This fucking guy.
For about the twentieth time, I’m overcome with the urge to jump the desk between us and strangle the life out of the pale bastard on the other side. And pale, he very much is. Like some kind of vampire knockoff, the man, Mohsen, is marble white. Baby powder white even. He looks like a successful comic convention goer, or maybe someone who splurged on all the high-end Halloween costume accessories. His piercing red eyes and notably sharp fangs really hammer home the whole sunlight-allergy, garlic-hating look.
Deirdre, from her well-worn wooden chair, grits her teeth and tries once again to facilitate our communication.
“We don’t need anyone’s help to fund it, and we don’t need your loan. We’re offering a partnership in shipping the proceeds."
This conversation is still not going well, of course. Through no fault of her own, everything has gone downhill since it started. Deirdre is blameless. Hell, Deirdre is a saint for her restraint. Their back and forth trying to sort out any kind of deal for our projects has been a rollercoaster of fuckery. Mohsen, for whatever reason, rambles off unintelligently every time Deirdre suggests any sort of arrangement.
Is being a smarmy weasel a demi-human vampire trait, or just a him thing?
“Yes, well, if you didn’t need me, then you wouldn’t be here, would you sweetheart?” The pretentious man oozes his accusation with the same disgusting sliminess as his slicked-back black, greasy hair.
At my sides, my hands involuntarily clench into fists once again.
This. Fucking. Guy.
Deirdre holds herself together, rage locked behind her blank stare, her only tell being her near-complete stillness.
“If Tack and Trade wants any part of our soon-to-be influx of materials, then meet us halfway. Surely you can see how this could be beneficial for both of us-"
Mohsen interrupts her, anger behind his words damn near close to spraying spittle. “Don’t presume to know what is beneficial to me. If I deign to offer you so much as a cart rental, you should thank your lucky stars for it. I am the chosen representative of this town, and I know damn well the value of-”
Wait. Representative?
I can't stand it. Not a single second more of it. I’m on my feet, incandescent, and seething.
“Representative!” I cry, my pitch reaching as high as the ceiling. “You’re not even the guy?"
“Sit down you uncouth sot,” Mohsen bellows, still lounging in his stupid leather recliner chair.
“No!” I blurt immediately.
Seriously, fuck this guy.
“What do you mean, representative? Is Tack and Trade not even yours? Why the fuck are we even talking to you?”
“I am Waldonton’s chosen representative, and you will-”
“Nope. I’m not doing it; fuck this.” Turning my back, I’m halfway to the door when Liv and Deirdre start speaking over each other. If it’s to try and get my attention or to say something to the living sack of useless flesh named Dorian Mohsen, it doesn’t matter because I’m out the door and letting it swing back shut in seconds.
Boiling with repressed distaste and anger towards every little thing that's always cropping up to make life miserable, I stumble to try breathing through the emotions. Suddenly, I’m struck with the clarity that maybe I need to take up yoga or meditation some time soon. Ahead, the sight of the gormless receptionist standing behind her little counter gives me a quick idea.
Reigning in the sparks of anger, since this poor woman doesn’t deserve any of it, I manage to grit out an unsubtle accusation.
“He,” I say, pointing back towards the door. “Isn’t in charge of Tack and Trade?"
The receptionist replies quickly, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. “Um, Mr. Mohsen is the chosen representative of the Waldonton branch of Tack and Trade-.”
With urgency boarding on mania, I quickly reply, “Right right right, but who is actually in charge? And where can I find them?”
Again, the receptionist mumbles through a response that sounds more practiced than thought out. “Tack and Trade operates out of Appenzell, Klaipeda, Montpellier, Waldonton and is headquartered in Delcaster.”
My eyes plead with her to continue. My question was who is in charge, because it’s not the smarmy idiot in the room behind me. As the receptionist opens her mouth to answer, that very same door creaks open.
Her mousy words are nearly drowned out by footsteps behind me, which land heavy and most likely belong to Liv. “The Tack and Trade company is owned by Ms. Garnier…”
“In Delcaster?” I snap back.
“Yes?” She asks as a question instead of an answer, looking frightful.
“Okay. Thank you.” I manage, filled with relief to hear something sensible for once.
He isn't even the guy! Why then did we just spend so many precious moments of our lives trying to talk to the idiot?
Taking another deep breath, I try desperately to calm down. Deirdre, now beside me, looks quite peeved. Our eyes lock briefly, and then she makes for the exit, clearly wishing for me to follow. Our party leaves, dirt and gravel crunching underfoot as we march back across the expansive lot that makes up the vast space for loading and unloading the various vehicles that pass through here. Nobody says anything, not even Liv, who is likely dying to crack some form of joke. What a waste of time this stupid place was!
When we’re a block away and secreted into a narrow alley, my halfling companion rounds on me, hands on hips, lips taut.
Oh, she's very mad.
Like a parent scolding a child, her tone comes out as incensed. “What was that?”
“We don’t need him,” I counter. Our list this evening had three viable candidates for someone on the council to work with, and this guy is just some flunky. Nothing lost in my estimation.
“You antagonized him for no reason,” she says, still scolding me.
Deirdre isn’t necessarily wrong. The cool evening air, the short walk to cool my head. In retrospect, should we have ditched the guy more tactfully? Maybe, but fuck that guy. He was literally the worst.
Deirdre’s stare, the wide, deep-penetrating kind she only uses for specific effects, drills into me until I look away. Her green eyes always convey such depth, like she’s got this whole storm locked up behind them.
Still looking away, softer this time, I croak out, "Well, he started it; he spent half an hour insulting you, us, our ideas, and every other tiny little thing.”
Liv pipes up. “He did, but now we’re on his shit list and his radar, which just adds to our problems.” She doesn't look angry, disappointed, or anything like that. Just tired. We all do.
Damn it all. I really did mess it up, didn't I?
“Look, I’m sorry. I couldn’t stand it.” Under my breath, I also add. “I’m not cut out for all this ass kissing."
Earth had simple rules. Keep your mouth shut and your head down. The corporate world had its fair share of assholes I had to put up with from time to time, but nothing like this. Being in this town means there is a thumb pressing down, controlling things in an inescapable way I can’t ignore in the same capacity I could before. That guy. That idiot is one of the seven people in charge of this town? When Deirdre told him we were going to be hauling in a large number of Monster corpses on a regular basis, he asked if we got lost on our way to meet with a butcher.
Lost on our way to meet with a butcher. Ugh. Fuck that guy so hard.
No wonder there were stories of people absolutely losing it at PTA meetings or at their homeowner associations. When you really have to live with the breadth and scope of some idiot lording over you, things get unbearable very quickly.
“It's fine, Evelyn, but we’re going to have to try those other two council members, and we can’t afford to make them all angry at us, or your mission to help people by pushing paper isn’t going to work now is it?
Pushing paper? Must be thing from Deirdre’s time.
Before I can tell Deirdre that ‘yes I understand’ and ‘yes I’ll be very good next time' and 'yes I'm very sorry’ it occurs to me that we don’t strictly speaking have to secure some kind of partnership with the other two council members.
"Or,” I drawl out, “we could just go over his head. This isn’t even his company; he’s just a lackey, and an incompetent one at that. We could make the same offer to his boss.”
Liv and Deirdre don’t look totally convinced, but I start talking anyway. While I prattle on about the merits of middle management backstabbing, we wind our way through the town streets.
Unswayed, Deirdre is quick to poke holes in the quickly pitched new idea. “And what's to stop this lady, Ms. Garnier, from turning us down in the same fashion?”
The idea to approach Mohsen was simple: he'd be right here to see us building the outpost; we just needed his backing to get a deal on trading forward our goods. Our proximity was our guarantee. For his boss, Ms. Garnier, that tactic would be even less impressive. He was a stupid moron for not giving us the time of day since our plan is a slam dunk for all parties, but this Ms. Garnier might need more assurances. Fine, then, let's give her all the assurances and stick it to Mohsen.
“We start the thing. We just get it built and start networking with other Hunters before trying for any sort of deal.”
After navigating the streets, our collective meandering has led us to a crossing just by Deirdre’s place. Had that been intentional on their part? I was just following them. Huh, funny that.
“We’d have to leave town. Which we can’t do, or were you planning to go to Delcaster on your own?” asks Deirdre.
Once more, our little group has drawn in tight, our hushed conversation for our ears only.
“There will be other Hunters by the forest's edge to take out Monsters heading towards town,” I explain, hoping that it will mollify the ever reluctant to deviate halfling. By her glare, I take it that she isn’t swayed.
“It won’t take us that long to come back,” I answer, trying again.
“Evelyn. We can’t.” Her determination is clear and unwavering. She is still completely hung up on her ideas about direct intervention. I was hoping that maybe she was starting to soften on her stances, but since the first time we spoke, this was her self-proclaimed hill to die on, and making her budge from it is like pulling teeth.
With every ounce of sincerity I can muster, bearing my earnest and honest hopes, I try again to plead with her. “Have I steered you wrong before? We have to do this less-than-optimal thing now to make the changes that will actually help the town in the future. Come on, Deirdre, please? Trust me?”
Liv’s gaze flicks between us. My feet shuffle in the dirt. Deirdre stares, conflict behind her eyes. After maybe thirty tense seconds of silence, her shoulder slumps, and she lets out a great big exhale.
“Fine.”
***
After a short chat to plan out tomorrow and organize a few things, Liv gives her goodnight and takes her leave.
Deirdre and I don’t stay long ourselves; there's no need to. Instead of sending me off on my own, though, I’m dragged by the wrist towards her place.
“Hey, did you lead us here?” I ask, curious about how we ended up right by her place to begin with.
“What?” She responds, dumbfounded.
“Like, we left the stupid Tack and Trade building and ended up here. Felt like an autopilot warping sort of situation.” I remark offhandedly.
"What?” she responds again, even more dumbfounded this time.
“Forget it,” I mumble, going right back to pondering if one of us led us to Deirdre’s, or if we collectively did it, or if there is even a difference.
Inside Deirdre’s place, as we ditch our gear and make ourselves comfortable, I replay the disastrous meeting on repeat in my mind.
“Man, that stupid guy am I right?” I say, sitting in one of Deirdre’s chairs as she finishes combing out her frizzy hair.
“I’m getting a bucket.” She replies, leaving the room quickly.
As she returns, the soap comes out, and she makes a second pass at what our afternoon scrubdown didn’t take care of.
“It’s like, what are you even saying? What a loser! How did he even get promoted to that position? Must be a nepo-baby.” I ramble on.
Deirdre busies herself around putting things away while I explain to her the words I should have said to the guy to counter his idiotic arguments.
During a particularly spicy rant, I look over and see the fiery halfling standing next to me with her hands on her hips.
“What?” I ask.
“Stop talking.” She says, glaring down at me. While I’m sitting down, she has the height advantage over me; it’s a strange reversal.
"Huh, I was just-”
“Nu uh. Shut it.” She says with finality.
I open my mouth to ask something, not sure what, but a firm hand clamps onto my chin, quickly silencing me. Deirdre's fingers press into my cheeks as her grip tightens. Now even closer, her eyes bore into me sternly.
“No.” She adds.
“But-”
“Nu ah ah. Shhhh.” Deirdre whispers in a hush. “You think tonight was stressful for you, huh? Who picked our path to and from the forest today? Who chose every step along the forest’s edge for six hours? Who killed and butchered three different Monsters? Who carried a whole damn corpse back to town? Who elbowed her way through a scrum to get a fruitless word in with a fickle merchant? Who sat there in front of a councilor and tried to cut a deal despite being demeaned and insulted with every second word?”
Her eyes, sparking green, continue to show their great recesses. If I wasn’t literally forced to look back at her, I’d flinch away at their intensity.
“You did?” I say, lips parting like a fish, still caught between Deirdre fingers.
After moments of what looks like internal debate, something in the air shifts. Deirdre leans in closer. Her vexation melts into something else—something different.
Huh?
Even as much as she labors with them, her hands are soft and damnably warm. If I tried to struggle free, could I even do it? The difference in our strength is pretty vast. Relatively speaking, stuck as I am, I’m completely at her mercy.
Deirdre’s muscles are hard-earned from practical exercise. Certainly, on examination, I don’t have a hope of overpowering her. Above me, she continues to hold me in place, ruminating on whatever to do with me next. The understanding that I couldn’t free myself if I even tried sends a slight thrill down my spine.
So strong. So fiery. I swallow, my throat suddenly feeling too dry. Tension builds in the room, but I don’t move, afraid to upset whatever balance there is. Instead, I wait to be handled, which delights me to no end.
“I think… we can make better use of this mouth other than complaining, hmm?”
Deirdre’s palm rotates, thumb and pinky still extensively holding me still, but middle and pointer fingers pressing lightly against my lips.
Oh.
“Open.” She says with a clear and definite smirk now resting on her face. I do as she tells me, and I open my mouth.
Two fingers push forward and press down on the tip of my tongue. Deirdre worms them further still, pressing them forward until my lips are flush against their base.
“Suck.” She commands absently, sounding very much not like a woman with her fingers inside of another woman’s mouth.
Funnily enough. This isn’t even a first for me, so I lean into the bizarre feeling of her digits invading my mouth. With my tongue lapping at them, I lick lazy circuits coating her fingers and yieldingly mighty to what she really wants. Gazing ever up, I show her just how willing I am to do what she tells me to. This is about control. Or, at least in my experience, this is what a woman like Deirdre is getting out of this.
Actually, I muse while I give her fingers a great wet suck. We haven't exactly discussed the topic in depth—our dynamics, I mean. She comes off as a certain type, but that might not mean anything. Enthusiastically, I continue to lather her digits as directed, giving them devout attention. Above me, Deirdre looks enraptured by it.
Eventually she withdraws her fingers, with different sorts of ideas clearly more pressing on her mind. She holds up her digits to examine them, and all the while her expression flickers between amusement, disgust, and confusion. For my part, I give her a great big smile.
Absent of anything else to do and led completely astray this evening, there is little else for me to do but play my part. I can’t possibly be blamed for what happens next; she started it after all. What would appease my lovely girlfriend after such a long and tiring day?
I slide from my chair, dropping gently down in front of Deirdre onto my knees. In answer to her original remark ‘making better use of this mouth', teasing or not, I nod enthusiastically up at her that yes, absolutely, we can.
Her tongue peaks out for just a moment, long enough to swipe across her lips, betraying whatever battery of thoughts she’s wrestling with. For fear I’ve misjudged the moment, I leave anything more to her and wait patiently, thanking my luck for annoying Deirdre into this wonderful situation.
