Ollie Fox Writes

The Emperor sat on the throne, where he belonged. He did not remove his mask and helm. He never did; it was part of being Emperor, the golden mask so that none could see his true face. He had won the title, and some had seen his face long ago, but now few did, and never when he held court.

She wore very little, just the strip of cloth over her breasts, and another between her legs, and a few more wrapped on her arms and legs, decoratively—or seemingly. A scantily clad slave was expected for one of his position, and aside from an admiring eye, would be overlooked. But in those wrappings were concealed weapons, because she was not a true slave, but part of his defense. She was paid as one of his guards, and she was free to leave as she liked.

But she did not want to leave.

At first it was because she knew she was safer with the Emperor than she was anywhere else in the world. And then it was because…well. Because there were other reasons, reasons that fit seamlessly in with her guise as a common pleasure slave.

He still wore his armor, still sat on the throne as if he owned the whole world and not just his Five Kingdoms, his legs spread.

And she knelt between his feet. She unlaced his trews slowly, like unwrapping a present, and she pulled out his cock, the only exposed skin on this man. She paused a moment to admire it—already hard, already ready.

He reached up, once, to touch her head—maybe a moment of reassurance or approval. Maybe just a reminder of what she was here for, and it was not to admire how his skin was pulled taut, how she could see every pulsing vein. He had chased everyone out—his vizier, his valet, the other more obvious guards—just for her, just for this moment, and it would not last forever.

She dragged her tongue over his shaft, tasting the heat, the salt of his skin, and she could hear him make a soft, low grumble. She knew, by now, how he liked it, and teasing was not on the agenda, but she couldn’t resist. Her ass might pay for it later, but that was later, and those grumpy little sounds were now.

Outside the room she could hear some kind of commotion from the guards, but no one approached them, and she put it out of her mind. This was far more important.

She licked him again, and dragged her tongue over his sensitive, swollen head.

“Nari,” he growled. “Do not test me.”

She might be willing to push her luck, but there were limits. She opened her mouth and started to take him in, slowly at first—not teasing this time, but adjusting as she felt his cock pressing into her tongue. He didn’t like gagging and choking, finding it more distasteful than arousing, and so she only filled her mouth with his cock, and went no further, breathing through her nose—slowly, as if to pace herself, though she knew not to take so long. Already she could hear commotion outside, and vaguely heard something about someone demanding to see the Emperor, but again, she ignored it.

She wrapped her slim hands around the base of his cock, wet with her own spit, and glanced up at him. She could see no expression, of course, on the gilded mask he wore, but his head was leaning back, and she could hear his sharp inhale.

That sound, as much as his growl, made her wet. She could feel it on her thighs, her cunt bare under the filmy cloths she wore, but she knew that, too, would be a problem for later.

She drew back to suck on the end of his cock, faster, knowing not to drag this out. He only had so much time to take and, anyway, he was an efficient man when it came to his own pleasure. He wanted to come; she wanted to make him come. She was sure she could already taste him, or would soon, and—

And then the door slammed open, and she started to pull away, but then his gloved hand was on her head. She froze in place, all the same, her mouth full, her cunt wet, and knowing someone was there, watching.

“You were told to wait to see me,” the Emperor said, from somewhere over her, somewhere in his mask. As if his fly wasn’t open. As if his slave wasn’t sucking him off, right now.

“I had an appointment,” said the interloper, trying to sound bold, but he sounded uncertain. Because what do you do, exactly, when you burst in to see the Emperor of Five Kingdoms, and he’s in the middle of someone?

“And I was busy,” said the Emperor. “No, Nari. Don’t stop.”

She glanced up at him, and if his hand wasn’t on her head she might have pulled away to ask something. She could tap out, she knew, touch his thigh to signal that she could not do this, but…

But he didn’t want her to stop.

This cocky bastard had interrupted, thinking his appointment was important.

And the Emperor would make it clear that no, it wasn’t more important than whatever he wanted to do…

And that was her.

He did not tell the stranger to leave, not even when she brought her hands back. Not even when she started stroking him again. Not even when she started to suck again, feeling his head fill her mouth, pressing her tongue to him, squeezing him gently.

He groaned, but when she glanced up again, his head was not flopped back again. He was looking straight ahead, eyes not quite visible behind the mask but yet clear where they were focused.

At the intruder.

Dead in the eye, while Nari sucked his cock.

She moaned around him, startling herself, and eliciting another sound from him. She did not often make noises when going down on him, but the thought of it, him staring the other man down, not giving a fuck about what he might see or say or do…that show of power made everything inside her clench.

His cock felt so good in her mouth, and she knew just how good it would feel inside of her. And even as she felt him pulse in her hands, even as she knew he was getting close, she imagined it inside of her instead, and moaned again. On either side of her, his legs started to tense.

His hand still rested on her head, lightly but not leaving any room for question, until she sucked again and his fingers tightened in her hair. The pain on her scalp made her gasp, or try to, and she let it out through her nose, breathing hot air over him, and he growled, and this time it wasn’t a warning to her. He rocked his hips up, against her face, not even meaning to, and she sucked him deep into her mouth—

One last time.

He came with a long, drawn-out sigh, and she could taste him, hot in her mouth, and swallowed it down before he dropped his hand from her head. She could hear him breathing, and pulled away, trying to rub her jaw surreptitiously. She was about to turn and get a glimpse of the stranger. She could hear his breathing, too, and was sure suddenly he could see her, maybe even see the wetness on her thighs, and her cheeks burned—

“You missed some,” said the Emperor’s voice then, rough, and she looked up, startled. “Clean it up.”

She blinked at him, then looked at his softening cock. She knew he would be sensitive, but she bent, as she was told, to lick off the bead of come from his shaft, and listened to the grunt he made—whether of approval or because it was too much sensation she didn’t know.

“Good,” he said. “Now put it away for me. Did you enjoy the show, Baron D’shallan?” he asked.

She didn’t need him to remove his helmet to know he was smirking under it. She could hear it in his voice as she tucked him away again, and started lacing up his fly again.

“Er,” said Baron D’shallan. “I…suppose.”

She started to turn to see him again, or at least not let him look at her ass anymore, but again, the Emperor’s hand came to rest on her head. Keeping her in place.

“I suppose you might like to try it,” he said, in his gravelly voice. “Nari is very talented, as you can see. I noticed you noticing.”

Was he insane? This wasn’t part of the agreement, this was—

His hand stroked over her hair, reassuring. She’d been about to pull away; now she let that tension go and, on a whim, leaned against his knee instead, looking up at him. She didn’t understand what the hell he was doing, but she knew him. She trusted him.

“She is very beautiful,” said Baron D’shallan, a little reluctantly. “I had come to speak with you of business, but I would not mind a turn with your slave.”

“Indeed.” Silence, for a moment. “But unfortunately for you,” he continued, “you were told, expressly, that I was not to be disturbed. Nari, come here,” he said, and released her head.

She rose, carefully, and let him pull her onto his lap.

“Now,” the Emperor said, “go away.” He was looking at her, she could see even with his mask on, but his words were not aimed at her—that much was clear, as he pulled her closer, shifted so his legs were between her thighs. “You,” he said, to Nari this time, and his voice was light, the way it only ever was with her—usually in private, almost always in private, but now… “You teased me earlier, which you know you are not to do. But you’re also very wet, and that’s fun, too. What is a man to do with you, hmm?”

Baron D’shallan sucked in a breath. “You cannot mean to kick me out in favor of—of fucking your little slut slave?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” the Emperor said. His voice was mild, unperturbed. “I would have made her wait, but now I don’t want you here, so I just happen to have the time.”

“Then what? For—for interrupting your blow job?” he asked, his voice rising several octaves. “You cannot be that petty.”

“That was annoying,” the Emperor agreed, adjusting Nari’s top a little with a surprisingly gentle hand. “But no. You, Baron D’shallan, must learn to show respect. By coming in when you were told that I was busy, you disrespected me. And, by ignoring my guards’ very simple instruction, you’ve shown that you are untrustworthy. How can I broker any sort of deal with you and expect you to honor it?” He raised one hand and gestured in a shooing motion. “So, goodbye, Baron. Go make another appointment if you like. There should be something free in a week or two.”

Baron D’shallan let out a little indignant squeak. But he knew he could not win this one, it seemed, and Nari heard the squeal of his boot on the stone floor as he turned heel, and then the scrape of the heavy door opening, then falling shut again.

“Well, now,” said the Emperor. “That’s enough of him. And the better news is, I now have the next hour free.” His hand moved to her thigh. “And I think I know just what to do with you.”

-

There's more to this story, as well as nine additional stories in the collection! If you liked this, be sure to check out the rest of Rough Handling: Ten Erotic Tales on Ko-Fi, Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, & Smashwords.

When they’d started, Bowie Martin thought the scent was soothing and mystical. Previous retail and office jobs had just smelled like cleaner and whatever someone had microwaved in the break room, so the sandalwood and frankincense had been a welcome change. But after two years, it just smelled like work, clinging to their hair and clothes. They went home to their empty apartment—emptier now after their cat’s death—and the memory of work surrounded them. They didn’t mind, exactly. They liked their job. It just reminded them that they didn’t have much else to care about.

Sometimes they wondered if ancient priests had the same problem, going home after a long day, linens permanently perfumed with sacred funeral rites.

Still, Eye of Newt was a good place to work. Bowie’s boss Donna usually played soothing New Age music (Tibetan bowls, windchimes, pan pipes, and other features of 90s late night CD commercials) but that was much better than a previous job’s constant use of Michael Bublé, for whom Bowie still held a small amount of resentment. When they closed or opened or, sometimes, when it was slow, Bowie and their coworker Hector took turns picking music. Bowie, predictably, preferred glam or classic rock, while Hector favored 90s pop and country divas. Both were perfectly happy with the other’s choices, and most importantly, none of it was Michael Bublé.

Of course, now slow times were becoming more common, to the point that Bowie and Hector didn’t work together as much. Donna kept them both on staff for the moment, and tried to give them full-time hours, but Bowie had a feeling things would be cut back soon. Hector knew, too, but when they did see each other they seldom mentioned it, to each other or to Donna.

The drop in business wasn’t all bad, though. Afternoons that they did work together meant that they could sit and talk over the voices of Whitney Houston or Ronnie James Dio. And other times, Bowie could take time to chat with the occasional customers instead of rushing through transactions.

On the evening before Bowie’s life ended, it was actually a full house. Hector was working with them because Donna had expected a big delivery. Donna herself had been in her office all day, going over spreadsheets like a magician studying an ancient text, ever since a slim letter had arrived that morning from the strip mall’s newest owner.

Bowie rang up a regular in the last few minutes before the store was scheduled to close. The regular, Elinor, claimed she was a spiritual TikTok influencer. Bowie wasn’t sure she influenced much, but they also didn’t ask.

“I’ll miss this place if it shuts down,” said Elinor. “The nearest place I like is Milwaukee, and that’s too far and less personal.”

“Yes, this is a nice store,” Bowie said lightly, resisting the desire to point out that they’d miss it more.

But Elinor caught herself all the same and gave a sheepish laugh. “Of course it’d be worse for you,” she agreed. “Can you keep the citrine and the sodalite separate? I bought them for chakra alignment and I don’t want their energies to mingle too soon.”

Bowie obediently began wrapping them in separate scraps of brown paper, which satisfied Elinor enough for her chakras.

“I always like when you work, Bowie,” continued Elinor, leaning on the counter. “You seem very grounded. Sometimes I think you’re a skeptic, but you aren’t, not really. You’re open-minded, but there’s a sense of presence to you, more grounded than mystical. Your aura is very old, maybe that’s why.”

“My skincare routine doesn’t do much for auras,” agreed Bowie.

“I just mean you seem quite anchored,” said Elinor. “Solid. And yet very open to other things. I suppose that’s why you were called to work here.”

Bowie worked at Eye of Newt because they enjoyed the benefits that came with employment, such as regular income, but they were certainly not going to say that. “I’ve always felt like there was more to life than just life,” they said, and that was true, too. “People all see it a different way, that’s all.”

“Have you ever had any spiritual experiences yourself?” asked Elinor eagerly, as the clock ticked over to five PM and Hector crossed the room to turn around the open sign. “I mean, before working here. I’m sure you’ve had more since.”

“Oh, of course,” Bowie said, and held out a bag for her to take. “You’re all set!”

Elinor smiled, taking the bag. “I suppose everyone has,” she said. “Tarot readings at slumber parties, that sort of thing.”

Bowie, who had not spent much of their childhood being invited to slumber parties and was not particularly fond of tarot, just smiled. “You know how it is,” they agreed. “Have a great night, okay?”

This time Elinor got the hint, and waved to Bowie and Hector on her way out. The door jingled lightly as it opened and shut.

“You’re a master of the non-answer,” said Hector, coming over to the cash wrap.

He did not leave much room for Bowie, but that wasn’t his fault. Bowie themself wasn’t petite by any metric, but everything about Hector was huge. His height, his gym-honed muscles, his waist-length ponytail, and especially his enthusiasm. He would very proudly claim to anyone who asked (and to many who didn’t) that his wingspan was the same as a harpy eagle’s. He even had a harpy eagle tattooed on one massive bicep, its talons clutching a Colombian flag. He said it was easy to wear his heart on his sleeve with a self-themed tattoo, but he was so outgoing that Bowie was pretty sure he didn’t need the tattoo.

“You’re a master of avoiding chatty customers at closing time,” Bowie replied. “Which is impressive, because I think you’d talk to anyone who stood still long enough.”

He laughed. “I had to avoid her, though.” He switched the music over to his playlist. “She keeps trying to read my aura without permission.”

“Well,” Bowie said, “stop flaunting your aura all over the place like some kind of aura-floozy. Anyway, she’s harmless.”

“Only because you don’t believe in auras,” said Hector. “Do you believe in anything?”

“I do,” said Bowie. “I didn’t lie when I told her I thought there was more to life than life. I just think people see it however they want to. Maybe none of it’s real, but I like to think maybe all of it’s real. In some way.” They started closing procedures on the cash register.

“Oh,” said Hector. “I thought that was just you putting her off.”

Bowie shrugged a little. “I believe in stuff. When Munkustrap died in January, I was sure I heard him for weeks. Still do, sometimes. I mean, it’s probably just normal apartment sounds, but sometimes it sounds like a cat. It could be a cat.”

“You don’t do any religion or any spiritual practice or anything,” Hector pressed, sensing that Bowie was still sort of avoiding the topic. Or maybe he was just hoping for something more concrete and certain. “I’ve never even see you do tarot when you’re bored.”

Bowie was quiet for a moment as they counted out cash.

“I should do a reading for you now,” he said then, and stopped what he was doing to grab one of the sample decks off the shelf.

“Well,” said Bowie.

“I don’t know why I’ve never read for you,” Hector said. “I do it all the time for myself and my roommates. I’ve even read for Donna. It’ll only take a second.”

“I don’t really like having tarot read for me,” they said, and Hector slowed mid-shuffle. “That’s why I never do it.”

“I thought it’s just never come up,” Hector admitted. “How come?”

Bowie put the cash in the deposit bag. Too little cash. They thought again of Donna in the office, poring over spreadsheets and account books. “Honestly?” They glanced up at him. “Because it sort of creeps me out.”

“Oh. Like an old religious thing?” he asked. “Were your parents the types who thought tarot was Satanic or whatever? My roommate’s parents were.”

“No, not like that,” they answered, wondering vaguely if their mother had ever thought about the spiritual realm at any point in her life. “Honestly? I’ve had it read for me a few times. I even tried myself when I first started working here. And…it’s weird, but every single time I do, I get the Death card.”

“Well, you know that’s not a bad card,” he said. “It just means change.”

“I’ve had enough change,” said Bowie. “But that’s not the point. I’m not exaggerating, Hector. Every time.” They looked at him a moment, then sighed. They took off the bandanna they wore over their short bleached hair and ran their fingers through it, making it stick up at all angles.

But Hector had started shuffling again, grinning at them, and they sighed. Might as well let him and get it over with, they decided, and gestured for him to continue.

He drew a card, face-down, with a flourish. “Are you a betting man, Bowie?”

“Please just show the card,” Bowie said, trying not to sound too terse.

“Okay, okay.” He turned it over.

There it was. Death, looking up at Bowie like an old friend. Hector’s brows went up.

“I didn’t get very far learning tarot,” Bowie admitted. “Learning cards seemed like a lot of work when I kept getting the same one over and over.”

“Okay, that’s weird, but surely not every time. That’s like…confirmation bias.” He put the card back in the deck and shuffled. “Three card spread. I’ll do it properly this time.”

Death, Wheel, Lovers.

“Well,” he said. “Let me try another one.”

Two of swords, Death.

Six of swords, Death, knight of cups.

“Okay.” Hector started stacking up the cards again, not paying attention to what he was doing, staring at Bowie. “I admit, that’s, uh, weird.”

“Yeah,” Bowie said. “I noticed.”

He fumbled as he stacked them, and a card fell out. He picked it up, stared at it, and put it back in the deck.

Bowie didn’t ask what card had turned up.

Donna emerged from the office then. Her crocheted shawl and silver curls were in disarray, like perhaps she’d been physically fighting the spreadsheets. Her pale face was lined, and her makeup had smudged to make the circles of her eyes even darker, but her smile was warm as always. “Why don’t you two clock out?” she asked. “I’ll close up. I want to check some inventory anyway.”

“Sure,” said Bowie. “Register’s closed down, the deposit bag is in the safe when you’re ready for it.”

“Thanks,” said Donna. “You two go on. Bowie, you’re scheduled for tomorrow?”

“Yep,” Bowie said with a nod.

“Don’t worry about the morning, just come in tomorrow afternoon,” Donna suggested, making it sound like a favor.

Maybe the Death card was for the shop, thought Bowie grimly, but didn’t say anything.

“Great!” they said instead, brightly.

“You’re off tomorrow, right, Hector?” Donna edged her way around the cash wrap to finish up. “Any plans?”

“Oh, you know,” Hector said, still frowning at the cards in his hand. “Nothing much. Roommates have been bugging me to watch Buffy so I think I might try it.” He put the cards down. “I guess we’d better go.”

Bowie and Hector both got their things from the office. Neither spoke for a moment. Maybe the Death card didn’t really mean anything, but Donna’s expression did.

When Bowie got their phone they discovered two missed calls, and immediately called back, still in the office, while Hector lingered nearby.

“Hello, darling,” chirped her mother’s voice in her ear. “Wonderful news! I’m in town tonight.”

“Tonight?” said Bowie, surprised.

“That’s right. It was a bit last-minute. I tried to call you earlier but you didn’t answer.”

“Well, I was, you know. Working.” They glanced up to see Hector still taking up the bulk of the doorway. “But you’re here? Why?”

“Oh, darling, you know I like to see you when I’m in the state,” she said warmly. “I have an audition for a commercial in Milwaukee this week, so I thought I’d stop by Klausberg tonight and we could have dinner! Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Yes—yes, of course,” said Bowie. “Text me details, I’ll be there soon.”

“Of course, darling, see you soon! Bye!” Their mom hung up without another word.

“That was your mom?” asked Hector.

“Uh-huh.” They glanced over their other messages and emails and tried to figure out if they’d have time to stop at home and tidy up. They couldn’t change their freckles or heavy frame, which their mother had eventually learned to accept, but if they showed up messy-haired and dressed for comfort, they would never hear the end of it. Then they registered that Hector had spoken and looked up. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” he said. “Uh. You okay?”

“Of course. Why?”

He shrugged his big shoulders and held the office door. “I don’t know. I guess pulling a bunch of Death cards for someone made me feel weird.”

“Yeah,” said Bowie with a laugh. “Now you know why I don’t do tarot. And yes, I know it doesn’t mean much.”

“Do you?” he said. Bowie wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Have you thought about getting a new cat soon?”

They opened the door to a cool evening. The sidewalk outside of Eye of Newt was thick with gray slush. When Bowie stepped into it, cold spread up their pant leg, making them grimace.

“Sometime,” they said, shaking slush off their sneaker. “But I’m fine, Hector. Really. Why the concern?”

The two of them stood outside the store for a moment, and Bowie breathed in the smell of fresh-baked bread from the sandwich shop next door, mingling with that perpetual smell of frankincense.

“What do you mean?” he said. “We’re friends. Right?”

“Well, of course,” said Bowie. Sure, they didn’t see each other outside of work, but they texted memes all the time.

“So,” he said, “I’m concerned, as a friend.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then sighed. “I’m not a good friend, I know. I keep to myself—and my roommates. But so do you.”

Before Bowie could figure out what to say, or even what he wassaying, the door to the sandwich shop opened. The owner poked his head out, white hair covered with a green and gold Green Bay Packers hat.

“Bowie!” he said. “Can I get your usual started?”

“Not today, Jim,” they said. Your usual. They hadn’t often frequented anywhere long enough to have a known usual. “I’m meeting someone for dinner.”

“A date?” Jim asked.

Bowie laughed. “Nope. Just my mom. But maybe tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Jim. He smiled, but he glanced past Bowie to the empty parking lot. “I’ll watch for you. Don’t you forget, now, eh?”

“Promise.” Jim slipped back in, leaving Bowie smiling. “Maybe you should go get a sandwich from him,” they suggested to Hector.

“I would,” said Hector, “but my roommate’s making lasagna.”

Hector seemed to have a good situation—him and his two roommates all cooked together, watched movies together, hung out constantly. Bowie knew it was very good fortune to be able to live alone as they did. Their last attempts at living with a partner a few years ago hadn’t gone very well. Bowie was pretty sure they were at their best when they were alone.

But sometimes, they still imagined going home to someone who cared enough to make dinner.

“Okay,” Bowie said. “Anyway, look, don’t worry about the card thing. That’s the issue, right? But I always get that. It’s weird and that’s why I don’t read it, but I don’t think it’s like…a bad omen or anything.”

“Of course not,” Hector agreed. “Well, have fun with your mom.”

Bowie wondered what that was like, too, but just smiled. “Sure. See you later.” They started digging their phone out as they headed into the empty parking lot, checking their texts to see what restaurant their mother had chosen.

Their mind was everywhere else, though. They tried not to think about tarot. Hector’s concern for them. Donna’s face when the new owner increased the rent. Their late cat, who they missed fiercely, too fiercely to really entertain the idea of another cat just yet. Wondering where to move next when this job ended someday. Their mind was whirling, but over that, the image of the Death card, over and over, kept rising to the surface like a body in a lake.

They never saw the black sedan coming.

They didn’t even feel it hit them.

-

Chapter Two

Bowie woke somewhere new.

And somewhere very old.

“Oh,” they said softly. Their voice was faint, wondering, as they looked around at the familiar place they had forgotten their whole life.

The ground was thick and gray—not slush, or incense smoke, but a dense fog that whirled around their ankles like a friendly cat, and then it was a friendly cat. Munkustrap purred, pressing against their shins, tail wrapping around their calf, just as he always did whenever they arrived home after a long day.

“Munkustrap!” they exclaimed, bending to pet him. His fur was wispy-cool in their fingers, not the warm fluff it had been in life, but it was still him.

“He’s been waiting for you,” said a voice.

Bowie had never, in 35 years, heard that voice. But they knew it. They knew it like they knew the sound of their own breathing, like they knew the taste of water and the feeling of sun on their skin.

They lifted their eyes from Munkustrap’s ecstatic feline affection to find him there. “It’s you,” they breathed, and took a step, over Munkustrap, sending up swirls of charcoal fog.

He looked as he always did, here in this Place Between. He held a lantern in one hand, casting golden light in a circle near him, not quite reaching Bowie. Behind him stood a tall, wrought-iron gate. Several gates, in fact, all in a row, a wall of gates and doorways, thresholds to step through, left and right, as far as the eye could see.

There were no physical forms here. Bowie knew that, from all their previous visits before they had been Bowie. But they also knew that the human mind couldn’t quite handle that. Even in death, it created. And so to Bowie, Munkustrap was a slim, fluffy gray cat; and their hand petting him was a hand, freckled, with bitten nails; and before them stood a Sentry in the shape of a man.

“It’s me,” he agreed, and gave them a smile.

And maybe in reality he didn’t have an angular, golden-brown face and a long, lean shape in its flowing shirt and pants. Maybe in reality he didn’t have that silver-dark beard and a head of curls that demanded fingers in them. Maybe in reality his smile was not wide, brighter than the lantern he held, lighting up light brown eyes with its own golden glow. But that’s what Bowie saw, and that’s what made Bowie’s heart leap in recognition.

“What happened this time?” they asked.

Because here, their soul in this in-between place, they could remember. Memories of lives, stretching back, hundreds of years. People Bowie had once been. People who had lived, people who had experienced and existed. People who had died.

And each time they were led through this place by the Sentry before them. Always him, ever since the first death. He would never let another Sentry reach them before he could. That was the only jealousy he could or would ever exhibit. He didn’t care who they loved in life, didn’t demand faithfulness to a Sentry they couldn’t remember. But in death, he always guided them, as slowly as he could, onward to the next life.

“You were hit by a car,” said Sentry Zed. “But you aren’t here for good.” His voice was soft, rough, earnest. Familiar, achingly familiar.

“I never am,” Bowie said, and maybe they didn’t truly have a throat in this place, but it ached all the same with tears they weren’t sure they could shed.

It wasn’t fair, the way this happened. Snatches of time together, nothing more and nothing less. And in between, an existence built on loneliness.

Interrupting their thoughts, Munkustrap bounded over to Zed and started batting at his bootlaces. Despite themself, Bowie let out a laugh.

Zed laughed as well and reached down to pet the cat. “He’s been waiting for you, just as I have,” he said. His voice held no resentment, for all that Bowie kept him waiting, just pleasure at their presence. “He’s been good company for me. But no, it’s not like other times, sweetheart.” He looked up at them again, and the smile faded from his mouth, though he still held it in his eyes. “You aren’t dead. Your soul just doesn’t know that yet.”

“The hell does that mean?” they asked, and made him laugh again. This Sentry, this guide to the dead, laughed so easily.

That sweet, unguarded laugh had made them fall before, so many lifetimes ago. And in their lives some part of them always wanted it, without knowing what they were wanting. Sometimes they could almosthear it, like an ear straining for notes of music just a little too far away. Hadn’t Bowie just told someone that they knew there was more to life than life? Now, here, where they remembered everything, they knew why.

“It means,” he said, “in a moment you’ll go back to your current life. And you’ll forget you were here—for a long time, I hope. You’ll have a full life, and you’ll come back to tell me about it, just like you always do.”

“Yeah,” said Bowie, softly. But then anger fizzled in their chest, or whatever spiritual construct they had that sure felt like a chest. “Yeah.” This time their voice was bitter. “And we’ll have a little time together, and then it happens again. I’m born again and I forget you.”

He set down the lantern, came closer, and caught Bowie’s hand in his. His was cool, as everything was here, without the warmth of life, but it felt solid in the way nothing else did.

Bowie spent each lifetime missing that solidity. Missing that laugh. Missing that earnest affection. They never knew what they were missing, just that they were. They lived wrapped in loneliness and absence, a vague feeling that something else was there, if they could only find it.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, and reached with one hand to brush his fingers over their cheek. “Don’t be upset. It’s always your choice, to be reborn—”

“Because it’s the only way to see you again!” they wailed, and clung to his hand. “You don’t know how lonely it is, to live like this, over and over again. And this life has been so much worse, somehow. I’ve been so alone, and so sure that there’s something else there and I could never know what. And you! How do you stand it?”

“By knowing that every so often,” he said, voice soft, “I get a little time with you again.” He brought their hand to his lips, brushed a kiss over their knuckles that felt like the touch of smoke and nothing more. “And that’s worth all the waiting.”

Behind Bowie came the sound of a voice, one they knew. A voice yelling in fear, in worry.

“There it is,” he said softly. “It was nice to have extra time with you. A second or two in your time, a few beautiful minutes here at the gates. But you have to go.”

“No,” Bowie said sharply. They gripped his hand harder, ignoring Hector’s panic behind them. “No. I’m not doing this again. I’m not forgetting you again, Zed. I can’t.”

“Sweetheart, you have to go,” he said softly. His was the urgent, certain voice of a loving guide, one who had escorted billions of souls to the afterlife, and fallen for exactly one of them.

But even as he spoke with a gentle certainty, his hand did not let go of theirs.

“No mortal can stay here long. If you could…but you can’t. And it’s too soon for you to die in this life, Bowie.” He looked over his shoulder at the row of gates behind him. “I’ll lead you again to a gate, to another life if you choose it, or an afterlife if you are tired of what we have. But it’s too soon.”

“A gate to an afterlife where I’d never see you!” Their voice rang through the fog, cracked with despair. “Or a gate to a new life where I’ll forget you. No.”

His eyes were soft. Maybe nothing here had true form, but they were gleaming with grief, gleaming as he tried to impress them with the gravity of the situation. “You can’t stay,” he said again. Steady, responsible. But they could hear a tremble in his voice, too. They weren’t even sure he noticed it. “You know that. This place can’t hold mortal souls.”

“No, I can’t stay.” It was true. But then they looked down at their joined hands, and through the despair, a thought began to bloom. “But if you can lead me through those gates…” They looked speculatively behind Zed. At the lantern he’d left behind to touch them, casting its light on the nearest gate, on Munkustrap’s fluffy tail as he prowled through the fog. At the gates spreading either way and into forever.

That was what he did, why he was created. A Sentry, a psychopomp, a spirit to lead someone through death. His whole purpose, over and over, to touch a soul briefly and then let them go.

All except Bowie’s. Because the first time they had met, lifetimes ago, they had spoken. They had lingered. For minutes or days or years was hard to say, because time was hard to judge here. Neither had wanted to let go. For the first time, Zed had not wanted to let go.

But mortal human souls were not meant to linger, not here. They couldn’t. This not-world of thick fog was not built for them. The Place Between was temporary: a passage, not a home, not designed to hold all the richness of the human soul for long. Only the Sentries, created for this space, could remain within it. Sooner or later, a mortal had to pick one of the thousands of gates before them, towards reincarnation or an eternal afterlife. Even that first time, Bowie had felt a pull to move on, a pull that eventually could not be ignored, not even for Zed.

But Bowie could, that first time, choose to start a new life, knowing that Zed would be waiting for them at the end of it. And so they had always chosen, at the end of every lifetime. Willing to go through loneliness, again and again, for a few stolen, uncountable moments with someone who loved them completely and without reservation.

Someone they loved the same way.

“If you and the other Sentries can lead me through those gates,” Bowie said, slowly, “why can’t I lead you to mine?”

Zed raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Bowie looked at him for a long moment, peering at his familiar, forgotten face. “You’ve always liked mortals,” they said, slowly. “You’ve always found them fascinating.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, but he almost seemed distracted. Or maybe his voice was just being drowned out, because the sounds behind Bowie were getting louder. Another pull they couldn’t ignore, this time back towards life. “Sweetheart, you have to go.”

“Yes, I do,” they said. “But maybe…maybe you can go with me.”

“Go with you?” Zed looked at Bowie, then over his shoulder at the lantern, and back. His eyes were wide. “Go with you.”

There was silence for a moment. He frowned, tilted his head one way, then another, as if weighing something within it. His hand still held fast to theirs.

And he nodded, once. He didn’t say it out loud. Perhaps he didn’t dare. But he agreed, and did not let them go. Not this time. And in his touch Bowie could feel it, too. The same loneliness that they had felt, the same sense of waiting that Bowie had felt all their life. He never admitted that loneliness to Bowie, perhaps not wanting to sway them, but they could feel it now.

Zed, at least, had known exactly what he’d been waiting for, and Bowie had not. But it didn’t matter. Not now. Not this time.

Bowie took a step backward, further away from the lantern and the gates, and then another, into the voices of the life they hadn’t left behind.

-

Zed is a psychopomp, one of the Sentries created to guide mortals to their afterlife. Long ago, he fell in love with one. Since then, that mortal has chosen reincarnation, over and over, so that the two can be together at the end of every lifetime. The mortal forgets when they live, but always remembers once they see Zed again, for those glorious moments when they can be together—until they have to part again.

Bowie is an ordinary human. They’re preoccupied by their insecure retail job, their indifferent parents, and a lifetime of moving from place to place. They have no real knowledge of the afterlife, psychopomps, or anything else.

Until an accident sends them briefly to the Place Between where Zed is there to greet them. When they return to their life, Zed comes along…but as always when they’re alive, Bowie doesn’t remember him.

Now Bowie has to contend with a death-sensing hospital cat, confusingly spiritual friends, and the newly embodied man who loves them. On top of all that, they’re still worried about work.

And a Sentry abandoning his post may have consequences.

Death’s Embrace is an NBi/M paranormal romance novel that involves grief, joy, love, sex, and really alarming amounts of macaroni. It’s the first in a series of connected standalone stories, each with a guaranteed HEA.

Info

This story is one I’ve had in mind for a few years but wasn’t quite ready to be written. But finally it all sort of coalesced and knew exactly the book it wanted to be. I’m really proud to bring it to life and to introduce everyone to Zed, Bowie, the cats, and their friends.

As I wrote it, I met a few side characters whose stories also wanted to be told, so it seems I am embarking on a series.

The ebook is available for pre-order at all my usual haunts except for Amazon and Ko-Fi, and it will be available everywhere 4/29/26. (The paperback should be available then, too, although at this point I can’t make promises.) And, of course, Patrons get free copies of each of my ebooks, as well as access to a private discord server and other perks!

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