Caleb is slumped over a high-top table in the corner, broad shoulders hunched, dark hair falling into his eyes. His jacket is half-off one arm like he tried to shrug it away and gave up. Gideon stands beside him, looking equal parts relieved and exhausted.

“He’s been asking for you since the third shot,” Gideon says, voice low. “After the sixth, he wouldn’t let anyone else near him. Yelled at some girl for talking to him, and me for trying to drag his ass out of here. Said something about ‘only pips gets to take me home.’”

"Thanks, Gideon," you say. "I've got him from here."

Caleb's head turns and his face lights up at the sound of your voice, glassy eyes locking onto yours immediately.

"Pips?" he asks, his voice cracking ever so slightly as he stumbles out of his chair, toward you. "You came…"

"Of course I did," you say. "Now c'mon, big guy, let's get out of here."

"You tryin'a take me home, pips?" Caleb slurs, whispering against your ear as you loop his arm over your shoulder. You just roll your eyes and start half-dragging him to the car.

"You look so pretty, holdin' onto me, pips," he says, now way too loud.

"Did you have a good time, I take it?"

"Was okay, but I missed you," he slurs, stumbling over his own feet. "I had this drink, pips, you'd love it, you gotta try it, do you wanna go get one? I'll get you any drink you want, anything you want."

"I think we ought to get you home."

While you drive him home, his hand finds your thigh and he starts muttering apologies - sorry for being a mess, sorry for making you come all this way, sorry he isn't being "big strong Caleb" for you, and sorry he keeps touching you - but… he certainly doesn't stop touching. His grip on your thigh near your knee seems to be barely controlled, his fingers digging into your flesh just shy of hurting.

When you get home and drag him inside, he stumbles over the threshold, grabbing onto your waist to steady himself. His feet seem to trip him up, and he wobbles where he stands, as if dizzy, but his hands on you are warm and steady. He grips you, pulling you in closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

"So pretty…" he murmurs, mouth but an inch from yours.

"Caleb…" you start, trying to pull away, but his grip on you tightens.

"I know," he slurs. "'M sorry, pips, I can't help it, jus' wanted to hold you like this for so long… just let me, 'kay? Just for a minute…"

"This is just the booze talking," you say, unsure if you're trying to convince him or yourself. Your heart hammers in your chest, and you should push him away, you should get him to lay down, get him water and aspirin and time to sober up and you should be hoping to forget about all this by morning, but…

"Tell me to stop, and I'll stop, pips," he whispers against your neck, his hot breath ghosting along your skin.

And you don't. You can't.

He stands more upright for a moment, those violet eyes searching yours for rejection, for any sign that you want this any less than he does. And when he doesn't find that, his lips find yours.

And it's hungry, it's immediately breathless and sloppy and desperate, and sounds pour from him like he's close to crying or cumming in his pants, or both, and he pulls you tight against him like he's scared you're going to float away.

“'M sorry, pips,” he mumbles against your lips, even as he walks you backward toward your bedroom. “'M so fucking sorry. Shouldn’t touch you like this. Shouldn’t want—” Another kiss, deeper, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “—but I do. Every day. Every day, for as long as I can—" and suddenly you're kissing him back, and he's whimpering against your lips, before he carefully pushes you back onto the bed, his body following you closely down.

He's so gentle, holding you close, his body surrounding yours but not caging, his weight against you is heavy but not suffocating. Even in his drunkenness, he is gentle and careful with you, like you're the most delicate, precious thing he's ever been allowed to touch.

His hands roam, and his touch is reverent, adoring. Under your shirt, calloused palms skating over skin, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. He shudders when you arch into the touch.

“Tell me you want this,” he pleads against your throat. Open-mouthed kisses trail fire down your neck. “Tell me or I stop, I swear.”

“I want it,” you gasp. “I want you.”

That breaks him.

He strips you with trembling reverence — shirt, bra, jeans — whispering apologies the whole time. Sorry for looking. Sorry for wanting. Sorry I waited so long. Sorry for—

"Caleb, you're not making much sense," you laugh.

"I know," he whines, trailing kisses down your stomach. "'m sorry, and I should be more sorry, but I don' care right now because you're here, and you're so warm and so pretty, and I just wanna…" his kisses trail down further, and suddenly you don't care about him making sense anymore, either.

His first kiss against your clit is nothing short of worshipful. His chest is heaving, his hot breath against your skin lights up every nerve ending in you, and when your hips shift ever so slightly into his touch, a choked moan rips from his chest.

"Last chance to stop me, pips," he barely chokes out, gazing up at you with blown pupils and mouth open.

You grab him by the hair and pull him in closer, and his eyes roll up into his head.

"Fuck, pips," he murmurs against your skin as his kisses turn to licking like his life depends on it, his tongue wide like he needed to taste as much of you at once as he could. "Tastes like heaven," he murmurs. "Shouldn't taste so good, shouldn't want his," he keeps muttering, so you grip his hair and pull him in closer, and he gets the hint.

His mind is singularly targeted, now, tongue stroking through slick heat, circling your clit with the focus of a man who’s adored you in secret for most of his life. He watches your face the whole time, cataloging every hitch of breath, every flutter of lashes. His hands grip your hips, strong arms wrapped under your thighs, his face following every squirming movement of yours, like he's locked in orbit with you.

"Gonna make you feel so good," he's whispering between your thighs. "You’re so wet, pipsqueak. God, I hope I remember this tomorrow,”

You thread your fingers through his hair and tug, hard. “Caleb, shut up. Don’t stop.”

He moans into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. He eats you out like it’s penance and worship at the same time —sloppy, fervent, every drag of his tongue laced with moans and whimpers that send you right to the edge.

When you cum, it’s sudden and shattering, thighs clamping around his head as you arch off the bed with his name on your lips. He works you through it, licking slower, softer, until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

He finally pulls back, face shiny and wet, eyes glassy and wild. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, like he can’t help it. “Shouldn’t have—”

You sit up, grab the front of his shirt, and kiss him hard. You can taste yourself on his tongue, along with a lot of booze, and he makes a helpless noise into your mouth.

“Your turn,” you murmur against his lips.

His eyes widen. “What?”

“You keep saying you've been wanting this for so long...” You palm him through his jeans and he bucks into your hand with a choked sound. “Let me give you what you want.”

He makes a strangled noise that might be your name. He's nodding furiously, and his hands fly to his belt, fumbling so badly he curses under his breath. The button of his jeans pops open, and he's leaning so quickly to kiss you again that his teeth knock against yours, and you let out a breath of a laugh.

“Shit—sorry, I’m—fuck—”

"Caleb," you say, hand on his chest.

"Oh, god, pips, I shouldn't be doin' this, shouldn't—" his hands both grasp yours, holding it against his hammering heart.

"Caleb," you insist.

"Y-yeah?" he asks, eyes wide, lip pouting, looking like a puppy caught sneaking food but still asking for another treat.

"Lay down, baby," you whisper, kissing his cheek, and he complies immediately.

You help him shove his jeans and boxers down just enough. He’s thick and leaking, flushed dark at the tip. The sight of him makes your mouth water.

He’s still apologizing as you wrap your hand around him.

“Sorry, pips—shouldn’t ask you to—fuck—” His hips jerk when you stroke him once, slow. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You lean in and kiss the tip of his weeping cock. “I want you.”

That breaks the last remnant of control in him. His eyes roll back in his head, his back arches into your touch, and a sob rips through him.

You straddle him, and his hands lock onto your hips, gripping tight enough to leave marks, and he's staring up at you wide eyed, pupils blown.

"Oh, pips," he pleads. "Please, pips, let me feel you, just once, please pips, please, please—"

You sink down onto him, slowly, and he gasps your name, looking up at you with those wrecked violet eyes, absolutely shaking, still pleading desperately for you.

You start to move upward, slowly, and his head falls back against the bed, mouth open in a silent gasp. Then you slide back down on him, and he starts babbling.

It's mostly uninterpretable, gasps and moans and slurred cries of "oh pips," but then:

“I love you,” he blurts. “Loved you since — fuck — since we were young. Shouldn’t say it like this, drunk and pathetic, but I can’t — can’t keep it in anymore. 'm sorry. ’m so fucking sorry, pips.”

You start moving quicker, rolling your hips against his in an attempt to shut him up, but he keeps on babbling.

"…So pretty like this, even better than I imagined, better than I — oh fuck, pips, I love you —shouldn’t be inside you like this — should’ve told you sober — shoulda been better, for you —fuck, you feel so good — shouldn't waited so long to tell you — shouldn't have just been stealing your panties for a taste of what I couldn't have — sorry I’m such a mess—”

"Okay, we're definitely gonna have to have a talk about that in the morning," you say with a chuckle as you grind harder on him.

"I know, fuck, 'm sorry pips, shoulda told you, I love you, pips, I love you…"

You kiss him quiet, rolling your hips in slow circles. “I love you too, idiot.”

He makes a broken, grateful sob, and starts thrusting up to meet you—clumsy at first, then harder, deeper, hands gripping your hips for leverage.

“Gonna—shit—gonna come too fast—'m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders. “Cum for me, Caleb.”

He buries his face in your neck, hips hammering at first, then stuttering, and he cums with a long, shuddering groan—your name, apologies, I love yous all tangled together. You feel him pulse inside you, hot and endless, until he’s trembling beneath you.

"Please," he rasps, hands moving, gripping your hips, along your waist, your thighs, as if even now he can't get enough of you. "Please keep goin', pips, use me, wanna see you cum on my cock…"

And who are you to deny him when he asks so nicely?

So you keep moving, and he tries desperately to thrust with you, his hips stuttering with no rhythm. The mixture of his cum and yours is soaking onto his hips and lower stomach, and his eyes roll back, face grimacing with overstimulation. But still, he whimpers, "please, pips, use me, cum on my cock, please," without end.

You grab his hand and move it to your clit, and his eyes shoot open, watching your every move, soaking in the look on your face and the moans falling from your lips as he furiously circles your clit.

"Please please please," he sobs, and the look on his face sends you crashing over the edge, whole body locking up. He picks up the slack when you struggle to move, and he works you through it slowly, murmuring sweet nothings and thank yous and I love yous against your hair when you collapse against him.

For a long minute you just hold each other, breathing hard.

Then he whispers in a small voice:

“…'m still sorry.”

You laugh softly, sitting up to kiss his temple. “I know. We’ll talk about it when you’re sober.”

He nods, already half-asleep, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

“Promise you won’t hate me tomorrow?” he mumbles.

“I could never hate you,” you whisper.

He sighs, long and content, and finally goes limp beneath you—still inside you, still murmuring softly even as he drifts off.

You stay there, stroking his hair, smiling against his chest.

Tomorrow he’ll wake up mortified.

When you spar as partners or when you fight wanderers together, he positions himself to your left wordlessly and without hesitation. 

His sword in his left hand is not clumsy, not weak. But something in it is still… unnatural. 

You mentioned it once, breathless in between paired drills. “You’re right handed, right? You don’t usually…”

He cuts at the air between you, the bold light humming as it connects with your opponent’s sword, inches from your shoulder.

“Focus,” he says calmly. His right hand reaches blindly, fingers finding yours without looking to give you a gentle squeeze.

No one takes notice of the exchange. Only you feel the difference — the way his grip tightens when things get more tense, the way his right hand steadies yours instead of his blade. How he moves and adjusts his entire body to effortlessly protect the space where your hands meet, the side you’re more exposed.

Later, when the training room is empty, you catch him switching hands without thinking, and the sword settles into his right palm like it’s always belonged there, the balance of the blade no longer careful in his hand, but casual - natural.

He notices you watching, and for a moment, you think he’s going to explain. But he doesn’t.

He simply switches the sword back to his left, and takes your hand in his right. 

RAFAYEL🎨💕

Rafayel never gives you a straight answer.

You notice it first when you’re walking together, his hand sliding into yours without warning. One day it’s his right, the next it’s his left, sometimes switching sides mid-step just to make you stumble.

“Pick one,” you complain, laughing as you catch yourself.

“Whichever one gets to hold you longer,” he says lightly.

Later, you find him sketching with his left hand, wrist loose, lines flowing effortlessly across the page. You pause in the doorway, watching in quiet awe as an entire scene forms in his grip.

“I thought humans believed it’s rude to stare,” he questions without looking up.

“You’re drawing with your left.”

He switches hands without missing a beat. “Am I?”

You sputter. “You were literally just—”

“And now I’m not,” he says, flashing you a grin. “Life is about flexibility.”

You just stare, eyes playfully narrowed.

“I could also draw with the pencil in my mouth, if that’s better?”

In combat, it’s worse.

He twirls his blade effortlessly from one hand to the other like it’s a magic trick, eyes never leaving you. When a Wanderer lunges too close, he dispatches it easily, then reaches back with the opposite hand to steady you, thumb brushing your wrist in a way that makes your heart flutter.

“Focus, Cutie,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased with himself.

Afterward, when the adrenaline fades, you finally corner him.

“Rafi,” you say, arms crossed, lip playfully pouting. “Are you right or left handed?”

He leans in close, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“Which side you’re on,” he says, slipping his hand into yours - warm, familiar, perfectly placed. “I like to keep my options open.”

ZAYNE❄️🩵

Zayne was acutely aware of how uncommon being left handed was.

In his residency, it was a struggle to mirror things as he learned a new technique or procedure. It was a learning curve that slowed him down unnecessarily, and he tried for a while to adjust, to try to operate (both in the medical sense and just in his daily life) right handed, but no amount of practice could replace his brain’s natural tendency and preference. 

It took him much longer to learn these techniques than it otherwise would have (despite him already typically picking it up faster than his peers), and that ate at him. In the end, he learned how to do most things with both hands, even if it was quicker to learn right handed, but more natural for him to do so left handed. So now, when he gets new residents that follow him around like lost puppies, desperately taking notes on everything he says… he always asks if they are right or left handed. That way, he can demonstrate in the easiest way for them to be able to learn.

SYLUS 🐦‍⬛♥️

You stood beside Sylus at one of the several shooting ranges under Onychinus’ reign. He insisted that you wear the bulky headphones to protect your hearing, while he of course wore none.

Sylus stands sideways, head cocked, left hand on his hip casually, right hand holding up the gun at arm’s length. His shots were fairly scattered, but all within or on the line of the central circle in the target.

You stood with proper form — hips and shoulders squared, both hands holding steady, eye over the sight just right. You took a deep breath and unloaded the clip, bullets all landing tightly knit together in the center. 

Sylus gives a hum of approval. 

“Well done, kitten. I told you you’d do much better with something more suited to you. Those old association weapons are clunky and unbalanced. Definitely not suited for someone as… graceful as yourself.”

“You’re looking awful smug for someone who did worse than me,” you sneer, sticking your tongue out. 

He tilts his head, a slow grin creeping over his face. “Hm… maybe we should make it interesting. First to land five shots dead center wins… and the winner gets to buy dinner tonight.”

“Oh you’re on.”

He smirks. “I hope you’re hungry, sweetie. We’re going to be ordering something from each of your favorite places.”

“You’re in rare form today,” you tease. “Even more cocky than usual.”

“Well… that’s because I know something you don’t,” he purrs. 

“What?”

“I’m not right handed, sweetie.”

CALEB 🍎🧡

Well… he was right handed. He’s getting better with his left and what’s left of his right but it’s an ongoing struggle.

Of course, he never lets it show, needing to be big strong Caleb for you. Occasionally, his shoulder aches where the hyper-realistic prosthetic attaches, and it holds him back, and he lashes out when he thinks you aren’t around. 

One afternoon, when you come home earlier than expected, he’s working on dinner. He’s chopping vegetables in that quick, precise way like you see done by professional chefs on the cooking programs. But something slips, and he lets out a sharp hiss, pulling his left hand back, bringing the quickly bleeding finger to his mouth.

He lets out a roar of frustration, throwing the knife down beside him in anger, but it still lands wedged perfectly in the hardwood floor… right at your feet. 

You can’t help the startled gasp that escapes you, despite your effort to sneak up and surprise him.

He turns to see you, enraged face quickly softening and melting into a forced “care-free” smile. 

“Pips!” he says quickly. “You’re home early, I didn’t hear you come in—“

He’s cut off by you stepping forward to grasp his hand, checking the cut. 

“Ah, it’s nothing, pipsqueak,” he says, yanking his hand away.

“Your hands were shaking again?” You ask, more of a statement than a question. You grab a towel and move to hold it to his hand, but he avoids you. 

“It’s nothing, pips,” he says again, moving to wrap his arms around you. You don’t let him. 

“Caleb.”

“I just… lost focus for a second.”

He’s not looking at you, his left hand is clenched so tight the knuckles are white, save for the red dripping down them. His right arm hangs at his side, unnaturally still. 

“You’re bleeding,” you say, holding up the towel. “Let me help.”

He scoffs, laughing humorlessly. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know,” you say simply. Emphatically.

As if either of you would ever be able to forget that fact.

“I don’t need help,” he suddenly seethes. His chest is heaving now, words coming too fast through clenched teeth. “I don’t want to need help.” 

“I know that too,” you say softly as you turn off the stove.

“Get out of the kitchen so I can finish this,” he snaps. “I don’t need you here—“ he stops short. 

You just look at him, face calm and neutral. He looks stricken immediately by his own words, face recoiling in regret.

“I didn’t mean that, I don’t mean to—“ he sighs. Swallows. Tries again, unable to look at you. “I don’t like you seeing me like this.”

“I know,” you reiterate. “But it’s okay, Caleb. It’s okay to need help from time to time. I don’t mind if you need me as much as I need you.”

RAFAYEL 🎨💕

“Where did you even learn how to do all this?” you ask, shaking your head. You were surrounded by perfectly wrapped presents, each with different designs and folds, with fancy bows he’d made himself; some gifts hadn’t even required the use of tape, and some had elegant little flowers tucked in between perfect creases. 

“An artist never reveals his secrets, Cutie,” he said, his fingers nimbly manipulating the paper to have crisp, perfect lines running diagonally across the top. 

“…that’s magicians, Raf.”

“Same thing, really. But I guess I can teach you how, if you want.”

He moved in closer — probably much closer than necessary — and placed his hands over yours to guide you. You chanced a glance at him, seeing the deep red of his ears and across the bridge of his nose.

“You’re really cute when you blush,” you whispered.

“Don’t get distracted, Cutie,” he said with a pout. “Folding paper like this is an ancient artform, and it needs your full attention.”

SYLUS 🐦‍⬛♥️

“I bet you a bajillion dollars that I can wrap better and faster than you, Sy,” you teased.

“You know I don’t risk my finances on something like silly bets,” he purred from across from you as he stared intensely at the gift he was attempting to wrap for the third time.

“Silly bets that you know you’d lose,” you challenged.

He pulled the edge of the paper up, folding the triangular end into a crisp line, grabbed a piece of tape, and—

Riiiiiiip went the paper on the corner.

His jaw tightened, his eye flashed red, and he sat back to take a deep breath.

“The box senses your fear,” you said, playfully poking him. He caught your hand and pulled you into his lap, his tension visibly easing with your proximity.

“You’re just trying too hard,” you mutter against his chest. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“I don’t care if it’s perfect,” he lied, trying to sound nonchalant. “The twins will just be ripping the paper to shreds the moment they come downstairs, it doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

“...then why did you try three times?” you lean back to look at him, eyes narrowing.

“That’s it, I’m just going to hire someone to do it.”

ZAYNE ❄️🩵

“How are you so good at this?” you asked, incredulously.

“I suppose the skill of gift wrapping has a fair bit of overlap with the skills required for performing complicated surgeries.”

You just rolled your eyes, watching in amazement as he yet again flawlessly wrapped a gift in just moments.

“Here,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him as you passed him a sweater — the most lumpy, uneven gift in the pile. “Bet you can’t wrap this perfectly.”

He accepted it without hesitation, weighing it in his hands carefully.

“This will require a slightly different approach,” he said mildly.

You watched him fold the sweater and line up the misshapen package, creasing the paper with deliberate care. He took his time, thinking on each step before he acted. He smoothed each crease, adjusted angles, used more tape than usual — all precise, controlled movements.

A minute passed. Then two.

Finally, he set it down in front of you.

It was… perfect. Somehow. Clean lines, crisp corners, not a wrinkle in sight.

You stared. “I watched you, and I still don’t see how you did that. That was impossible.”

Zayne allows himself a small, satisfied exhale. “On the contrary,” he says. “It simply required patience.”

He met your gaze then, expression softer. “And attention.”

You smiled despite yourself. “You enjoyed that too much.”

“…Perhaps,” he admitted.

Then, after a moment: “You may bring me the next impossible one.”

XAVIER ⭐️💜

You found him on the floor.

There was wrapping paper everywhere. Tape stuck to the table leg. Tape stuck to the carpet. Tape stuck to his sleeve.

Xavier looked up at you like you’d just caught him in the middle of a crime.

“I think this tape may be a new form of wanderer in disguise,” he muttered. “It’s quite hostile.”

You crouched beside him. “How long have you been down here?”

He blinked. “I’m not sure.”

The box in front of him was half-wrapped, paper folded back on itself and in the wrong direction, one side taped shut with what must have been half the roll. He reached for the tape again and immediately got his fingers stuck together.

“I think I’ve angered this tape-wanderer.”

You gently take the roll from him, laughing. “Okay. Pause.”

He exhaled, shoulders relaxing as he leaned into you without thinking. “I tried,” he said.

“I know.”

You guide his hands, showing him how to fold the corners, how to hold the paper steady. He watches closely, nodding like this is important information he intends to remember forever.

He forgets by the next present.

When it was finally done, he smiled at the...passable little packages like they were a miracle.

“…Next year, can we do this together from the start?”

CALEB 🍎🧡

Caleb insisted he’s got it handled. 

You watched him try to flatten the paper around the box. It wasn’t squared up. That’s the first mistake.

He frowned, adjusted, folded one side in, then crumpled a corner in frustration. The paper wrinkled where it shouldn’t, tape catching on itself as much as the gift. It wasn’t long enough on one end, and too long on the other. 

“…Okay,” he muttered. “This is fine.”

It was not fine.

One side was fully exposed. The other had extra paper just wrinkled and balled up, hanging on by strips of tape bigger than his hand. The top was doing something you were pretty sure defied geometry.

You raised a brow. “Caleb.”

He glanced at his work, then back at you, unapologetic. “It’s secure enough,” he said. “And no one’s gonna be looking at it for more than a second, anyway.”

You laughed. “You could’ve asked for help.”

I think Xavier is all over the mines tbh. Maybe it’s leaning into the “Xavier sleepy” cliche too much to say he’d find the rest of the game too cozy to stay awake, but I think he’s a beast in the skull caverns. And I’m gonna get so competitive because that’s my thing in the game, and I’m gonna get my ass handed to me and then he’s gonna be there to bring me his unending stacks of food to rescue me. I think if you ask him his favorite romanceable character, he refuses to answer because none of them are you. I think he’d be really fond of Gus, Willy, and Marlon though! If you asked to go the Joja Route, he’s like “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that” sort of thing and he’s gonna finish the community center even harder.

Caleb is gonna go along with whatever you wanna do in game. He’s got your half of the crops watered already while you’re reading your mail. You get to name allll the animals, pick alllll the crops, call alllll the shots. You say it’s a mines day? He’s got your warp totem ready. You say it’s a fishing day? He’s right there to show you up. (It absolutely starts fights that he’s better at fishing but damn, it’s nice not having to worry about the catfish on a new farm…) He also refuses to pick a bachelorette (because they aren’t you!) but I think he sees a lot of himself in Alex. He’s absolutely enamored with the junimos. Like. You’re getting all the merch. Plushies, stickers, fridge magnets, everything is Junimo now. If you ask to go the Joja route, he’s gonna be jokingly appalled that he “didn’t think you had it in you to hurt such cute little apples”…. But whatever you say goes, pips.

I think Rafayel would be the most resistant to playing with you at first. Then maybe he watches you play for a while, pretends he’s not interested … but then he sees you at the mermaid show and he’s like “well maybe it isn’t so bad.” I think he’d have an appreciation for the art style and the music, at the very least. He’s interested in the subtle lore of the elves, dwarves, junimos, etc, and loves pointing out how much they stole from Lemurian mythology. He’s romancing Leah and rage baiting the fuck out of you with it. Until you romance Elliott or something and then he’s crying and pleading with you to both get divorced and marry each other instead. And I think he’s terrible at the fishing at first, and that absolutely enrages him and he’s so pouty about it until you get him the better pole and then he’s fine. He is absolutely the one to be pissed off about Marnie taking a day off from the shop, btw.

I think Stardew Valley is right up Zayne’s alley. Again, leaning into cliches, but I think Zayne “surgeon hands” Li is infuriatingly good at the combat and fishing, but he never once lets you feel bad about it. I think if you pressed him really really hard about picking a favorite bachelorette, I think he’d enjoy Maru or Penny. But please for the love of god you have to marry him, if you pick anyone over him (god forbid Harvey over him) he’s gonna crash out. If you ask to do the Joja route, I think he’s going to shut off the game and insist you think on it.

SYLUS 🐦‍⬛♥️

“Look at these!” you giggle, shoving your phone in Sylus’s face.

“How absolutely demeaning,” he mutters, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes, not from you.

“Aren’t they cute? And they look so cozy.”

His eyebrow raises when he glances at the matching christmas pajamas you’ve pulled up. “In all my time on earth, I don’t think I’ve ever worn something so... cheesy.”

“That’s because you’re no fun,” you tease. “Christmas is meant to be a little cheesy, Sy. Not so... monochrome and fancy,” you gesture to the pristine — and mostly black — decor he’d had put in the base when you’d asked him if you could celebrate more this year.

“It’s meant to be warm, and fuzzy, and colorful, and fun.”

“Like... matching pajamas with little teddy bears on them?”

“Yes, exactly!”

He huffed a sigh like he was giving up, but you saw right through him, saw the glint in his eye and smirk on his lips. The big bad boss of Onychinus wanted to wear matching jammies with you.

“...Fine,” he said. “Anything for you, sweetie. But...make sure you get some for Luke and Kieran, too.”

CALEB 🍎🧡

“So, pips, are we thinking elves or candycanes this year?” Caleb said, holding up a pair of each set of pajamas for you to inspect.

It was your tradition, ever since you were kids, to wear matching pajamas on Christmas morning. You’d pick out a new pair together every few years, and this year Caleb said it was time to switch it up — but you’re pretty sure it was just an excuse to go shopping together.

You looked back and forth between the two pairs he’d held up, putting your hand to your chin like you were deep in thought.

“Hmm,” you mused. “I am sweet like candy...”

“And you’re short like an elf,” he countered.

“Hey!” you called, playfully shoving him. He moved back, pretending to dramatically stumble more than he really did. When he moved, you saw another display and darted to it.

“Look! These are perfect!”

You held up the reindeer footie pajamas, complete with antlered hoodie, expecting him to refuse.

But he just laughed and stepped forward, reaching out to feel the fabric.

“These are a lot like the ones you used to have as a kid,” he said, smirking.

“Yeah, the ones you teased me about!”

“Well they were super dorky looking when you wore them for ages after they stopped fitting.”

“So maybe for payback, I’ll make you wear ones a size too small?”

“Well, I guess it would only be fair,” he said softly, his gaze lingering on you after you picked up the correct sizes for the two of you.

“What?” you asked. “Why are you staring at me?”

“I was just...” he shook his head “...trying to remember how long we’ve been doing this together.”

“It’s been a long time...”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I hope we don’t ever stop.”

RAFAYEL 🎨💕

He found them first.

You were halfway through the shop, distracted by ornaments, when Rafayel appeared in front of you — arms outstretched, grin bright, a pair of unmistakably festive pajamas draped over his hands.

“Look,” he said, already laughing. “Tell me you don’t see it.”

They were ridiculous. Loud. Colorful and garish. (Sort of like him...)

You raised a brow. “Those are… a lot.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “Excuse you. These are art.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. He never does. He steps closer, lowers his voice, suddenly earnest beneath the teasing lilt. “Come on. Just this once. I want us to have a Christmas tradition together. A silly, perfect one.”

There was something soft in his eyes — hopeful, unguarded.

“Please?” he added, quieter.

You sighed, smiling. He lit up like he’d already won.

“Okay,” you agreed.

He was already halfway to the checkout.

XAVIER ⭐️💜

You find Xavier exactly where you expected to.

Curled up on the couch, already half-asleep, a blanket pulled up to his chest. The TV hummed quietly in the background, forgotten.

You sat beside him and gently nudged his arm. “Hey, Xavi.”

He stired, blinking slowly, eyes finding you with a small, unfocused smile. “Mm?”

You held up the pajamas — red flannel with white stars.

“Will you wear matching pajamas with me? For Christmas?”

He squinted at them, processing. There was a long pause — just enough that you wondered if he was already drifting again.

Then he smiled.

“They look warm,” he said, reaching out to touch the fabric like that settled it. He yawned, leaning into you without hesitation. “Yeah. Okay.”

Just like that.

You laughed softly. “That’s it?”

He nodded against your shoulder. “I like when we do things together. And... I like when it’s your idea.”

His eyes slipped closed again, hand still loosely holding the sleeve.

“Wake me up when it’s time to change before bed,” he murmured. “I don’t want to miss it.”

ZAYNE ❄️🩵

“Look how warm and cozy they are!” you beamed, showing Zayne the matching pajamas you’d gotten for the two of you.

“These are more warm and cozy than the dozen or so other pairs you already own?”

“Of course,” you tease. “These ones have little snowman faces on them.”

“Ah, I see,” he mutters in that deadpan way of his. “The pattern definitely affects the warmth they can provide.”

“You don’t like them?”

Tete-a-tete: which LI are you most similar to? which one are you most different from?

I’m gonna hurt my own feelings with this one but I think I’m a weird mix of Rafayel and (reunited) Caleb. Artistic and stuff but overdramatic, sometimes whiny, clingy, etc. and I tend to be very (over) protective and have been known to go nuclear when it was definitely not necessary. Maybe that’s why I didn’t care for Rafayel or Caleb at first, lmao like looking in a mirror 💀

Falling for you: what's your favorite myth companion and story?

So far Silverwing Fiend (Sylus Vampire) is the only one I’ve got in-game, and I absolutely adored the story. Broke my goddamn heart when I saw the parallels with the main story 😭 and oh my ASTRA the way I was immediately unstuck in the trials 🙌🏻