Haven't played ZA/don't care about spoilers

One thirty-seven… One thirty-eight… One thirty-nine…

Your eyes stung from exhaustion and the ever-present fluorescent lights, and you felt almost like you could feel the blood moving in your veins, carrying the fatigue all the way to your fingertips and toes. It had already been late when you were all but shoved in here, and it had been hours. They’d only just a few minutes ago let you make a phone call, interrupting your previous count of the dripping sound. You sighed as you waited, knowing Corbeau would be there soon, and replayed in your mind how you’d ended up here. What were you going to tell him? ***

Your shoes slammed into the concrete of the rooftop as you ran, warm summer air blowing your hair back. When you got to the edge you peered over it, watching the police officer and her Manectric as they rounded the corner of the alley. She turned her head back and forth, looking for someone.

You stayed quiet. Watching and waiting for her to step a little further down the street so she wasn’t facing you anymore. Just as she passed below you, you pulled a pokeball out of your bag, tossing it gently next to you. Your Pokémon let out a cry as it burst out, and your heart jumped into your throat. You leaned back quickly, heart pounding in your ears, and held your finger up to your lips, signaling to your Pokémon to stay quiet. You saw the recognition in its eyes. The late hour was explanation enough - battle zones were routine by now.

“Is someone up there?” you heard the cop call. Still, you waited until you heard the sound of her footsteps again. Then, slowly and carefully, you leaned back over the edge, pointing out her Pokémon to yours. “Get it.” ***

A loud rattling sound pulled you out of your reverie, and you leaned up on your elbows to see an officer standing at the now-open door of your cell. He started to say something, but then turned his head to look down the hall toward the sound of quick footsteps. You knew those footsteps. You felt your heart swell. 

“Mr. Corbeau, you’re really not–” “Shut the fuck up.” His voice was stern and cold as he came into view, shoving the officer aside and stepping into the cell.

You’d never stood so quickly in your life, and you almost made yourself dizzy with it as you stepped into his arms. His hold on you was immediate, tight, and almost painful. His fingers gripped the tops of your arms and you tucked your face into his neck, letting yourself relax into him as his warmth and scent washed over you. He smelled and felt like safety, like home.

“You couldn’t even give her a fucking jacket? It’s freezing in here. I bet you like that, you cold-hearted freaks,” Corbeau snapped, feeling the goosebumps on your skin. He let go of you just to shrug his own coat off and wrap it over your shoulders. You took it gratefully and pulled it tight around yourself.

Corbeau put his hands on either side of your face, holding it gently. His brows drew together with concern, and you could feel his gaze as his eyes scanned over you with worry.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, his eyes finally meeting yours. You nodded and leaned your face into one of his palms.

“I’m fine.”

Corbeau placed one kiss on your lips and then moved a hand to the small of your back. He guided you out of the cell, his glare at the policeman sharp as you passed. Down the hall and out in the small lobby, Corbeau tried to walk you quickly out the door, but he was stopped by the voice of someone behind the desk.

“Mr. Corbeau, there’s still the matter of–”

“I told you you’re not getting any money from me!” Corbeau shouted, stopping and turning back. His arm around your waist pulled you to him, rough and possessive. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide your smile. You knew that in his state, with these people, it was better to stay quiet and let Corbeau handle things. Plus, you didn’t exactly mind that he was getting this worked up on your behalf.

“Mr. Corbeau, the bail has to be paid before she can leave.”

“Bail for what?” Corbeau all but growled. “There’s absolutely no reason you fuckwads should have brought her here tonight.”

“She attacked an on-duty Pokémon–”

“They were in a fucking battle zone!” Corbeau yelled. You reached one hand up to stroke his shoulder, hoping to calm him enough that a bigger hole wasn’t dug here. You wanted to go home. “How was she supposed to know that that cop was on duty? Maybe if you all didn’t wear your uniforms in your leisure time like teen cheerleaders with no other personality, this confusion wouldn’t have happened! And trust me, everyone in this building will be personally hearing from my lawyer. Good day.” With that, Corbeau turned and walked you out the door. The morning sun was just as bright as the fluorescents had been, and you squinted against it as he led you to where his car was parked. He held the passenger door for you and you settled in, leaning back against the headrest and closing your eyes as he crossed over to the driver side and got in. You didn’t open them as he sighed, or when he started the car. You could fall asleep right here if you let yourself.

You felt Corbeau’s hand, gentle and familiar, on your thigh, and you managed to pull your heavy eyelids apart to look at him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. You put a hand over his on your leg.

“I’m exhausted,” you said. “And hungry. And I feel gross. But I’m not hurt or anything.”

“How long were you there before they let you call me?” he asked. “I tried to call you around one when I woke up and you still weren’t home.” “Hours,” you sighed, closing your eyes again. “I don’t know exactly.”

“I hated not knowing where you were,” Corbeau said quietly. You felt your heart sink. You hated making him upset. “I was so fucking worried when you didn’t come home and I couldn’t get ahold of you. I called everyone who could possibly know where you were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Corbeau’s tone changed. He turned in his seat and the hand that wasn’t on your thigh came up to cradle your face. You looked into his eyes, irises liquid gold and full of love. “Angel no, don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong. And I’ll take care of all this bullshit, I promise.”

“Thank you,” you murmured.

Corbeau leaned across the center console to kiss you. It was slow and warm and gentle in a way that made you feel like everything was going to be okay. He rested his forehead against yours for a moment before kissing it and leaning back to his own seat.

“Let’s get you home,” he said, putting the car in gear and starting to pull out of the parking lot. “Will you put your seatbelt on, please?” “You first.”

❈ You dressed lazily, only having the mental clarity and patience to pull a pair of underwear and one of Corbeau’s t-shirts out of your drawers. You were grateful that the shower had a bench, because without it you don’t know if you would have had the energy to walk back from the bathroom to the kitchen, let alone bathe yourself. Corbeau had offered, ever gracious, to help, and while that was tempting, your stomach had answered for you, rumbling loudly before you had a chance to reply. Corbeau had smiled and kissed your cheek before heading to the kitchen to make you some food.

That food smelled divine as you dragged your feet back to the island and sat down. The TV was on, a news channel playing in the background as Corbeau set your plate in front of you. Your stomach growled again and you wasted no time digging in.

“A man, identified as Marius Bourreau, was found dead last night in Vert Sector Four. Local Lumiose Detective Emma joins us now, live. Emma, has there been any confirmation on the cause of death?” “Not at this time. Our current theory is that he fell from the scaffolding and wasn’t able to catch himself with his rotomphone, but we’re still waiting on the autopsy results to confirm. We haven’t seen any signs of foul play.”

“The recent attacks throughout the city have come into question. Are you seeing any connections between these crimes?” “At the moment we don’t have any reason to believe that this incident is related to those attacks.”

“People are obviously starting to get worried, with three, well, brutal beatings and now this. Would you say there’s a threat to the public?”

“Hmm…” Corbeau, who had been looking past you at the television, pulled out his phone, frowning down at it as he began to type. The voices of Emma and the anchor faded away. “It seems those incompetent pigs had bigger things they should have been worried about last night. I think the Rust Syndicate should start looking into this. There’s likely a connection there that those idiots are missing.”

You didn’t respond, you weren’t really processing any words as you leaned your temple on your wrist, fork still dangling loosely from your fingers. As the hunger had subsided, the exhaustion became all-consuming. You knew that if you tried to move or speak, that would be the last of your energy and you honestly might collapse.

“Hmm,” you managed. There was a beat and then you heard Corbeau set his phone on the counter. Then he was at your side, one arm around your back and the other sliding under your knees. “Shh, hey, let’s get you to bed,” he said softly. He lifted you and you leaned into him, your head completely lax against his shoulder. “If you have any information, please call 112, 17, or the tip line at…”

You were asleep before you even reached the bedroom.

Your dreams came in flashes.

A young girl, no older than ten, riding her bike. A woman’s tearful face.

A man’s tearful face. He looks frightened. Bright moonlight streams through the window behind him. He screams.

Police sirens. Running.

Running.

Running.

A teenager turning his head left and right in an alley, looking around nervously. He tries to speak, but he can’t. His words get cut off in his throat.

Running.

Running,

A Pansear watches you curiously from a tree.

Running.

Corbeau’s voice.

Running.

Angel… angel…

“Angel…”

Corbeau’s voice was real now, as was the tingling you felt as he pressed light kisses down your neck and across your shoulder. He was under the covers with you, one hand on your hip, and his thumb drew small circles into your skin. You knew immediately that you hadn’t slept long enough. You turned away from him, onto your back, and flung your arm over your eyes.

“Why?” you asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He rolled over on top of you, settling his weight on your body in a practiced way. “I don’t want you to totally fuck up your sleep schedule.”

Corbeau tried to nudge your arm off your eyes but you held it there firmly, turning your head up and away from him with a groan. He used the new access to your neck to begin kissing it again. He was in no hurry, gently letting his lips and tongue explore every dip and line. At first, you tried to ignore it, but he knew your body too well. He knew exactly which spots to linger on to make sleep leave your mind.

“Time is it?” you asked, sighing more than speaking.

“A little after twelve,” Corbeau responded.

“Why aren’t you at work?” you wondered aloud, and Corbeau’s lips froze where they had been trailing back and forth from your ear to your collarbone.

He lifted his head, reaching a hand up to pull your arm off your face. You let him this time, blinking at him as your eyes adjusted. His eyebrows were pulled together, but his expression was otherwise unreadable. Or maybe you were still too tired to decipher it.

“Did you really think I would be going to work today, after what happened this morning?”

“I didn’t really think anything, honestly,” you admitted, closing your eyes again. It was still so hard to keep them open.

“Hmm,” Corbeau hummed, returning to his survey of your skin. One hand went back to your hip, his thumb tracing the waistband of your panties. You knew he could feel the way that made your stomach jump. “Do you need help waking up?”

He didn’t wait for you to answer, he just tossed his glasses onto the bed and ducked down under the blanket to start giving your thighs the same treatment he’d been giving your neck. You could feel your arousal slowly growing inside you, starting to eclipse the tiredness. He kissed down one thigh, across your pussy over your underwear, and up the other. You settled your head back into your pillow and closed your eyes again, recognizing the mood he was in and knowing you’d be here for a while.

Corbeau let out a soft groan, pressing a hard, open-mouthed kiss to your clit over the cotton. You could feel his tongue through the fabric and you sighed happily, letting your hand find the shape of his head above the duvet.

“I’ll stay down here all day, if that’s what you need,” he said. His hands gripped your thighs in a firm massage.

“I might just take you up on that,” you replied, rolling your hips up.

“How long do you want me between your legs, angel?” he asked, his mouth moving down to lick over your entrance. Your underwear slid easily against you, already slick on both sides.

“Hmmm,” you said in a false ponder, enjoying the light buzz of pleasure. You slipped your free hand under the blanket and found one of his, twisting your fingers together and holding it. The innocence of it was a stark but pleasant contrast to the impurity of his mouth against you. “Forever.”

“That’s a long time,” he said, pulling your panties to the side. He licked a long, slow line from your entrance up to your clit. It sent electricity up your spine and made your hips twitch. “But I think I can manage.”

Corbeau pressed his tongue, flat and taut, against your clit, rubbing it steadily now. The muscles of your pussy contracted as molten pleasure erupted up your body. 

“Oh,” you moaned, letting your hips press up against his face and squeezing his hand.

The heat continued to build, twisting in your lower stomach in a whirlpool of tension. Corbeau didn’t let up, continuing to lick and suck on your clit like it was the most delectable candy he’d ever tasted. You lifted one foot off the mattress and let it fall across his back, pressing down and pulling your hips harder against his face as you got closer and closer to your climax.

And just like that Corbeau released your clit, the tide of your impending orgasm drawing back with the loss of his touch.

“You fucking tease,” you whined, your body relaxing.You could feel the breath of his laugh against you. His hand left yours for just a moment so he could use it to pull your panties fully off, but he replaced it as soon as he was done. He licked against your entrance, gathering the wetness that had pooled there and moaning.

“God, I fucking love the way you taste,” he said, using his free hand to spread your lips and give himself better access. “You have the right idea about me staying down here forever, I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”

You just hummed in response, focusing on the feeling of his tongue against you as it dipped just inside. You put your other hand under the covers now, sliding your fingers into Corbeau’s hair and scratching his scalp lightly. He moaned exactly the way you knew he would.

His tongue found a spot then, just above your entrance that sent a sudden and sharp jolt through your body. Your hips bucked unexpectedly and your heart pounded in your chest.

Well, that was new.

“Fuck,” you gasped, surprised by your body’s reaction. “Do that again.”

Corbeau licked the same spot, and you felt it again, though less intense this time without the surprise. You twisted your fingers in his hair as his tongue stroked over you repeatedly, making you whine and gasp. Your thighs shook with this new, acute pleasure. How, after all this time, were you still discovering each other?

As nice as it felt, your clit was starting to feel neglected, throbbing in a beg for attention. You tilted your hips down and tugged on his hair, and he got the message. He sucked it into his mouth, and the noise you made was a cross between a moan and a laugh as your back arched and your fingers clenched in his hand and hair.

The pleasure was quick to build now, eager after all the teasing. His tongue worked over your clit in wide strokes, firm and seemingly with an end-goal in mind now.

“God,” you said between moans. Your eyes squeezed shut and light danced behind your eyelids. “Don’t fuck with me again, I swear–”

Corbeau didn’t stop, but he did bring his hand up to brush his thumb over the spot that had been driving you mad before, and you practically screamed. You heels dug into the mattress and his back as your orgasm hit you, the pleasure exploding from your core and across your body. You felt it throb in your clit, still being worked over by his mouth, up the muscles of your stomach, over your breasts, and up your neck. It ripped through you in waves, each one a little gentler than the last until it released you, leaving you limp.

You may have pulled too harshly on his hair, but he didn’t complain. You stroked gently over the spot you’d been holding as an apology anyway, waiting for your heart rate to slow and your mind to de-fog. He littered kisses along your thighs before pressing one more to your over-sensitive clit, almost like a goodbye, and trailing his lips up your stomach.

When his head appeared from under the sheets he was a sight to behold. Lips red, swollen and shiny, his hair a tangled mess. His cheeks were flushed and his pupils were blown wide. You let go of his hand to cradle his face, drawing him up to you so you could kiss him. You could taste yourself on his lips and on his tongue, and if you could move your legs you would have wrapped them around his waist.

“Holy shit,” you said, smiling and leaning your foreheads together. “I don’t even know what just happened.”

“Me either, but I’m trying that again next time,” Corbeau said, kissing you one more time before sitting up and back on his heels, almost like he was leaving.

“Hey,” you pouted, unhappy with the ample space between you. You reached out and grabbed his forearms, trying to pull him back. “Where are you going? Fuck me.”

Corbeau looked at you with a bemused expression, and you felt like you were missing something.

“Angel…” he trailed off, flipping his hand around to grab your wrist and draw your hand down to his still-clothed cock. You spread your fingers along it eagerly, but it was– oh. Your eyes flashed to his and you smiled.

“Did you come just from eating me out?” you asked, amazed. It seemed like more than one new thing had happened today.

Corbeau grinned, practically diving back on top of you and peppering your cheeks, jaw, and neck with quick kisses. You squirmed and laughed under his ticklish assault.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said, smile still in his voice as he bit down on your neck gently. “The noises you were making were incredible.”

He sat up again, pulling you with him this time. He lifted your shirt off your body and then discarded his own. He took your face in his hands and kissed you while you let yours trail down his chest and stomach.

“Come on,” he said, sliding toward the edge of the bed and taking you with him. “Now I need a shower, and I’m not quite ready to let go of you yet.”

❈ Corbeau didn’t make you stray far from the bed. After you’d showered and put on some semi-real clothes, you’d found yourselves still attached to each other, now on the sofa. Corbeau was leaned back against the throw pillows, half sitting up as you laid on top of him, resting your head on his chest. A show you’d seen a million times played on the TV, not needing any real attention, but enough to keep you from falling asleep again. Corbeau was using one hand to hold his phone, which rested against your back, and the other played with your hair.

“Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully, absentmindedly. The rumble of his voice in his chest under your cheek, combined with the light tingling of his hand in your hair, was almost enough to send you back to sleep.

“What?” you asked, trying to keep yourself conscious. You’d really fuck up your sleep schedule if you fell asleep now.

“There is a connection between the victims,” Corbeau said, still scrolling.

“The what?”

“The victims of those attacks that have been happening recently, and the guy they found dead this morning. They were talking about it on the news when we got home? Maybe you were too out of it to hear,” he chuckled. “I just got an email from Phillipe. They’re all accused sexual predators, all acquitted.”

You sat up and stretched your arms over your head, your spine popping lightly as you twisted. Then you stood, wakefulness coming back to you slowly.

“I think I need to go for a walk if I’m going to stay up,” you said. “I can pick us up some lunch while I’m out, if you want.”

“I’ll come with you,” Corbeau said, starting to sit up himself, but you stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Stay here,” you said softly. “Get a little work done so you’re not anxious about it tomorrow. I love you so much, but we can spend an hour or two apart today, I promise.”

Corbeau frowned up at you, picking your hand up off of his shoulder and kissing your fingertips.

“I’m having a really hard time not having you in my sight today,” he admitted. “I wasn’t exaggerating earlier when I said I hated not knowing where you were.”

“I know,” you said, cupping his cheek in your hand and stroking it with your thumb. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I’m not going to get into any more trouble.”

Corbeau turned his head and placed a kiss on your palm before leaning back onto the couch. 

“Fine,” he gave in, accepting his defeat. “Before you go, do you want to go up to the country house next weekend? I’ll make the arrangements while you’re out.”

Corbeau had a small, but beautiful home in the countryside a few hours outside of the city, and it was your favorite place in the world. You often spent long weekends, holidays, and special occasions out there, tucked away among the rolling grass fields with no one but each other. On a few occasions you’d gone there for no reason at all other than to get away from the loud, bustling city for a few nights. Life was slow, quiet, and peaceful there.

“That sounds amazing,” you told him with a smile. 

You leaned down and gave him one more peck on the lips, then you turned and headed for the foyer, slipping on your shoes. 

“Use my credit card for the food this time,” Corbeau called after you. “Or I’m taking yours away!” “I’ll do what I want!”

You headed down the elevator, across the lobby and into the bright afternoon sun. Walking briskly down the street, you enjoyed the sounds and sights of the bustling city. People’s lives went on all round you, and you reveled in every peal of laughter, every excited greeting, and every hushed whisper of gossip that you heard.

You wandered for a while, seemingly aimless as you made your way across the city, soon finding yourself in the Vert district and stepping into a small, grassy area with a Flabébé fountain and a few benches. You approached a small bush in the corner of the park, grateful there was no one around. You pulled a backpack from the branches, walking quickly with it to a bench and sitting down.

You set the backpack in front of you, opening it and checking inside to make sure all the contents were still there. Satisfied, you zipped it back up, slinging it over your shoulder as you stood. You made your way up the nearby staircase, then up the ladder there. When you reached the roof you hooked right, heading to the rooftop door to an apartment building.

You let yourself inside and made your way through the hall and down the stairs. Then you approached a door, knocking quietly. After a few seconds, it cracked open, a nervous eye meeting yours.

“Madame Rousseau?” you asked quietly. She opened the door a little wider, and you caught a glimpse of a young girl running through the apartment, laughing as she played. “Did you really…?” the woman whispered, a cautious hope in her eyes. You nodded.

Corbeau

Corbeau noticed something was wrong. He just hadn’t realized how wrong.

Scolipede was restless—more than usual. Its massive body shifted along the stone floor of the arena in his office, plates scraping faintly as it moved, legs flexing and retracting in a way that spoke of irritation rather than readiness.

Corbeau stood near the doorway, arms folded.

“You’ll work it off,” he said calmly. “You always do.”

Scolipede huffed, mandibles clicking, body curling in on itself with a frustrated twitch.

You watched from Corbeau’s side, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm when you leaned forward. You didn’t miss the way his posture softened at the contact—even if he didn’t comment on it.

“…How long has he been like this?” you asked.

Corbeau glanced at you before looking back at Scolipede. “Since this morning. Maybe earlier.” He paused. “He's molting. Unpleasant, but not dangerous.”

You stepped closer to Scolipede, crouching just enough to see where the old exoskeleton had begun to split—and where it hadn’t.

“That’s true,” you said gently. “But this part shouldn’t still be stuck.”

Scolipede shifted again, clearly uncomfortable, a low chitter rumbling from deep in its thorax.

You looked back at Corbeau. “Do you mind if I help?”

Corbeau studied you for a moment. Not assessing your competence—you’d long since proven that—but measuring the situation. Trust. Risk. Need.

“…Explain,” he said.

“Warm water," you began, "Not hot. It’ll soften the old exoskeleton so it can come off without pulling at the joints. Like helping reptile pokemon with a bad shed.”

Corbeau’s gaze flicked to Scolipede again. Then back to you.

“…I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted.

You smiled faintly. “You don’t have to. You’re busy. But I think it’s been trying to get through this on its own longer than it should.”

That earned a sharp click from Scolipede—half pride, half protest.

Corbeau exhaled slowly. “…Very well.”

With a quite order to Philippe to take over until he returned, Corbeau drove you to his apartment and led you to his bathroom. The bathroom was quiet and expansive, stone and glass softened by steam as he filled the sunken bath with warm water. Corbeau adjusted the temperature carefully, testing it with his hand before nodding once.

Together, you guided Scolipede toward the large tub.

It hesitated, massive body coiling slightly, but when you laid your hand against one of its armored segments, Corbeau felt the shift immediately—how Scolipede stilled at your touch.

“It’ll help,” you murmured. “I promise.”

After a tense beat, Scolipede lowered itself into the warm water. Steam curled faintly around its body, and almost at once, its movements eased.

You rolled up your sleeves. Corbeau stepped closer—not crowding, but close enough that your elbow brushed his hand as you worked.

“There,” you said softly, fingers tracing the split where the old exoskeleton had caught. “This part’s pulling.”

You didn’t pull. Just supported—letting the water do the work, easing the brittle shell away as Scolipede shifted on instinct. Slowly, the old plates began to loosen, peeling back in sections.

Scolipede let out a low, relieved sound.

Corbeau watched in silence, eyes sharp—not just on the process, but on you. The steadiness of your hands. The calm in your voice. The way Scolipede trusted you without question.

“…He's calmer,” he observed.

“Because he's not hurting anymore,” you replied, just as quietly.

You worked methodically, freeing one segment at a time, never rushing. When the last stubborn piece finally slipped away, Scolipede shuddered—and then straightened, posture stronger, cleaner, lighter.

It clicked once, satisfied.

You stepped back, smiling. “There we go.”

Corbeau approached, resting a hand against Scolipede’s side—his usual grounding touch. The Pokémon leaned into it, content.

“…You should have told me,” Corbeau said softly—to Scolipede.

Then he turned to you.

“…And you were right,” he added. “I assumed endurance would be enough.”

You glanced up at him. “It usually is. Just not always.”

For a moment, Corbeau said nothing.

Then—very deliberately—his hand settled at the small of your back. A quiet claim. A quiet acknowledgment.

“…I’ll remember that,” he said.

Scolipede shifted closer to you, mandibles clicking once in approval.

Corbeau watched the interaction, thoughtful.

“…It seems,” he said at last, voice low, “that I trust your judgment more than I realized.”

You smiled.

And for the rest of the evening, Scolipede remained unusually close—clean, comfortable, and very aware of who had noticed when something was wrong.

==========

Grisham

Grisham knew his Pyroar was dramatic. He just hadn’t fully appreciated how dramatic until now.

She sat across the room, tail flicking irritably, golden eyes fixed on you with open suspicion. Every time you so much as shifted your weight, she let out a low, warning rumble—more attitude than threat, but unmistakably feline.

You, meanwhile, knelt on the floor with a small pouch of treats, a towel folded neatly beside you, and a pair of sturdy clippers in hand.

“It’s just a trim,” you said calmly. “Nothing scary.”

Pyroar responded with a huff and turned her head away.

Grisham watched from nearby, arms folded—not tense, just curious. “I appreciate the offer,” he said carefully, “but… she’s not a dog. Her claws are meant to be sharp.”

You smiled up at him. “They are. But she’s also not living on volcanic rock or rough savanna terrain anymore.”

He blinked. “…Go on.”

You reached out slowly, letting Pyroar sniff your hand before offering her a treat. She took it—grudgingly.

“In the wild, she’d be running, climbing, digging. That wears her nails down naturally,” you explained. “Here in Lumiose? Sure there's hard ground, but how often do you let her run outside? There's not nearly enough abrasion.”

Pyroar flicked her tail again, as if personally offended by the accusation.

“If they get too long,” you continued, “they can split, snag, or throw off her posture. That can lead to joint pain.”

Grisham’s expression softened immediately.

“…I didn’t realize,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said gently. “You’re busy running Cafe Nouveau. That’s why I offered.”

He nodded once, thoughtful. “Alright. I trust you.”

That trust did not extend to Pyroar. The moment you reached for her paw, she pulled it back dramatically, letting out a sharp rrrow.

“Easy, girlie,” you soothed. “I’ve got you.”

She tried again—half-hearted swipe, more warning than attack.

Grisham stepped forward instinctively. “If she’s uncomfortable—”

“I know,” you said, calm as ever. “We’ll go slow.”

You waited. Offered another treat. Let Pyroar take it from your palm this time. When she relaxed just enough, you gently took her paw, fingers firm but respectful.

She tensed.

You paused.

“Good girl,” you murmured.

The first claw snipped cleanly.

Pyroar froze—then looked at her paw like she’d been betrayed.

The second claw earned a dramatic growl.

The third earned a sulky glare.

By the time you reached the fourth, she was clearly over it—but still cooperating, chewing treats with exaggerated annoyance.

Grisham couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his mouth.

“…You’re remarkably patient,” he said.

You laughed softly. “Pokemon respond better when you respect their pace.”

When the last nail was trimmed, you released Pyroar’s paw and leaned back, exhaling in relief. “All done.”

Pyroar sniffed her paw suspiciously. Then—grudgingly—sat, clearly pleased despite herself.

Grisham crouched beside her, resting a hand against her mane. “You did well,” he told her.

She preened.

That was when Charizard stomped over. He glanced at Pyroar. Then at you.

Then—very deliberately—lifted one small paw and placed it directly into your hands.

You burst out laughing.

“Oh—of course,” you said. “Show-off.”

Charizard rumbled happily, tail swaying.

Pyroar’s ears flattened.

Grisham laughed too, quiet and genuine. “I think he’s trying to make a point.”

You quickly clipped Charizard’s three claws. “See? Cooperation.”

Pyroar sniffed, offended.

Grisham looked at you then, expression warm and sincere.

“…Thank you,” he said. “For noticing things I miss.”

You smiled. “That’s what partners are for.”

And as Charizard proudly held out his other paw, Grisham had to admit—

He was very glad you were one of them.

==========

Ivor

Ivor had trained Falinks for strength. Endurance. Formation. Precision. What he had not trained for was… maintenance.

Falinks stood in formation on the mat, six little bodies aligned perfectly, armor dulled from weeks of hard training. Ivor crossed his arms, nodding proudly.

“See?” he said. “They’re solid. Took hits all week.”

You crouched down, examining them more closely. “They did,” you agreed. “But look here.”

You tapped lightly against one of the outer plates. The sound was still firm—but not as clean as it could be.

“These scuffs?” you continued. “That’s stress wear. It doesn’t mean they’re weak—but it does mean they’re working harder than they need to.”

Ivor blinked. “…Huh.”

Falinks shifted, a few of them turning their little eye-slits toward you.

“You ever polish them?” you asked.

Ivor laughed. “What—like a trophy?”

“Like armor,” you corrected, already reaching for the supplies you’d brought. “And after that, wax.”

The laughter died instantly.

“…Wax?” he repeated.

You nodded. “Protective coating. Helps keep the surface smooth, seals micro-cracks, and reduces impact drag when they charge.”

Ivor stared at you. Then at Falinks. Then back at you.

“…That’s genius.”

You grinned. “Sit them down. One at a time.”

Falinks didn’t need to be told twice. One of them immediately shuffled forward, stance proud.

You showed Ivor how to polish first—small circular motions, firm but careful. He mimicked you, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he worked.

“Oh wow,” he said. “Look at that shine!”

Falinks puffed up visibly.

Then came the wax.

You demonstrated again, thinner layer this time, explaining how it reinforced the outer shell without restricting movement. Ivor followed your lead, enthusiasm growing with every step.

“This is like pre-battle buffing,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Why does nobody talk about this?”

“Because most people just train harder instead of smarter,” you replied.

He gasped. “That’s—wow. That’s profound.”

You snorted, and shook your head.

By the time all six were done, Falinks stood gleaming—armor smooth, edges clean, posture somehow even prouder than before. They snapped into formation with a sharp clack.

Ivor stared at them, awed. “…They look incredible,” he said softly.

Falinks saluted.

You laughed, brushing your hands off. “Told you.”

Ivor turned to you suddenly, eyes bright. “You have to teach me everything you know.”

You raised a brow. “Everything?”

“About how to care for Falinks and the others,” he clarified quickly—then flushed. “I mean—unless—”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll teach you,” you said warmly.

He froze. Then grinned so hard it was a miracle his face didn’t hurt.

Falinks immediately erupted into excited movement, clearly celebrating.

Ivor laughed, wrapping an arm around you. “Best girlfriend ever!”

==========

Urbain

Urbain noticed the smell first. Not because it was unpleasant—but because it was stronger than usual.

Meganium stood near the window, head lowered slightly, massive body still in a way that didn’t suit her. The petals around her neck drooped, dusted faintly with golden pollen that caught the light when she shifted.

Urbain frowned. “Hey… you alright, girl?”

Meganium let out a soft, low sound—not distressed, but clearly uncomfortable.

You stepped closer, inhaling carefully. “That’s a lot of pollen.”

Urbain blinked. “Is it?”

You nodded. “Yeah. She’s probably overdue for a clean.”

He laughed lightly. “She’s a plant Pokémon. Isn’t pollen kind of the point?”

“It is,” you agreed. “But not like this.”

You reached up slowly, brushing a finger near one of the petals. A faint cloud puffed free.

Meganium sneezed, followed by you coughing.

Urbain stared. “…Oh.”

“In the wild,” you explained, catching your breath, “she’d be moving constantly. Wind, rain, other Pokémon brushing past her—pollen disperses naturally. But here?” You gestured around the apartment. “It settles. Builds up. Gets heavy. Especially if you don't let her out a lot.”

Meganium shifted, clearly relieved just hearing it explained.

Urbain scratched the back of his neck. “…So she’s uncomfortable because she’s too well taken care of.”

You smiled. “Basically.”

He exhaled, then brightened immediately. “Alright! What do we do?”

You grabbed a soft brush and a cloth you’d prepared. “We help her out.”

Out in the courtyard in front of Hotel Z, Meganium watched you approach, wary but trusting. When you began brushing gently along the outer petals, more pollen lifted into the air, drifting lazily.

Meganium sighed.

Urbain’s eyes widened. “Did—did she just relax?”

You laughed. “Yup.”

He knelt beside you, clearly fascinated. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“I don't blame you. Besides, we had bigger fish to fry” you said kindly. “Though, they don't teach things like this in pokemon school, too many pokemon to keep track of. You'd only know something like this either from experience, or from an expert like a breeder. Or even a professor.”

He nodded seriously. “Will you teach me?”

You showed him how to brush with the curve of the petals, how to shake excess pollen free without tugging, how to wipe the base where it tended to collect. Urbain followed along eagerly, movements careful despite his usual energy.

Meganium leaned subtly into his touch.

“Oh,” Urbain murmured. “I think she likes this.”

"It probably feels good," you said.

Meganium hummed in agreement.

Pollen floated everywhere now—golden, warm, faintly glowing in the afternoon light. Urbain sneezed suddenly.

“Oh no,” you laughed.

Meganium absolutely did not laugh—but she did flick her petals smugly.

Urbain wiped his nose, grinning. “Worth it.”

When you finished, Meganium lifted her head higher, posture lighter, petals clean and free. She took a deep breath and released a much softer, balanced scent.

Urbain rested a hand against her neck. “Better?”

Meganium cried happily.

He turned to you, eyes warm and a little awed. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You raised a brow. “For brushing pollen?”

“For noticing,” Urbain corrected. “For knowing how to help.”

He leaned in and kissed you—quick, affectionate, full of gratitude.

Behind you, Meganium gave a pleased little trill, petals fluttering gently now that they weren’t weighed down.

Urbain laughed softly. “Alright. New rule.”

You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Petal care is officially a team activity.”

"Uh...I don't think Lida or Naveen would appreciate this new rule."

Meganium agreed.

Urbain turned thoughtful. "Hmm, you're probably right," he said. Then his eyes widened as he shot you a cheeky grin.

"Alright, then. Petal care is officially a couple activity!"

==========

Vinnie

You noticed the fur first.

Drampa’s long, cloudlike mane was usually immaculate—soft, flowing, a quiet extension of his calm presence. Tonight, it was uneven, puffed in places where it had been absentmindedly raked through, strands clumping instead of drifting.

Drampa stood near the window, tail flicking, eyes sharp with irritation.

You didn’t hesitate.

You reached for the brush and stepped right up to him, familiar enough that he only glanced your way before lowering his head expectantly.

“There you are. I wondered where you went,” you murmured, already working the brush through his mane.

Drampa let out a low, pleased sound, leaning into you at once.

As you brushed, loose fur lifted and settled, tension easing with every slow stroke. Drampa’s restless shifting slowed, his posture softening as the brush followed familiar paths.

Vinnie came into the room, brows knit—not worried, just… tired.

“He’s been irritable all evening,” he said. “I thought it was the weather.”

You shook your head gently. “It’s not just that.”

You brushed a little more firmly, smoothing a place near his neck where the fur had tangled most. Drampa sighed, heavy and relieved.

“This is stress,” you continued. “His fur shows it before anything else.”

Vinnie exhaled slowly.

“…My daughter usually does this,” he admitted after a moment. “She brushes him every night she’s here. Talks to him while she does it.”

Your hand stilled—but only for a second.

“And she’s not here right now,” you said softly.

He shook his head. “She's with her mother this week.” A pause. “The place feels louder without her.”

Drampa shifted, pressing closer to you both.

Vinnie’s voice dropped. “She keeps me grounded. Both of them do.” He rubbed at his temple. “With work, and Urbain leaning on me, and the house being quiet… I didn’t realize how much I was carrying.”

You reached back and gently took his hand, guiding it to the brush.

“Then let’s do it together,” you said.

He hesitated—then nodded.

You showed him the rhythm his daughter used, the pressure Drampa liked best. His movements were careful at first, almost reverent, but Drampa leaned into his touch immediately, curling closer with a soft, contented rumble.

Vinnie swallowed.

“…He’s calmer,” he said.

“So are you,” you replied.

He gave a small, tired smile.

Drampa finally settled down, massive body folding comfortably, tail curling around the space where you and Vinnie sat. His breathing evened out, fur smooth once more beneath the brush.

You leaned lightly against Vinnie’s shoulder.

He didn’t pull away.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You don’t have to hold everything by yourself.”

Drampa shifted, nudging you both insistently closer until neither of you had much choice but to stay.

Vinnie let out a soft huff of laughter. “Guess we’re not going anywhere.”

You set the brush aside and turned toward him instead, slipping closer until his shoulder met yours. He hesitated for half a heartbeat—then relaxed, arm coming around you naturally, like his body had been waiting for permission.

Drampa settled fully then, massive form curling protectively around the space you shared, tail a warm barrier at your backs. His breathing evened out, slow and deep, the room filling with that familiar calm he carried when everything was finally right.

You tucked yourself against Vinnie’s chest, his chin resting lightly against your hair.

“…This is nice,” he murmured, voice already soft with sleep.

You smiled.

You drifted off together—unrushed, unburdened—held in place by a dragon who refused to let either of you go anywhere at all.

==========

Philippe

Philippe adored Skarmory. That, at least, was obvious.

What wasn’t obvious—until you pointed it out—was why Skarmory had spent the better part of the afternoon pacing, wings twitching, feathers rattling irritably every time she shifted.

“I’ve checked her joints,” Philippe said, hands fluttering as he listed things off. “Sharpened her talons, polished her feathers and plates—everything is as it should be.”

Skarmory snapped her beak in sharp disagreement.

You stepped closer, eyeing the base of her wings. “May I take a look?”

Philippe immediately moved aside. “Of course.”

You leaned in carefully, fingers hovering near the overlapping feathers. There—thin, rigid sheaths clustered near the shoulder joint, barely visible unless you knew to look.

“Pin feathers,” you said.

Philippe blinked. “But she’s Steel-type.”

“She’s also a bird,” you replied gently. “And in the wild, she wouldn’t deal with this alone.”

He tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

You glanced at Skarmory, who had very deliberately turned her body to block you from getting closer.

“A mate,” you explained. “Or even just another Skarmory she trusts. They’d help break down the sheaths—preen the spots she can’t reach herself.”

Skarmory puffed up slightly at that, clearly unimpressed with the comparison.

Philippe looked between you and his Pokémon, then softened. “…Oh.”

He crouched beside Skarmory at once. “You should have told me, my dear.”

She huffed, wings rattling sharply.

You smiled faintly. “She’s bonded to you. That’s why she’s uncomfortable—and why she’s being difficult with me.”

Difficult was an understatement.

The moment you reached toward her wing, Skarmory snapped—not close enough to hurt you, but very clear in her opinion. You pulled your hand back immediately.

Philippe straightened. “Skarmory.”

She froze.

“That is enough,” he said firmly—not angry, but unmistakably serious. “She is trying to help you.”

Skarmory clicked her beak, indignant, but didn’t move away this time.

You waited. Didn’t rush. Let Skarmory watch you. Then you reached for a cloth and a small vial of oil.

“Slow,” you murmured—not just to Skarmory, but to Philippe too. “These spots are sensitive.”

Skarmory flinched when you touched the first sheath, wings twitching irritably.

Philippe leaned closer, placing a hand near her beak in case she were to snap again. “Easy,” he said, tone gentler now. “You trust me.”

She stilled—just barely.

You worked carefully, rubbing oil between your fingers before massaging the base of the pin feather. The sheath resisted at first, then slowly began to crumble away, revealing a newly formed steel feather beneath.

Skarmory shuddered, then relaxed.

Philippe inhaled sharply. “Did you feel that?”

You smiled. “Relief.”

He didn’t hesitate after that. When you handed him the cloth, he took it seriously—hands steady, expression focused as he mimicked your movements.

“Like this?” he asked.

“Perfect,” you said.

Skarmory tried to pull away once more, clearly testing boundaries.

Philippe cleared his throat. “Skarmory.”

She paused.

“…Behave.”

She grumbled—but stayed.

Bit by bit, the pin feathers were freed. Skarmory’s wings lifted more easily now, posture loosening as irritation faded into grudging acceptance.

When the last stubborn sheath came away, Skarmory gave a sharp shake—then settled, preening proudly.

Philippe let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“…Thank you,” he said softly, turning to you. “I would never have thought of this.”

You shrugged lightly. “And how could you? You're busy helping Corbeau with the Rust Syndicate. Do you even get a break?”

He smiled—warm, sincere, unmistakably Philippe.

Before you could react, he leaned down and kissed you—quick, affectionate, full of gratitude, mindful of his spikey sideburns.

Skarmory clanged her wings sharply.

Philippe laughed. “Yes, yes—I know.”