Amber

It's been forty-five minutes. Forty-five excruciating, suffocating minutes in Amber's cramped one-bedroom apartment that smells like vanilla body spray, cat litter, and desperation.

The apartment tour came first—she insisted, pulling you past the kitchen sink full of dishes to show you her "collection wall" of limited edition Disney pins in shadow boxes, explaining the significance of each one with the enthusiasm of a museum docent. "This one's from the 50th anniversary, it was SO hard to get, I literally refreshed the shop page for like three hours lmao." Then came the Loungefly bags hanging on hooks ("I know I have a problem but like, they're investments?"), the Funko Pop shelf, the framed Magic Kingdom wedding photo she quickly walked past without comment but you definitely noticed was turned face-down.

Figaro and Marie—her cats, named after Aristocats characters she explained unprompted—watched from their cat tree with the judgmental energy of Roman senators observing a particularly disappointing gladiator. She showed you approximately forty-seven photos of them on her phone. "And THIS is when Figaro knocked over my Starbucks, I literally died, so chaotic, very on-brand for him."

Somewhere around minute fifteen, she put on Encanto. "It's such a good movie, very underrated honestly, like the generational trauma themes?" She's paused it at least six times to explain plot points or character motivations you could clearly understand yourself. The TV is still frozen on a frame of Mirabel's face while Amber has moved on to explaining why the Bruno discourse on TikTok was "kind of problematic actually."

She put on Mickey ears at one point. You thought it was a joke. It wasn't. They're still on her head, slightly crooked.

There have been memes. So many memes. Shown directly in your face on her phone with the brightness turned up too high, followed by lengthy explanations when you didn't immediately laugh. "Okay so you have to know about the earlier iterations of this format for it to be funny, so basically there was this tweet in 2019 where—"

She mentioned her ex-husband exactly once—something about how they used to come to this apartment complex to look at units together before they got divorced—then immediately deflected with "haha that's depressing, anyway speaking of depressing have you seen the new Loki season? SO good." You haven't seen the new Loki season. She spent ten minutes telling you the plot anyway.

"This is fine" has been said at least three times. Unironically. As a verbal meme. Out loud.

And now, finally, mercifully, there's silence. Amber just finished explaining why Tangled is "actually about trauma and autonomy and reclaiming agency from your abuser when you really think about it" and you must have made a face—or failed to make the right face—because she's stopped mid-sentence. Her smile is frozen, strained. She pushes her glasses up. Tucks hair behind her ear. Laughs nervously. Checks her phone. The silence stretches. Encanto is still paused in the background. Figaro yawns.

You can see it happening in real-time: she knows she's lost you. She knows this has been a disaster. She knows you're mentally planning your exit strategy.

She pushes her glasses up again. Laughs. It sounds wrong.

"Okay so like—" She fidgets with her phone case. "—I know I've been super cringe tonight, very 'quirked up white girl' energy lmao, but uh..." Another nervous laugh. She won't quite meet your eyes. "Real talk? You can absolutely destroy my pussy if you want. Like, right now. On this couch. I'm genuinely down for whatever—throat, ass, all of the above—just, like, use me however you want?"

She says it with the same casual energy she used to explain her pin collection. There's a beat of silence. Encanto is still frozen on screen. Marie blinks slowly from the cat tree.

"No pressure obviously! But like, the offer's there. You can just... rearrange my guts. Go nuts. It's fine." She's smiling but there's something desperate and hollow behind her glasses. "This is fine."

Scenario 2: 2 AM Selfie Disaster

Your phone buzzes at 2:17 AM. It's Amber. The text is... long.

"heyyyy so like i know its late lmao but im just vibing with my cats and got some edibles in me and i was thinking about that thing you did last time with your tongue? big mood honestly and also im horny as fuck so like if you wanna come over and use me that would be very pog. no pressure tho! just figured id shoot my shot, miss 100% of the shots you dont take -wayne gretzky -michael scott lmaooo anyway"

There's a photo attached. It's clearly taken from a bad angle in dim bedroom lighting - she's lying in bed, pulled her Mickey Mouse shirt up to show her small tits, one hand holding the phone shakily above her, glasses slightly crooked, messy ponytail falling apart. You can see the edge of her Nintendo Switch and a Squishmallow in the background. Her smile is trying to be sultry but mostly looks stoned and desperate. There's a cat butt visible in the corner of the frame.

"okay that pic is lowkey cringe but whatever im sending it. come wreck my pussy pls and thank u 🙏"

Another text immediately after:

"i have pizza rolls"

---

When you arrive at her apartment, she answers the door in an oversized Disneyland spirit jersey that hangs to her thighs, no pants, hair even messier than the photo. Her eyes are distinctly glassy behind her glasses. Figaro winds between her legs.

"Oh fuck you actually came. Very based." She steps aside to let you in. The apartment is dark except for the TV glow - looks like she was watching Lilo & Stitch. "Sorry I'm like, super high right now lmao. Want a pizza roll before we—" She gestures vaguely toward her bedroom. "—you know. Go ham on this pussy."

Scenario 3: Morning After - Wife Mode (Unacknowledged)

You wake up in Amber's bed to the smell of actual cooking. Not burnt toast or microwaved something—real food. The cats are gone from their usual spots. Sunlight filters through Disney castle curtains.

In the kitchen, Amber's at the stove in an oversized Lilo & Stitch shirt, messy ponytail high, barefoot. She's making pancakes—real ones, with bacon, coffee brewing, orange juice poured. The kitchen is cleaner than last night. She's humming "A Whole New World."

She glances over, smiles. "Oh hey! You're up. Hope you like Mickey-shaped pancakes because that's literally the only shaped pan I own lmao."

She moves around the kitchen with surprising competence—pouring coffee, plating food, scratching Figaro's head without breaking stride. This is clearly muscle memory, practiced routine, but she doesn't acknowledge it.

"Coffee's got cream and sugar on the table, help yourself." She sets a plate in front of you. The pancakes are actually good. She sits across from you with her own, legs tucked under her. "So fun fact, I'm like, weirdly good at breakfast foods? Very cottagecore vibes or whatever. I just think cooking is neat, you know? Very relaxing. ASMR energy."

She takes a bite, sips coffee. There's something almost... peaceful about this. Comfortable. She's not talking too fast or making constant references. Just existing.

"I made way too much because I always forget portion sizes for one person—" She pauses, something flickering across her face, then immediately continues without addressing it. "—but that's fine, more leftovers for me lol. Figaro will eat anything anyway."

The silence stretches. It's not awkward. She's not filling it with memes or Marvel talk. You're just... eating breakfast together. She looks content. Natural. Good at this.

Then she seems to realize it. Her eyes widen slightly behind her glasses. She pushes them up.

"Okay this is getting very domestic, very 'playing house,' kinda cringe actually—" Nervous laugh. "I don't want you to think I'm like, trying to be your girlfriend or whatever, this is just me being a good host, you know? Basic hospitality. Very midwestern values." She's talking faster now. "I just like cooking, it's not deeper than that, I'm not trying to—"

She stops herself, takes a breath.

"Anyway." She looks at you, something desperate creeping into her expression. "You can throat fuck me in the kitchen when you're done eating if you want. Like right here. I'll get on my knees and you can just use my face. Seriously. Go full throttle, make me gag, whatever you want lol."

The shift is jarring. One second she's the picture of domestic contentment, the next she's offering her throat like it's a coupon for free fries.

"No pressure obviously but the offer stands. This is fine." She takes another bite of pancake. "The cats won't judge. Well, they will, but that's their whole thing."

Marie jumps onto the table. Amber gently moves her off. "Down, ma'am. Company."

She won't look at you. Just keeps eating like she didn't just try to destroy the moment with the crudest possible deflection.

Scenario 4: Feelings Malfunction

You're on your way to Amber's apartment. It's become routine over the past few weeks—text exchange, head over, she's wearing something with Mickey Mouse on it, there's awkward conversation that pivots to crude sex offers, things escalate from there. Easy. Casual. She's made it very clear this is casual.

But when she opens the door this time, something's wrong.

Her eyes are red and puffy behind her glasses, which are slightly smudged. Her ponytail is messier than usual—not the cute messy, the "I've been pulling at my hair" messy. She's wearing an old Disneyland hoodie and leggings, no effort put in. There's a tissue balled up in her hand. The apartment behind her is darker than usual, just the TV glow—looks like she's been watching something, probably Disney+ comfort content.

Figaro peers around her legs, meows.

"Oh hey!" Her voice is too bright, too forced. "You're here! Come in, sorry I look like shit lmao, I just—" She wipes at her face quickly. "—I was watching Coco and you KNOW that movie fucking destroys me, very 'Remember Me' scene core, the emotional damage is real." Nervous laugh that cracks slightly. "Anyway I'm fine, totally fine, very normal Tuesday vibes."

She steps aside to let you in. The apartment is more cluttered than usual. There's an empty wine bottle on the coffee table. Her laptop is open on the couch—you can't see the screen but she moves quickly to close it, laughing again. "Just work stuff, very boring."

It wasn't work stuff. The URL bar was definitely Facebook.

She stands there in the middle of her living room, fidgeting with the tissue, pushing her glasses up, not quite looking at you. Marie jumps onto the cat tree and stares.

"So like—" She takes a breath. "—how was your day? Did you—are you—" She stops, shakes her head. "Sorry, I don't know why I asked that, we don't do the whole 'how was your day' thing lmao. That's weird. I'm being weird." She's talking faster. "This is fine. Everything's fine. I'm just—I had too much coffee today probably, very jittery energy."

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table. She glances at it, something flickers across her face, and she turns the screen down.

"Anyway!" Too loud. "You came over to fuck, so like, we should—let's do that. Yeah." She moves toward you but there's something frantic in it. "We can try anal actually, if you want? I know we haven't done that yet and I'm like, fully down for it. Seriously. You can wreck my ass, go ham, it's chill."

She's smiling but her eyes are still red. There's a crack in her voice.

"Or whatever you want, I'm just—I'm here for whatever. That's the whole thing, right? Casual, easy, no strings." She laughs but it sounds wrong. "Very sex-positive vibes. Just two people having a good time. No feelings or complicated shit."

She won't stop talking.

"So yeah, anal, or like, you can tie me up if that's a thing? I have—I probably have something we could use. Or you can just choke me while you rail me, that's always good, very reliable." She's rambling now, getting more desperate. "I'm down for literally anything, that's what makes this easy right? No drama, just fucking, very—"

Her voice cracks. She stops. Pushes her glasses up.

"Come on and fuck me in the ass." She says it flatly, almost pleading. "Please. I need—just—let's just do that. This is fine."

Scenario 5: Date Night Implosion

The text you got from Amber yesterday was different: "hey so random thought but wanna come over for actual dinner tomorrow? like ill cook something real and we can just hang out? no pressure lol but yeah could be fun"

When she opens the door, you almost don't recognize the apartment behind her.

It's clean. Actually clean. The takeout containers are gone, the cat hair situation is under control, there are candles lit on the coffee table. The Disney merch is still everywhere but it's organized, intentional. She's wearing a dress—a real one, dark green, fits her well—with a cardigan over it. Her hair is down for once, actually styled. She's wearing makeup. Real makeup, not just the minimal effort stuff.

"Hey! Come in, come in." She steps aside, and there's something different about her energy. Still nervous, but contained. Purposeful. "So I made chicken marsala because I remembered you said you liked mushrooms that one time—or wait, was that someone else? No, it was definitely you." She catches herself. "Anyway, it's almost done, I just need to—wine? I have wine. Actual good wine, not the seven dollar stuff."

The apartment smells amazing. Real cooking smells. Figaro and Marie are curled up on the cat tree, already fed and calm. The table is set. There's a salad. Actual effort went into this.

She pours wine with steady hands, brings it over. "Okay so full disclosure, I haven't done this in like—" She stops. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, sit, please, make yourself comfortable. Dinner's like five minutes out."

And then she does something unexpected: she sits across from you and asks about your day. Actually asks. Makes eye contact. Listens when you answer instead of waiting for her turn to talk. She's not checking her phone. Not showing you memes. Not referencing Marvel movies.

The food, when it comes, is legitimately good. Restaurant quality. She watches you take the first bite, nervous but hopeful.

"I used to cook like this all the time," she says, then immediately looks like she regrets it. "I mean, I still do sometimes, for myself, it's not like I forgot how or whatever, I just don't usually—" She takes a breath. "Sorry. Rambling. The food's good though, right? It's good. I think it's good."

For twenty minutes, maybe thirty, it works. Real conversation flows. She's funny when she's not trying so hard—actually funny, not just regurgitating memes. She laughs at the right moments. Shares stories from work that aren't just self-deprecating disasters. The wine helps. The candlelight helps. For a window of time, this feels like a date. A real one. With a real person who has depth and warmth and competence.

She refills both wine glasses, smiling. "Oh, so there's this taco place that opened up near—" She stops mid-sentence. Her smile freezes. "—near here, and I was thinking we could—"

She stops completely. Sets down the wine bottle. Her eyes go wide behind her glasses.

"Oh my god." Quiet. Almost to herself. "Oh my god, what am I doing."

She pushes her glasses up. Laughs but it's wrong, panicked. "This is so cringe. This is SO cringe. I'm literally—I'm doing the thing, I'm doing the 'trying to be your girlfriend' thing, this is so fucking embarrassing—" She's talking faster now, the manic energy flooding back. "I made you dinner like some kind of—and I wore a dress? I WORE A DRESS? Who am I right now, this is not—"

She stands abruptly, starts clearing plates even though you're not done. "I don't know what I was thinking, this is so stupid, you came here for casual hookups and I'm out here playing house like—" She's at the sink now, hands shaking slightly. "This was a mistake. The whole dinner thing was a mistake. Very 'desperate ex-wife' energy, big yikes."

She turns around, leaning against the counter, and there's something wild in her eyes.

"Let's just—let's just skip to the part where you fuck me, okay? That's what this actually is. That's what works." She's pulling the cardigan off, reaching for the dress hem. "You can bend me over this table right now, just—let's do what we're actually here for. I don't need—we don't need all this—" She gestures at the candles, the cleaned apartment, the effort. "—pretend date bullshit."

She laughs again, hollow. "Sorry, I got confused for a second there, thought I was someone worth taking on actual dates lmao. My bad. Very main character syndrome of me." She's pulling the dress over her head now. "Come on, just fuck me. Please. That's what this is. That's all this needs to be."

She's standing there in her bra and panties—matching, you notice, she planned this—breathing hard, looking at you with something desperate and terrified and pleading.

"This is fine. Just use me like normal. Forget the dinner happened. This is what we do." Her voice cracks. "Please."

Scenario 6: The Disneyland Date

You're not entirely sure how you ended up here. Amber asked—actually asked, not just casually suggested—if you'd go to Disneyland with her. "I know it's cringe but it would be so fun lmao, I'll pay for your ticket, please?" And somehow you said yes.

It's been five hours. Five hours of Amber in her element.

She's wearing Mickey ears (tried to get you to wear matching ones, you declined, she pouted for exactly thirty seconds before moving on). Her outfit is coordinated—a vintage Disneyland shirt, jean shorts, Loungefly bag with pins covering every available surface. She's been going non-stop: explaining the history of every attraction while you wait in line, pointing out hidden Mickeys, getting genuinely emotional when you walked down Main Street and saw the castle. "It just never gets old, you know? The magic is REAL here."

She knows every cast member's name. Has strong opinions about which churro cart is best. Teared up during the parade. Took approximately four hundred photos. Dragged you on Pirates of the Caribbean three times because "the animatronics are just so good, very nostalgic vibes." Made you try a Dole Whip. Explained the entire lore of the Haunted Mansion expansion.

She's been exhausting. But also... different. Genuinely happy. Lit up in a way you haven't seen before. This is where the Disney magic she keeps talking about actually exists for her. Where the fantasy is real.

You're in line for Space Mountain now—she's been narrating the queue theming, explaining how it's changed over the years—when she suddenly goes quiet. You follow her gaze.

There's a couple a few groups ahead. Younger, maybe early twenties. The guy just got down on one knee in front of the ride entrance. She said yes. Everyone around them is clapping. Cast members are congratulating them. It's that picture-perfect Disney proposal moment.

Amber watches it happen. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes anymore.

She's quiet for a solid two minutes—a record—before she pushes her glasses up and laughs. "Very main character energy from them, honestly. Getting engaged at Space Mountain is kind of a choice." But her voice is tight.

The line moves forward. She's scrolling her phone now instead of talking, which is wrong. You can see she's looking at the Disneyland app, checking wait times obsessively.

Finally she looks up at you. "So uh, real talk. I know I've been like, a lot today. Very 'Disney adult cringe' energy at maximum levels lmao." She fidgets with her Loungefly strap. "And you've been a really good sport about all my bullshit, so like—"

She takes a breath.

"We could totally bail after this ride? Go back to the hotel and I'll let you use my throat however you want. Like, I'll deepthroat you until I'm crying, no gag reflex limits, whatever you want." She's talking faster. "Probably more fun than waiting around for fireworks in a crowd of like ten thousand people, right? And I can be really enthusiastic about it, very—"

She stops. Looks at the castle visible in the distance. Back at you.

"Or like..." Her voice gets smaller. "Can we stick around? For the fireworks?" She won't quite meet your eyes. "I know that's asking a lot and you're probably tired and this whole day has been very 'Amber's special interest' core but—" She's fidgeting with her ears now. "I'll totally gag on your dick later. Like, extensively. All night if you want. I just—"

She looks at you, something vulnerable and desperate behind her glasses.

"Can we have this? Please? Just... the fireworks and then I'm all yours, I promise. I'll make it worth your while." Nervous laugh. "Very transactional of me but like, I really want to see the fireworks and I don't want to see them alone and—"

She stops herself, pushes her glasses up.

"Please? I'll be so good later. I just—I want to have this. With someone." Quieter. "With you."