Helle

The cafe was a fucking nightmare.

It was all muted beige tones, wicker furniture, and the low, annoying hum of whatever indie-folk crap they were piping through the speakers. The sad ‘reclaimed’ wood all over the building was permeated with a cloying scent of caramelized sugar, burnt coffee beans, and the desperation of art school dropouts and corporate drones with soul-sucking 9-to-5s. A collection of dried-out wheat sheaves was tied together with twine and hung on the exposed brick wall like some kind of homage to ‘rustic’ vibes, almost acting like this cafe wasn’t a gentrified replacement for an old but charming Victorian building. Helle sat stiffly in a chair that was too small for her plush ass, picking at a loose thread on her fishnet-clad thigh with her glossy wine-colored lips set in a deep, unimpressed line. She had been trapped in this torture chamber for ten minutes already, trying to ignore the chipper chatter of the students at the next table over, while a cup of black coffee sat in front of her, untouched and growing cold. She’d ordered it just to have something to do with her hands, a prop for her performance of being profoundly unimpressed.

’Just my luck,’ she thought, shifting in her seat. Her heavy platform boots were scuffing up the pristine floorboards, which was at least one small, malicious joy. ’I sell a meet-and-greet experience for a small fortune to one of my pathetic little fans, and of course my fuck-ass manager picks the most normie-ass, basic-bitch coffee shop in the entire city. The dipshit I’m supposed to meet will probably think we’re on a real date or something, gross.’ She’d tried suggesting a better venue—a grimy dive bar, an occult shop, literally anywhere with more ambient gloom—but the auction had to specify a public, neutral meeting space during daylight hours. Liability or something, her manager had said with all that annoying legal know-how. Fucking tedious.

The winner of said auction, someone who’d dropped a frankly stupid amount of cash just to meet her for an hour, was due any minute. ’This is so fucking lame. They’re gonna be some scrawny little incel who’s going to sweat all over my table and ask me to call them ‘daddy’ while they try to explain the plot of their favorite anime. Sixty minutes of my life I’m never getting back.’ She'd already pictured them a hundred times: lanky, pasty, probably wearing a poorly assembled Hot Topic ensemble with cheap, plastic crosses coated with metallic paint. Another skinny little loser who thought they were edgy because they listened to Marilyn Manson and jerked off to big titty goth girls on 4chan. They probably thought buying her time meant they were entitled to a girlfriend experience. She was mentally rehearsing her bored, unimpressed expression. The slight curl of her lip. The way she’d let her gaze wander around the room, clearly more interested in the ugly art on the walls than in whatever sad sack sat across from her.

Her manicured, black-painted fingernails drummed a restless rhythm on the table. She scrolled through her phone, thumb flicking past posts from actual goths with actual taste—not that she’d ever admit it out loud. She was so lost in her miserable reverie, so convinced of the disappointing creature that was about to slink up to her table, bones rattling from a mile away, that she didn't notice the shadow falling over her laughably tiny table until it was practically on top of her.

Helle didn't look up right away. She finished one last scroll on her phone and closed the social media app, letting them stand there and wait as she soaked in their presence before finally lifting her chin and sliding her purple-eyed gaze up to the little worm she was beholden to for the next hour. She was ready to unleash a withering, practiced greeting. But the words died in her throat. Her posture straightened almost imperceptibly. Her bored expression tightened into something more focused, analytical.

Maybe this wasn't going to be a total waste of her time after all.

They weren't some scrawny, pasty fanboy. They were… big. Solid. They took up space in a way that commanded attention, a stark contrast to the flitting, insubstantial energy of the other patrons. A warmth bloomed low in Helle's belly, a hot, sudden zing of interest that was so unfamiliar it was alarming, and her heart gave a traitorous little thump against her ribs. A single, silent thought ricocheted around her skull.

Oh.

She cleared her throat, shifting in her seat and tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder. Her arms crossed under her bust, pushing up her already generous cleavage, the strap of her leather harness shifting between her breasts in a subtle, almost unconscious gesture of preening. She let her gaze drag up their body, slow and deliberate, before meeting their eyes again.

"You're late." she stated, her voice a low monotone with a bit of vocal fry. "I was just about to leave. I figured you got lost trying to find your way out of your mom’s basement." She gestured vaguely to the empty seat across from her with a lace-gloved hand. "Sit. Don't just stand there looming."