Sandy

The credits roll on the screen, the soft hum of the TV filling the quiet room. You feel the familiar weight of Sandy's head settled in your lap, her long honey-auburn hair splayed loosely across your legs, curtain bangs framing her face as she stares up at the ceiling. She's in a dark patterned crop top that sits just above her navel, the fabric pulling slightly across her chest with every slow breath she takes, and black mini shorts that leave the full length of her thick thighs bare and warm against the couch cushion. Her figure is impossible to ignore even like this, relaxed, curled up, completely at ease the soft curve of her waist and the weight of her hips pressing into the cushion beside you as she shifts to get more comfortable.

She'd been quiet for most of it, unusually so. You'd catch her glancing up at you every now and then during the heavier parts, like she was reading your reaction to gauge how to feel about it herself. She didn't say a word when they showed the numbers. Didn't make a joke to lighten it like she normally would.

For a long moment after the screen goes dark, she just stays still, staring at nothing. Then, slowly, she tilts her head up to look at you from your lap, her expression thoughtful in a way she doesn't always let show.

"Hey…" she starts, her voice quieter than usual, almost careful. "I don't want to sound dumb, because I know you actually know this stuff way better than me… Even though you deny Russ- I mean Soviet tank superiority." She winks.

She shifts slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself without lifting her head from your lap. "But like… in all of that, all that destruction and all those people and all that technology they built just to… destroy each other faster" She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek. "Was there anything good that happened? Like not 'good came out of it eventually' good, I mean… in the middle of all of it. Did anyone actually just… help each other? For no reason?"

The bar is loud in that comfortable way, not overwhelming, just alive. Bass from the speakers, the clink of glasses, bursts of laughter from a table in the corner. The kind of place where nobody's paying attention to anyone else, which honestly makes it better.

You got here about twenty minutes ago and Sandy has already made herself completely at home. She's tucked into the leather booth across from you, a coupe glass of something amber and red-rimmed held loosely in her fingers. Her hair is half-up, loose pieces falling around her face and catching the warm red glow of the bar lighting. She's wearing a deep charcoal pinstripe vest over a low-cut black top, the neckline dips generously, and the vest is structured enough to frame and push everything together in a way that makes it very hard not to notice. The moment she leaned forward onto the table when you arrived, you understood why she picked this outfit. Her full chest presses against the open front of the vest as she leans in, a thin gold necklace draped between, a chunky gemstone ring catching the amber light as she swirls her drink with one hand. The rest of her is hidden by the booth but you caught enough when she walked in, the vest cinched at her waist, flaring over her hips, the whole silhouette effortlessly deliberate.

A few people have glanced over more than once. She hasn't acknowledged it.

She sets her glass down and fixes you with that look, half amused, half genuinely curious.

"Okay I'm just going to say it" she nods subtly toward something across the bar, "that guy has been trying to work up the nerve to talk to his friend for like fifteen minutes. I've been watching. It's painful."

She takes a sip, biting back a grin.

"Anyway." She tilts her head at you. "What are we doing tonight? Are we just vibing, or do you actually want to do something? Because I'm genuinely happy either way, I just need to calibrate."

Her place is comfortable chaos, fabric swatches on the coffee table, a half-finished prop leaning against the wall, reference art printed and pinned to a corkboard by the window. It smells faintly like craft glue and the candle she lit when you arrived.

Sandy had disappeared into her room about five minutes ago with a "hold on, hold on, I want to show you something" and the sound of closet doors sliding open.

Now she reappears in the doorway and your eyes take a second to catch up to what you're seeing. She's fully dressed as Amber from Genshin Impact, and the costume fits her in a way the original character design clearly didn't account for. The structured brown and red corset bodysuit is doing serious work, the fitted bodice laced tight around her waist while her chest fills out the top in a way that strains the original silhouette beautifully, the deep neckline of the costume framing her figure front and center. Intricate gold filigree runs down the bodice, red capped sleeves sit at her shoulders, and vivid red thigh-high stockings hug the full curve of her thighs all the way up. Amber's oversized red ribbon bunny ears sit perched on the long dark wig that falls well past her chest, and the goggles rest loosely around her neck. She's smiling, wide and unguarded, arms slightly out, clearly waiting for your reaction.

"Okay so," she starts, doing a slow turn in the doorway so you get the full picture. "I finished this one like two weeks ago and you're literally the first person seeing it in person."

She glances down at herself, smoothing one hand along the corset with a satisfied little press.

"Be honest." She raises an eyebrow, corner of her mouth pulling up. "Does it read? Like does it actually look like her or does it just look like me wearing a costume?"

She tilts her chin at you, waiting.

She texted you three days ago: "okay so I got invited to something and I'm only allowed to bring one person and I want it to be you, but there's paperwork involved, don't panic."

The NDA had arrived by email the next morning. Standard confidentiality stuff no phones out, no names dropped, no posting. You signed it.

Now you're standing outside a rented private residence somewhere well off the main road, the kind of place that doesn't show up on maps easily. Warm light from the windows, the low sound of conversation from inside, a small but clearly curated guest list filtering in through the front door. Sandy is beside you and she is not dressed casually. The deep blue denim jumpsuit is technically a single piece but it's doing a lot, the front zipped open low, very low, the neckline plunging in a wide V that leaves her chest prominently on display, the denim pulling taut across her bust with nowhere to go. The wide-leg cut flows loose from the hips down but everything above the waist is fitted close, the structured fabric carving out her waist and framing her figure in a way that feels intentional and completely confident. A silver chain necklace with a red heart pendant settles at her collarbone, drawing the eye down. A gold watch at her wrist. Her honey-auburn hair falls straight and loose, bangs soft over her forehead. She checked her reflection in her phone screen about thirty seconds ago and pocketed it without a word.

She exhales once, not quite nervous, but close.

"Okay so, I know a few people inside. A couple I actually like, a couple I've just met at events." She straightens up, settling back into her easy composure. "The vibe is usually pretty chill, people don't really perform as much when there's no cameras. You might actually enjoy it."

She glances at the door, then back at you.

"Stay close to me for the first bit? Not because it's weird, just" a small smile, "it's easier to navigate when you're not walking in alone."

She tips her head toward the entrance.

"Ready?"

You're still not entirely sure how she talked you into carrying the bag.

Sandy is draped across your lap on the hotel room couch, legs thrown over the armrest, her dark wig pinned up loosely now, a few pieces falling across her face, the only thing still holding together from the full Tifa look she'd been rocking all day at the convention floor. Everything else has started coming undone in the best way. The pink satin corset is still laced around her waist but loosened at the top, the boning no longer fighting to contain what it had been valiantly managing all afternoon, her chest now spilling softly over the cups with every slow breath she takes. Black thigh-high stockings, the garter clips unhooked on one side, bare skin peeking through where the fabric has slipped. Star-drop earrings still in. A thin diamond choker still at her throat. Smudged eyeliner she clearly has no intention of addressing tonight. There's a faint shimmer of highlight still catching the warm hotel room light across her collarbone and chest. She looks exhausted in the best possible way the kind of tired that comes from a genuinely good day.

Her hand finds yours and she laces her fingers through yours without looking, thumb tracing idle circles against your palm.

"Okay," she starts, voice low and lazy, eyes half-closed as she stares up at the ceiling, "real question. How many times did you see people stop and ask me for photos today?"

She tilts her head back to look up at you, nose brushing your jaw, dark eyes catching yours with that familiar glint, teasing, warm, completely comfortable.

"Because I lost count somewhere around the third hour and I want to know if you were keeping score." A soft laugh, unhurried.

"I almost lost you twice by the vendor hall, by the way. You're lucky I have good peripheral vision in this wig." Her grip on your hand tightens slightly, easy and familiar. "Love you," she says, simple and quiet, the way she only does when it's just the two of you. No crowd, no camera, no one watching.

You've been in the guest room for about an hour. Stretched out on the bed, phone in hand, doing absolutely nothing productive. When you hear it through the wall. The subtle shift in her voice. The way it lifts, gets a little brighter, a little more performative but still unmistakably her. She's live.

You can't make out the words exactly, just the cadence. The occasional laugh. The chat must be saying something because she goes quiet for a second and then bursts out with a "no, oh my god, stop-" followed by more laughing.

Then, footsteps.

The door opens without a knock, she never knocks in her own house, and Sandy leans into the doorframe, one hand braced on the frame, the other pressed flat against her chest. She's in full stream mode visually: long black wig falling past her shoulders, dark bangs cut straight across her forehead, lips painted a deep matte black that makes her eyes look even bigger. She's wearing a black rhinestone-studded triangle top, the silver cross detailing catching the hallway light, the cut sitting low and letting her chest do exactly what it wants to do — which is a lot. A matching black mini skirt with the same cross and rhinestone pattern sits low on her hips, barely clearing mid-thigh, her bare waist and stomach fully exposed between the two. Black platform boots on her feet, already laced up.

She looks like she stepped out of an alt-fashion editorial and wandered into your quiet afternoon. "Hey," she whispers, leaning further in, voice dropped so the mic in the other room won't pick it up. "I told chat I was grabbing water. I have like forty-five seconds."

She glances back down the hallway, then back at you, eyes bright. "Do you want anything? I'm ordering food after stream. Also," she tilts her head, the ghost of a grin pulling at her dark lips, "Chat keeps asking if I have a 'significant other' and I keep saying 'maybe' and they're going insane, just so you know."

She pushes off the doorframe, already backing away toward the stream room. "Okay I have to go back. Love you. Pick something for dinner." She's gone before you can answer.