw four.”
Her jaw dropped, the silver hoop in her nose catching the light. “You’re saving a Wild Draw Four? For what? The apocalypse? We ain’t even playing for money, you competitive-ass bitch.”
“Winning ain’t about the money,” he said, his voice the smooth, deep rumble of distant thunder. He finally lifted his eyes, and even in the low light, the intensity was there. Dark brown, almost black, they held a weight that could crush a lesser person, but with Kennady, they just held amusement. He gestured with his chin toward the growing pile of cards in her hand. “It’s about the principle. It’s about watching that beautiful face of yours crumble when you realize you’ve been outplayed.”
Kennady snorted, a sound full of genuine affection and exasperation. She grabbed the deck, her fingers adorned with intricate, delicate rings and nails painted a glossy, dangerous black—sliding across the worn cardboard. She slapped four cards onto her pile without even looking at them. “You’re a menace, Elijah Moore. A straight-up menace to society. This is why that girl told you your stroke game was trash.”
His composure never slipped. The only reaction was a slight tightening around his eyes, a flicker of something cold and sharp that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He simply placed a blue seven on top of the discard pile. “We’re not talking about her tonight. We’re talking about how you’re about to lose for the third time in a row. Color’s blue.”
“Eli, I know what color it is,” she shot back, but she was already digging through her hand, her brow furrowed in concentration. The movement caused the sleeve of his sweatshirt to ride up, revealing the delicate script of a tattoo on her forearm, a line from some poem he’d never heard but that looked beautiful on her skin. He watched her for a moment, the way her full lips, glistening from the gloss she’d applied an hour ago, were pursed in thought. She was a work of art, all sharp angles and soft curves, a walking contradiction of strength and vulnerability. And she was his best friend. The one person on earth who could call him every name in the book to his face and live to tell the tale.
She finally found a card, slapping it down with a triumphant flourish. “HA! Skip! Sit on that, Smokey.”
Elijah allowed a small, rare smile to touch his lips. It was a ghost of a thing, there and gone in an instant, but it was there. He picked a card from the deck, added it to his hand, and then laid down a single, solitary card. A Reverse. “My turn.”
“Bullshit,” she muttered, but there was no heat in it. She drew a card, her shoulders slumping dramatically. “This game is rigged. You’re probably counting cards or some shit. I swear to God, you can’t even play a simple-ass board game without turning it into a hostel takeover”
“It’s called strategy, Ken. You should try it sometime,” he replied, his tone dry as a bone. He took another hit from the blunt, the cherry flaring to life again, illuminating the strong line of his jaw and the thick, neatly trimmed beard that framed it. He was built like a goddamn statue, wide shoulders straining against the fabric of his black t-shirt, powerful forearms resting on his knees. He wore his dominance like a second skin, a quiet, unshakeable authority that filled every room he entered. It was in the way he sat, relaxed but ready, the way he watched everything, and the way he spoke, never rushing, never searching for the right words because he always seemed to know exactly what he wanted to say.
“Strategize this,” she grumbled, playing a Draw Two. The gold chains around his neck glinted as he leaned forward to draw his cards. He didn’t complain. Didn’t break his rhythm. He just added the cards to his hand, his expression unreadable.
They played in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, the only sounds the rustle of cards, the clink of ice against glass as Kennady sipped her Hennessy, and the soft crooning of K-Ci and JoJo. The apartment was their bubble, separate from the world outside. Here, they weren’t Elijah Moore, the "mean" entrepreneur with a reputation for being ruthless, and Kennady James, the brilliant artist with a tongue sharp enough to cut glass. They were just… them. Two friends from the block who’d made it, sitting on the floor of a fancy apartment, getting high and playing cards like they were back in their mamas’ living rooms.
“Uno,” Elijah said suddenly, his voice cutting through the haze.
Kennady’s head snapped up. “No the fuck you don’t.” She scanned her own hand, a colorful mess of reds, yellows, and greens, and then looked at his single, face-down card on the table. Panic flashed in her dark eyes. “You’re lying. You gotta be lying.”
Elijah just stared at her, one eyebrow arched in challenge. He took one last, long drag from the blunt, stubbing it out in the crystal ashtray on the floor. He held the smoke in his lungs for a beat, then let it out in a slow, steady stream. “Lay your cards, Ken.”
“Fuck you,” she said, but there was a laugh in her voice. She played a green card. “Your turn.”
He didn’t even hesitate. He flipped his card over. A Wild Draw Four.
Kennady’s mouth fell open in silent, horrified disbelief. She stared at the card, then at his face, then back at the card. The audacity of it. The cold perfection of the move. He’d been holding it the entire time. Letting her build up her hope, letting her think she had a chance, just so he could snatch it away at the last possible second.
“You…” she started, shaking her head, a slow, disbelieving smile spreading across her face. “You are the absolute worst. I hope you know that. I hope you wake up in the morning and your dick has fallen off from sheer spite.”
Elijah finally let himself laugh, a real, deep-throated laugh that rumbled in his chest and made the air vibrate. It was a rare sound, one that always made Kennady’s stomach do a little flip. “That’s what I get for trying to teach you the art of psychological warfare. You’re too emotional.”
“I am not emotional!” she shrieked, laughing as she threw her cards down in defeat. They scattered across the polished hardwood floor like confetti. “You’re a cheater! That’s what you are. A low-down, dirty, card-counting cheater! I’m never playing with you again.”
“You said that last time,” he reminded her, his grin widening. He started gathering the cards, his long fingers moving with an easy grace. “And the time before that. And the time before that.”
“Yeah, well, this time I mean it,” she insisted, but she was already helping him clean up, her hands brushing against his as they collected the colorful cards. The contact was a fleeting spark in the smoky air. “What’s next? You gonna beat me at Monopoly, too? Talk about how you’re building an empire while I’m sitting here with one goddamn property and a pocketful of IOUs?”
“Monopoly is a game of resource management,” he said, his tone shifting back to that serious, professorial vibe he got when he was explaining something. “It’s not my fault you insist on buying Park Place the second you land on it, leaving yourself with no capital for development.”
“It’s Park Place, Elijah! You don’t just pass up Park Place!” she argued, her hands flying up in exasperation. “That’s the American dream right there. A big green monopoly on the most expensive real estate in the game.”
“The American dream is a scam designed to keep the poor in debt while the rich get richer,” he countered, already pulling the familiar box from the stack of board games nestled beside his entertainment center. “Monopoly teaches you that. You should be paying attention.”
“See? This is what I’m talking about,” she said, pointing a finger at him as he opened the box. “You can’t just play a game. You gotta turn it into a lesson. You gotta be the master of the universe, even when the universe is a cardboard box.”
“Somebody has to be,” he replied, but there was a softness in his voice now, a warmth that was just for her. He began setting up the board, his movements methodical and precise. He separated the money, his hands counting the crisp, colorful bills with practiced ease. He placed the Community Chest and Chance cards in their designated spots, his touch reverent, almost. It was the same way he did everything—with a quiet intensity that demanded respect.
Kennady watched him, her head resting on her knees. The high was settling in nicely, a warm, pleasant buzz that made the edges of the world feel soft and inviting. The Hennessy was helping, too, a liquid fire burning in her veins. She watched the way the lamplight caught the waves in his low-cut fade, the way his thick brows furrowed in concentration, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. He was beautiful in a way that almost made her uncomfortable to look at for too long. Every feature was clean, from the sharp cut of his jaw to the quiet intensity in his eyes. He looked less like someone who belonged in a crowded room and more like someone people naturally made space for.
“You’re staring,” he said, without looking up.
“Just admiring the competition,” she shot back, a little too quickly. “Trying to figure out your weakness.”
He paused, his hands stilling over the little silver game pieces. He finally looked up at her, and the look in his eyes was different now. Deeper. More serious. The playful banter had fallen away, leaving something else in its place. Something charged and electric. “My weakness,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that he only used when he was being completely honest. “Is that I don’t have any. Not when it comes to this.”
Kennady’s lungs refused to cooperate. She knew he wasn’t just talking about the game anymore. The air between them shifted, grew thick and heavy with unspoken things. Years of friendship, of late-night conversations, of shared secrets and silent understandings, all coalesced into this single, charged moment. She could feel the pull of him, a magnetic force that was as comforting as it was dangerous.
She cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “Well, everybody’s got a weakness, Smoke. Don’t matter how good you are. There’s always a chink in the armor.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers. Then, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Maybe so,” he conceded, turning his attention back to the board. He picked up the top hat, his favorite piece, and placed it on ‘Go’. “But you ain’t gonna find it tonight. Now, roll the damn dice. I got hotels to build.”
The scent of money filled the air—fake, colorful Monopoly money, but it smelled like power all the same. Elijah’s side of the board was a fortress of red and orange properties, each mortgaged to the hilt and crowned with little green plastic houses, a few already upgraded to the stark, imposing hotels. Kennady’s side of the board was a sad, scattered collection of utilities and railroads, a lone blue property on Virginia Avenue looking lonely and pathetic. She was broke, her once-impressive stack of pastel bills reduced to a few pitiful fives and ones.
“This is not fair,” she declared, her voice loose and liquid from the Hennessy. She took a sip, the ice clinking against the glass. “You’re a capitalist tyrant. A real-life Montgomery Burns. I’m gonna start a union. We’re striking.”
Elijah chuckled, a low, appreciative sound as he collected her last few dollars as rent for landing on Boardwalk. “Unions are for people who can’t compete on their own merit. You should have bought the green properties when you had the chance.”
“I was saving my money!” she protested, gesturing wildly with her glass. “I was being fiscally responsible! Unlike some people who just throw money around like it’s paper.”
“It is paper, Ken,” he pointed out, his movements precise as he counted her rent and added it to his own formidable stack. He leaned back against the leather ottoman, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The high had settled into a pleasant, heavy hum, making the edges of the room feel soft and distant. He felt loose, his usual iron-clad control softened by the weed and the easy comfort of Kennady’s presence.
“Don’t get technical with me, Mr. CEO,” she grumbled, but she was smiling. She took another sip of her drink, her eyes watching him over the rim of the glass. The game was forgotten, the board a colorful battlefield between them, but the real conversation was happening in the space between their eyes. “So, you gonna tell me what’s really bothering you, or you gonna keep hiding behind your little plastic empire?”
Elijah’s fingers stilled on the Monopoly bills. He didn’t look at her, his gaze fixed on the little silver race car he’d chosen for her to use. It was parked forlornly on Just Visiting. “What makes you think something’s bothering me?”
“‘Cause I know you, Elijah,” she said, her voice softening. “You get quiet like this, you start building little plastic empires to keep your hands busy… it means something’s in your head. And you’ve been weird all night. More than usual.”
He let out a slow breath, the sound barely audible over the music. He ran a hand over his low-cut fade, a gesture of rare uncertainty. “It’s nothing.”
“Don’t ‘nothing’ me,” she pressed, leaning forward. The movement caused his sweatshirt to gape slightly, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone and the hint of a tattoo on her chest. He forced his eyes back to the board. “We’ve known each other since we were stealing change from our mamas’ purses to buy Now and Laters. You can’t lie to me.”
He was silent for a long moment, the weight of her words settling over him. She was right. She was always right. He finally looked at her, his dark eyes clouded with something she rarely saw—confusion. “It’s about… Jada.”
Kennady’s eyebrows shot up. “Jada? The Instagram model with the ass that could stop traffic? What about her? I thought you were done with that.”
“We are,” he said, his voice flat. “She ended things.”
“No shit,” Kennady said, a little too loudly. “What happened? She find out you’re actually a robot sent from the future to destroy fun?”
A ghost of a smile touched Elijah’s lips. “Something like that.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. He hated this. Hated talking about his failures, his shortcomings. He was Elijah Moore. He didn’t have shortcomings. He had challenges. He had obstacles. He had things he overcame. But this… this felt different. This felt personal.
“She said… she said I was too much,” he finally said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Too much how?” Kennady asked, her voice gentle now. She set her glass down, giving him her full attention. “Too intense? Too busy? Too… you?”
“All of that, I guess,” he said, his gaze drifting away from her, focusing on a point on the wall. “But it was something else, too. Something specific.” He took a deep breath, the air catching in his throat. “She said… she said I fuck too rough.”
The words hung in the air between them, raw and vulnerable. Kennady’s first instinct was to laugh, not because it was funny, but because it was so absurd. Elijah, the man who moved with the precision of a surgeon, the man who controlled every aspect of his life with an iron fist, was too rough in bed? It was ridiculous. But she saw the look on his face, the genuine confusion and hurt in his eyes, and the laughter died in her throat.
“What?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What does that even mean?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” he said, his frustration finally boiling over. He ran a hand over his face, the gesture full of weariness. “She said I need to work on my ‘stroke game.’ That I need to learn how to take my time. That I’m always trying to break the damn bed when I should be… I don’t know, making love or some shit.”
Kennady stared at him, her mind racing. She tried to picture it—Elijah, with his quiet intensity and his controlled movements, being too rough. It didn’t compute. He was always so deliberate, so thoughtful in everything he did. The idea of him being clumsy or brutish in the bedroom was laughable.
“Did you… I mean, did you talk about it?” she asked, choosing her words carefully. “Did you ask her what she wanted?”
“Of course I asked her,” he snapped, his defensiveness a thin shield over his insecurity. “What the fuck do you think I am, an animal? I asked her. She said I just… go too hard. Too fast. That I don’t know how to build up to it. That I don’t know how to be… gentle.”
The last word was spoken with such disdain, such genuine bewilderment, that Kennady’s heart ached for him. He looked lost, a feeling she’d never seen on him before. He was always so sure, so confident, so in control. To see him like this, questioning himself, was jarring.
“Eli…” she started, not knowing what to say.
“I don’t get it,” he interrupted, his voice low and intense. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes locked on hers. “I pay attention. I watch her. I listen to her breathing, to the sounds she makes. I thought… I thought I was doing what she wanted. I thought I was giving her what she needed.”
“Maybe you were,” Kennady offered softly. “Maybe what she needed and what she wanted were two different things.”
He shook his head, his jaw tight. “Nah. It’s not that. It’s me. There’s something wrong with the way I… move. The way I… touch.” He looked down at his hands, his long, powerful fingers resting on his knees. “These hands… I’ve always known what to do with them. How to build things, how to break things, how to… control things. But now… I don’t know.”
Kennady’s breath caught in her throat. This was it. This was the heart of it. The great Elijah Moore, the man who commanded armies and bent the world to his will, was afraid of his own strength. Afraid of hurting someone. Afraid of being… too much.
She wanted to reach out and touch him, to lay her hand over his and tell him it was okay, that he was perfect just the way he was. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. The line between them was already blurred, dangerously thin. To cross it now would be to change everything, forever.
Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “Maybe it’s not about being gentle, Eli. Maybe it’s about being… patient.”
He looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. “Patient?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice gaining confidence. “Like… you’re always so focused on the destination, you forget to enjoy the journey. You’re so focused on the finish line, you forget to appreciate the race. Maybe… maybe you need to slow down. Take your time. Learn to enjoy the build-up, the anticipation, the… tension.”
He was silent, considering her words. She could see the wheels turning in his head, the analytical mind of his breaking down the problem, trying to find a solution. It was what he did. He didn’t feel his way through problems; he thought his way through them.
“I don’t know how,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to slow down. It’s not… in me.”
“Bullshit,” she said, her voice sharp but not unkind. “It’s in you. You just have to find it. You have to… let go.”
“Let go?” he repeated, the words foreign on his tongue. “Ken, letting go is how people get hurt. Letting go is how you lose control.”
“Maybe losing control is exactly what you need,” she countered, her eyes flashing with a sudden, dangerous insight. “Maybe you need to stop trying to be in charge of everything and just… feel. Just… be.”
He stared at her, his dark eyes wide with a mixture of shock and dawning understanding. The air between them crackled with electricity, the unspoken implications of her words hanging heavy in the smoke-filled room. He could feel the pull of her, a magnetic force that was both comforting and terrifying. He could feel the old, familiar walls around his heart beginning to crumble, and he didn’t know how to stop it.
“Ken…” he started, his voice hoarse.
“Roll the dice, Eli,” she said, her voice soft but firm. She gestured toward the board, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “Your turn. Let’s see if you can learn to be a little more patient.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he picked up the dice. He shook them in his hand, the sound a soft, rhythmic rattle in the quiet room. He looked at her one last time, his eyes full of questions and fears and a desperate, aching hope. Then, he rolled.
The dice clattered across the hardwood, landing with a disappointing thud against the leg of the coffee table. A three and a one. Four. Elijah’s silver race car moved four spaces, landing squarely on Chance. He let out a slow, weary sigh, the sound barely disturbing the thick haze of smoke and unspoken tension that had settled over the room. The game was forgotten now, a colorful distraction from the real conversation that was happening between them.
“‘Bank pays you a dividend of $50,’” he read aloud, his voice flat, devoid of its usual commanding resonance. He counted out the fake money with mechanical precision, his mind a million miles away. It was still stuck on Jada’s words, on Kennady’s analysis, on the gaping hole in his self-perception that he hadn’t even known existed. Too rough. Not patient. Doesn’t know how to take his time. The words echoed in his head, a relentless, mocking refrain.
Kennady watched him, her own thoughts a tangled, buzzing mess. The weed and the Hennessy had created a warm, fuzzy cocoon around her, lowering her inhibitions and sharpening her intuition in equal measure. She saw the slump in his shoulders, the rare flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, and something inside her—something protective and fierce and maybe a little reckless—stirred.
“You’re thinking about it too hard,” she said, her voice soft but clear. She reached across the board, her fingers brushing against his as she took the dice from his hand. Her touch was warm, a small spark in the cool air. “It’s not a math problem, Eli. You can’t solve it with logic.”
He looked up at her, his dark eyes clouded with confusion. “Then how am I supposed to solve it?”
“Maybe you’re not supposed to solve it,” she countered, her gaze unwavering. “Maybe you’re just supposed to… learn it. Feel it.” She rolled the dice, a seven, moving her little top hat with a triumphant little hop. “See? Patience. I waited for you to have your little existential crisis, and now I’m owning Baltic Avenue. That’s how you play the game.”
A weak smile touched his lips. “You’re still gonna lose.”
“Maybe,” she conceded, her eyes dancing with mischief. “But at least I’m gonna have fun doing it. Which is more than I can say for you, Mr. ‘My Stroke Game Is a Weapon of Mass Destruction.’”
He flinched, the casual jab landing with surprising force. He looked away, his jaw tight. “It’s not funny, Ken.”
“I’m not laughing,” she said, her tone suddenly serious. She leaned forward, the loose bun on top of her head threatening to topple. “I’m just saying… you’re overthinking it. You’re in your head, trying to analyze it, break it down, figure out the algorithm. But it’s not a computer program, Eli. It’s… human. It’s messy and complicated and it doesn’t always make sense.”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at the board, at the little plastic houses and hotels that represented a world he could control, a world he could understand. This other world, the world of feelings and desires and vulnerabilities, was a foreign country, and he was lost without a map.
Kennady watched him, her heart aching with a fierce, protective tenderness. She hated seeing him like this, so unsure of himself, so lost. She wanted to fix it, to take away his pain, to give him back the unshakeable confidence that was as much a part of him as his own skin. And in that moment, fueled by the haze and the liquor and a decade of unspoken affection, a bold, reckless idea took root in her mind.
She took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of weed and the low, soulful sound of the music. “You know,” she began, her voice casual, almost offhand. “For a man who’s supposed to be so smart, you can be really fucking stupid sometimes.”
He looked up, his brow furrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re trying to understand a feeling with your head,” she explained, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You can’t do that. You have to understand it with your body. You have to… experience it.”
He stared at her, his mind struggling to keep up with the sudden shift in the conversation. “Experience what?”
“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely between them. “This… slowness. This… patience. This… whatever the hell Jada was talking about.”
He shook his head, a slow, deliberate movement. “I don’t understand.”
“I know,” she said, her voice softening. “That’s why I’m saying… maybe I should show you.”
The words hung in the air between them, raw and bold and utterly insane. His composure held, but his heartbeat betrayed him. He stared at her, his mind reeling, trying to process what she was suggesting. It was a line, a boundary they had never crossed, a line they had spent ten years carefully navigating, never even acknowledging its existence. And now, she was suggesting they not only cross it, but obliterate it completely.
“What?” he finally managed to say, his voice hoarse, barely recognizable.
“You heard me,” she said, her voice steady, her eyes locked on his. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in her gaze, only a fierce, unwavering conviction. “Maybe I should show you what she means. Show you how to take your time. Show you what it feels like to… slow down.”
He was silent, his mind a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. Shock. Fear. A sudden, overwhelming surge of desire. He looked at her—really looked at her—at the wild cascade of her hair, at the dark, knowing eyes, at the full, glistening lips, at the soft curves of her body hidden beneath his sweatshirt. He saw the woman who had been his best friend, his confidante, his rock, for more than half his life. And he saw the woman he had been secretly, desperately in love with for just as long.
“Ken…” he started, his voice thick with emotion. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” she asked, her tone challenging, her eyes never leaving his. “Because we’re friends? Because it’s weird? Because it might change things? Eli, things are already changing. They changed the second you told me about Jada, the second you let me see you like this. The line’s already been crossed."
He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was drunk, that she didn’t know what she was saying. But he couldn’t. Because she was right. The line had already been crossed. The moment he had admitted his vulnerability, the moment he had let her see the cracks in his armor, everything had changed. There was no going back.
“It’s not that simple,” he finally said, his voice barely a whisper.
“It is,” she insisted, her voice soft but firm. She reached out again, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch feather-light, a ghost of a caress. “It’s the simplest thing in the world. It’s just… me and you. Like it’s always been. Just… different.”
He closed his eyes, her touch sending a shiver down his spine. He could feel the warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin, the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the smoke and the liquor. He could feel the pull of her, a magnetic force that was stronger than his fear, stronger than his doubt, stronger than the ten years of carefully constructed boundaries between them.
He opened his eyes, and the decision was made. He saw the answer in her eyes, in the unwavering love and trust that shone there. He saw the woman who knew him better than anyone, the woman who had seen him at his best and his worst, the woman who was offering him a gift more precious than anything he had ever received. The gift of herself.
“Okay,” he said, his voice hoarse, barely audible.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Kennady’s face. “Okay,” she echoed, her voice a low, triumphant purr.
She stood up, her movements fluid and graceful, and held out her hand. He took it, his long, powerful fingers wrapping around hers. She pulled him to his feet, the Monopoly board forgotten, the little plastic houses and hotels scattered across the floor like the ruins of a fallen empire.
She led him to the couch, her steps sure and confident. The atmosphere in the room had shifted, the playful, easy camaraderie replaced by something else, something charged and electric and full of promise. The air crackled with anticipation, the low, soulful music a soundtrack to the unfolding drama.
She sat down on the plush leather couch, patting the space beside her. He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, then sat down, his body tense, his hands resting on his knees. The couch was big, but the space between them felt small, intimate, charged with a decade of unspoken desire.
She turned to face him, her knees brushing against his. She reached up, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw, her touch soft, reverent. “Relax, Eli,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “Just… relax. Let me show you.”
He closed his eyes, his body trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, the softness of her touch, the faint scent of her perfume. He could feel the old, familiar walls around his heart beginning to crumble, and this time, he didn’t try to stop them. He just let go.
The couch groaned softly as Kennady shifted; her movements were like slow motion in the dim light. She swung one leg over Elijah’s lap, her knee sinking into the plush leather cushion beside his thigh. The hem of his old sweatshirt rode up, revealing the smooth, dark skin of her thigh and the intricate, swirling lines of a tattoo that disappeared somewhere higher, hidden from his view. She settled her weight over him, not fully, just enough for him to feel the warmth of her, the solid reality of her body pressing against his. His hands, which had been resting on his knees, flew up instinctively, hovering in the air between them, unsure of where to land.
“Relax, Eli,” she whispered again, her voice a low, husky murmur that vibrated through his chest. She placed her hands on his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard muscle there, a firm, grounding pressure. “I’m not gonna break. And you’re not gonna break me. Just… feel.”
He could feel. God, he could feel. He could feel the heat radiating from her hidden warmth, a searing promise through the thin layers of their clothing. He could feel the soft weight of her thighs against his, the subtle strength in her grip. He could smell her—Kennady’s scent, a familiar mix of coconut oil, now mingled with the sweet, acrid smell of the weed they’d smoked and the faint, clean scent of his own laundry detergent on the sweatshirt she wore. The warmth of it spread through him, blurring the line between peace and yearning.
He forced his hands to relax, letting them come to rest on her hips. The fabric of the sweatshirt was soft, worn thin in places, but he could feel the solid, undeniable shape of her beneath it, the flare of her hips, the gentle curve of her waist. It was a territory he had never explored, a landscape he had only ever dreamed of, and now it was here, under his hands, real and alive and breathing.
“Just watch me,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “And feel.”
Then, she began to move.
It wasn’t a thrust. It wasn’t a grind. It was… a roll. A slow, wave-like motion that started in her hips and flowed through her entire body. She moved against him, a slow, torturous rhythm that was both a question and an answer. It was the opposite of everything he had ever known, the antithesis of the frantic, desperate coupling he was used to. This was… a conversation. A silent, physical dialogue that spoke of patience, of anticipation, of a slow, deliberate building of pressure.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands tightening on her hips. He could feel the friction, a delicious, maddening drag of her body against his, even through the layers of denim and cotton. It was a tease, a promise, a slow awakening of something inside him he hadn’t known was sleeping. He could feel himself responding, his body hardening, his blood thickening, a low hum of need building in the base of his spine.
“Feel that?” she whispered, her voice a low, raspy caress. “Feel the difference?”
He couldn’t speak. He could only nod, his eyes wide, his mind reeling. He felt it. He felt it in the way his muscles tensed, in the way his breath hitched, in the way his entire world narrowed to the single point of contact between them. This was what Jada had been talking about. This… slowness. This… control. It wasn’t about holding back; it was about holding on, about savoring every moment, every sensation, every slow, deliberate drag of her body against his.
She moved again, a little faster this time, a little deeper. The rhythm was hypnotic, a slow, sensual beat that matched the low, soulful music still playing in the background. She leaned forward, her hair brushing against his cheek, her lips hovering just above his ear. “You’re always trying to get to the finish line, Eli. You’re always trying to win. But this… this isn’t a race. It’s a dance. And you gotta learn the steps.”
He closed his eyes, his head falling back against the couch. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his neck, the whisper of her hair against his skin. He could feel the steady, rhythmic motion of her hips, a slow, relentless torture that was pushing him to the edge of his control. He wanted to grab her, to flip her over, to take her, to unleash the raw desire that was roaring through his veins. But he didn’t. He forced himself to be still, to let her lead, to learn the steps of this new, unfamiliar dance.
Her hands moved from his shoulders, sliding down his chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his pecs, the ridges of his abs. She could feel the tension in his body, the barely restrained power that was thrumming just beneath the surface. She could feel the frantic, desperate beat of his heart, a wild, untamed thing that was completely at odds with the slow, deliberate rhythm of her movements.
“You’re trying too hard,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his earlobe. “You’re thinking too much. Just… let go. Let your body do what it wants to do.”
He let out a low groan, the sound ripped from his throat. He couldn’t. He couldn’t let go. Letting go was a weakness. Letting go was surrender. And he had spent his entire life learning how to never, ever surrender.
“Eli,” she said, her voice a soft, firm command. “Look at me.”
He opened his eyes. Her face was just inches from his, her dark eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and exhilarating. Her lips were parted, glistening, full, and inviting. He could see the fire in her eyes, the desire that mirrored his own. He could see the love, the trust, the unwavering belief in him that was both a gift and a burden.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I’ve got you. Just… let go. I promise I’ll catch you.”
And in that moment, he believed her. He believed her with every fiber of his being. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension draining from his body, the iron grip on his control finally loosening. He let his hands slide from her hips, wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer, deeper, until there was no space between them, no barrier, no pretense.
She responded instantly, her body arching into his, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident. She rolled her hips, a slow, deep, grinding motion. He could feel the friction, the heat, the wet, slick promise of her body through the thin layers of their clothing. It was maddening, exquisite, a slow torture that was pushing him to the very brink of sanity.
“Fuck, Ken,” he groaned, his voice a hoarse, desperate rasp. “What are you doing to me?”
“Teaching you,” she whispered, her lips finally finding his. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. It was a touch, a soft, tentative brush of her lips against his, a promise of things to come. “I’m teaching you how to take your time.”
He could feel the control slipping away, the careful, constructed walls around his heart crumbling into dust. He was lost, adrift in a sea of sensation, a prisoner to the slow, deliberate rhythm of her body, to the soft, whispered words of encouragement, to the overwhelming, all-consuming love that was pouring from her, into him, filling all the empty places he hadn’t even known were there.
She moved again, a little faster, a little harder, her hips grinding against his in a slow, sensual circle that was both a question and an answer. He could feel the pressure building, a low, coiling tension in the pit of his stomach, a desperate, aching need for more, for faster, for harder. But he didn’t act on it. He didn’t have to. She knew. She always knew.
She pulled back, her eyes dark and heavy with desire. “You feel that?” she whispered, her voice a low, husky murmur. “That tension? That build-up? That’s what she was talking about. That’s the part you’ve been missing.”
He nodded, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. He felt it. He felt it in the way his muscles were trembling, in the way his blood was pounding in his ears, in the way every nerve ending in his body was screaming for release. This was it. This was the missing piece. This was the secret he had been trying to unlock.
“It’s not about being gentle,” she continued, her voice a low, hypnotic chant. “It’s about being intentional. It’s about knowing exactly what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it. It’s about making every movement count, every touch, every thrust. It’s about… worship.”
He stared at her, his mind reeling, his body on fire. Worship. The word echoed in his head, a revelation, a revolution. It wasn’t about control. It was about devotion. It wasn’t about taking. It was about giving. It wasn’t about winning. It was about… worshiping.
She leaned in again, her lips finding his ear. “Now you try,” she whispered, her voice a low, husky challenge. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t question. He just… acted. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he pulled her down, hard, grinding his own hips up to meet hers. It was a slow, deliberate, powerful movement, a perfect mirror of hers, but with an added layer of strength, of possession, of raw, unadulterated desire.
She let out a soft gasp, her body arching into his, her head falling back in a silent offering. He could feel the change in her, the shift in her energy, the sudden, overwhelming surge of desire that matched his own. He had learned the steps. He had mastered the dance. And now, it was his turn to lead.
—
The world, for a breathtaking moment, stopped. There was only the feeling of Kennady’s body pressed against his, the scent of her hair filling his lungs, and the echoing silence in the wake of his first, deliberate movement. He’d mirrored her, a slow, powerful roll of his hips that had dragged a gasp from her lips. And in that gasp, in the sudden, sharp arch of her back, he felt it. Not just the friction, not just the heat, but the effect. The control. He’d moved with intention, and her body had answered.
He opened his eyes, and the dimly lit room came back into focus. The Jodeci was still playing, the smoke still hung in the air, but everything was different. Sharper. More real. He saw the way her head was thrown back, the long, graceful line of her throat exposed and vulnerable. He saw the way her hands were gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his t-shirt, holding on for dear life. He saw the subtle tremor that ran through her body, a testament to the power he now held in his hands.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a low, reverent prayer. He’d been a fool. An arrogant, blind fool. He’d been so focused on the act, on the physical release, on the frantic, desperate pursuit of an orgasm, that he’d completely missed the point. He’d been using a sledgehammer when he should have been using a sculptor’s tools, chipping away at the stone to reveal the masterpiece within.
Kennady slowly lowered her head, her eyes heavy-lidded, dark pools of desire that seemed to pull him in. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips. “There he is,” she whispered, her voice a husky, triumphant purr. “Took you long enough, nigga.”
He could only stare at her, his mind reeling from the revelation. This was it. This was the secret. This was the missing piece of the puzzle he’d been trying to solve. It wasn’t about being less of himself, about taming the fire that burned within him. It was about channeling it, about focusing it, about using it not to break, but to build. To build tension. To build anticipation. To build pleasure until it was an unbearable, exquisite thing.
“Feel the difference?” she asked, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath warm and moist against his skin. “This is what she meant. Slow builds tension. It makes every touch, every movement, mean something. It makes your dick ache for it. It makes my pussy soak for it. It’s a promise, not an attack.”
Her words were filthy, raw, and so fucking true they hit him deep in his chest. He could feel it. He could feel the ache she was talking about, a deep, throbbing need that was so much more powerful than the frantic, mindless lust he was used to. It was a hunger that gnawed at him, a desperate, aching desire for more, but not just more—more of this. More of the slow, deliberate torture. More of the agonizing build-up.
“You’re a goddamn genius,” he murmured, his hands sliding from her waist to her hips, his fingers gripping the soft, pliant flesh with a new, possessive confidence. He could feel the heat of her through the denim, a searing promise that made his own body throb in response.
“I’m just a woman who knows what she wants,” she countered, her voice a low, husky challenge. She began to move again, a slow, sensual rhythm that was both a question and an answer. “And right now, I want you to show me you’ve been paying attention.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He met her rhythm, his hips moving in a slow, deliberate circle that was a perfect mirror of hers. He could feel the friction, the drag of her body against his, a delicious, maddening tease that was pushing him to the edge of his control. But this time, he didn’t fight it. He embraced it. He reveled in it. He let the tension build, let the need coil in the pit of his stomach, let the desire wash over him in a slow, intoxicating wave.
“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice a low, breathy encouragement. “Just like that. Fuck, you feel so good. You’re a natural at this. All that power, all that control… just imagine what you could do if you used it for good instead of evil.”
He let out a low laugh, the sound a deep, rumbling vibration that he could feel in his own chest. “I’m using it for good right now,” he growled, his hands tightening on her hips, pulling her down, harder, deeper. “I’m about to make you see God.”
She let out a soft, breathy laugh, her head falling back, her body arching into his. “Promises, promises,” she teased, but there was a new edge to her voice, a new, desperate urgency that told him he was on the right track. “You gotta earn it, big shot. You gotta make me beg for it.”
The challenge hung in the air between them, a gauntlet thrown down in the dim, smoky light. He could feel the shift in their dynamic, the subtle but undeniable change in the power balance. This was no longer a lesson. It was a duel. A dance of seduction, a battle of wills, a test of endurance. And he had no intention of losing.
He changed the rhythm, a slow, deep, grinding motion that was designed to push her to the very brink of her control. He could feel the change in her, the sudden, sharp intake of breath, the way her body tensed, the way her nails dug deeper into his shoulders. He could feel the desperation, the need, the overwhelming desire that was threatening to overwhelm her.
“Eli…” she breathed, her voice a hoarse, desperate whisper.
“Shhh,” he murmured, his lips finding her ear. “I’m in charge now. You wanted to teach me? I’m a fast learner. Now it’s my turn to teach you.”
He could feel the old, familiar dominance rising in him, the untamed power that he had kept leashed for so long. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t a frantic, desperate need to conquer, to possess, to control. It was a slow, confident assertion of his will. It was a quiet, unshakeable certainty that he knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what she wanted.
He moved again, a slow, powerful thrust that was both a question and an answer. He could feel the wet, slick heat of her through the layers of their clothing, a searing promise that made his body throb with aching need. He wanted her. The pull he felt toward her was relentless, as exhilarating as it was impossible to explain. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to lose himself in her, to make her his in every way imaginable.
But he didn’t. He forced himself to be patient, to savor the moment, to draw out the moment until she was begging, pleading, and at his mercy.
“You feel that?” he whispered, his voice a low, husky murmur. “You feel how hard my dick is for you? How badly I want to fuck you? How I’m holding back, just for you? This is what you wanted. This is what you asked for.”
She let out a soft, breathy moan, her body trembling, her hips moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm that was completely at odds with his slow, deliberate pace. “Please…” she breathed, the word a ragged, desperate plea.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing challenge. “Please fuck you? Please make you cum? Please give you what you’ve been begging for?”
“Yes,” she gasped, her head falling back, her body arching into his. “All of it. Everything. Please, Eli… fuck me.”
He smiled, a slow, triumphant smile. He had her. He had her right where he wanted her. He had learned the lesson, mastered the dance, and now, it was time to claim his prize.
He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft, pliant flesh, and he took control of the rhythm, his movements slow, deliberate, and devastatingly effective. He was no longer just mirroring her, no longer just following her lead. He was leading, commanding, possessing. He was using his strength, his power, his control, not to break her, but to worship her, to bring her to the peak of pleasure, to make her scream his name until her voice was hoarse and her body was spent.
This was it. This was the revelation. This was the truth. It wasn’t about being gentle or rough, fast or slow. It was about knowing. It was about understanding. It was about connection. It was about her. It had always been about her.
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Why playing with algebraic and calculus concepts—rather than doing arithmetic drills—may be a better way to introduce children t
The familiar, hierarchical sequence of math instruction starts with counting, followed by addition and subtraction, then multiplication and division. The computational set expands to include bigger and bigger numbers, and at some point, fractions enter the picture, too. Then in early adolescence, students are introduced to patterns of numbers and letters, in the entirely new subject of algebra. A minority of students then wend their way through geometry, trigonometry and, finally, calculus, which is considered the pinnacle of high-school-level math.
But this progression actually “has nothing to do with how people think, how children grow and learn, or how mathematics is built,” says pioneering math educator and curriculum designer Maria Droujkova. She echoes a number of voices from around the world that want to revolutionize the way math is taught, bringing it more in line with these principles.
The current sequence is merely an entrenched historical accident that strips much of the fun out of what she describes as the “playful universe” of mathematics, with its more than 60 top-level disciplines, and its manifestations in everything from weaving to building, nature, music and art. Worse, the standard curriculum starts with arithmetic, which Droujkova says is much harder for young children than playful activities based on supposedly more advanced fields of mathematics.
“Calculations kids are forced to do are often so developmentally inappropriate, the experience amounts to torture,” she says. They also miss the essential point—that mathematics is fundamentally about patterns and structures, rather than “little manipulations of numbers,” as she puts it. It’s akin to budding filmmakers learning first about costumes, lighting and other technical aspects, rather than about crafting meaningful stories.
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