Figured it's time to do something like this so that everything is organized. Bear with me, I'm still trying to figure out how to work this website despite having an account for YEARS (and I mean YEARS).
Ask/Request Guidelines: PLEASE READ BEFORE SUBMITTING
As of 6/1/2026 Writing Asks/Requests are CLOSED
Bean and cheese enchiladas. Most of everything was homemade: the enchilada sauce, the refried beans (made from canned pinto beans), and homemade sweet-potato tortillas!
I saw on a tik tok that the TFC day 3 will be released in June/July they confirmed it with google search. Is that real?
Mod Destiny here!
TikTok and a few other forums (even some blogs/youtubers) are CONSTANTLY spreading misinformation about the game, especially in regards to the release date or the character's being related by blood (they aren't). As of now, there is no set time for day3, but any updates will be found on Neko's Patreon or HERE first!
Please ONLY get your news from here, as this is the official site.
Don't listen to ANY TikTok that claims to have info about the game or connection to Neko: they're ALL lying.
Tried to give Mario Kart World another shot. I think I'm always going to prefer Mario Kart 8 Deluxe (and by extension, Mario Kart DD and Mario Kart 64).
Hey everyone! As of today I am no longer accepting anymore writing requests for the time being. I want to start seriously focusing on my original works, and also, I have like...49 requests in my inbox that I'd like to/should get through (not counting some of the commission trades I'm still working on).
You are still free to send things to share (artwork, screenshots of games, etc.), or just general things for me to yap about. I don't want any of you to feel like you can't send me asks, just no writing prompts/requests/ideas, please.
Itâs okay to cut off family members if theyâre toxic. Iâm estranged from both my mom and older brother. And the two memories Iâll always remember from both of them, which, they both think I should âjust get overâ because time has passed is:
Mom: her way of motivating me to do well in school was telling me that no one wants to be friends with someone who made Câs and Dâs. Context: I struggled real hard going from public to private school, starting in 6th grade.
Brother: At a moment when I needed him the most, because my relationship with my mom was terrible when it came to academics, told me âMom is wasting money sending you to that school.â
You may not be able to choose your biological family (well, Iâm adopted, so theyâre not my biological family, but you get the point), but you can definitely choose who IS your family.
Word Count: 3,125
CW: smut, nsfw, MDNI, minors do not interact, 18+ only
Taglist (if you would like to be added to the taglist, leave a comment so I can remember! My brain isn't the best sometimes, but I'll try my best to tag you in the future chapters!):
Your breathing came back to you first, uneven and heavy, your body still trembled faintly as the last waves passed through you.
Behind you, Sycamore exhaled softly, his forehead dipping briefly against your shoulder as he steadied himself. One of his hands slid up your side, soothing, grounding, while the other remained at your hip.
In front of you, Lysandreâs touch gentled. His fingers moved through your hair in slow, deliberate strokes, smoothing it back from your face as though committing the sight of you to memory. His gaze lingered, still intent, but quieter now. Satisfied.Â
Then, after a moment, his hand slipped from you, and he moved closer to Sycamore. Lysandreâs hand came up to Sycamoreâs jaw, tilting his face toward him before their mouths met again. This kiss was slower, but no less intense. Lysandre pulled him in with quiet intent, his fingers tightening slightly in Sycamoreâs hair as his mouth claimed his, not rushed, but not gentle either. Sycamore met him without hesitation, a soft, pleased sound slipping from him as he leaned into the contact, entirely at ease with the weight of Lysandreâs attention.
And behind you, Sycamoreâs body moved again, subtle at first. A slow, absent grind of his hips into you. You let out a small, breathy sound, your arms trembling slightly as you tried to keep yourself upright, the lingering sensitivity making every movement feel heavier, deeper. One of Sycamoreâs hands returned to your waist, steadying you without breaking the kiss, thumb brushing lightly along your side in quiet reassurance.
The two men parted only slightly, foreheads brushing as they exchanged a few low, murmured wordsâKalosian, soft and fluid between them.
âOn devrait faire une pauseâŠâ Sycamore murmured, breath still warm from the kiss.Â
Sycamore huffed a quiet, breathless laugh, glancing briefly toward you before leaning in again, his voice softer now.
âTu peux tâoccuper dâelle?â he asked.Â
(Can you take care of her?)
There was a brief pause. Then, simplyâ
âBien sĂ»r.âÂ
(Of course.)
Lysandreâs gaze flicked toward you again, something measured passing through his expression before he leaned in once more, stealing a brief, lingering kiss from Sycamore. Then he moved off of the bed and left the room.
Behind you, Sycamore moved, withdrawing from you slowly, and carefully. The sensation drew a soft, tired sound from you, your body instinctively relaxing the moment he did, the effort of holding yourself up catching up all at once. You collapsed forward onto the bed, then rolled onto your side, limbs heavy, your whole body humming with the aftermath.
âHow are you?â he asked, voice low and genuine.
You let out a small breath, eyes half-lidded. âIâm good,â you murmured. âJustâŠa little tired.â
He chuckled softly against your skin.Â
âUnderstandable.â
His hand slid along your side in slow, soothing strokes. âNo pain?â he asked, a little more carefully this time.
You hesitated. ââŠMaybe a little sore.â
That earned another quiet laugh, fond, not dismissive, as he pressed a few more gentle kisses along your shoulder and neck.Â
âIâd be surprised if you werenât,â he murmured. âYou did very well for your first time.â His hand lingered, thumb brushing slow circles into your hip. âWeâll take care of you,â he added softly.
There was something reassuring in the way he said it. Easy, certain. You let yourself relax into the mattress a little more.Â
Thenâ
âRest for a bit,â he continued, shifting slightly as he began to sit up. âWeâre not quite finished yet.â
Your eyes opened more fully. ââŠNot finished?â you echoed, dumbly, blinking up at him.
But Sycamore was already moving, sliding off the bed with an easy stretch, not bothering to cover himself, as he headed toward the bathroom.Â
He glanced back at you, that familiar, warm smile tugging at his lips. âI promise youâll enjoy it,â he said lightly, and disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, your body still heavy from the aftershocks, limbs reluctant to cooperate as you gathered yourself. The room felt quieter now, emptier in a way, without Sycamoreâs warmth immediately at your back.
âNotâŠfinishedâŠ?â you murmured under your breath, more to yourself than anything, still trying to process that.
The soft click of the door pulled your attention.Â
Lysandre returned.
He moved with the same composed ease as before, now carrying a glass of chilled water in one hand, and a small plate in the otherâberries, grapes, and a neatly arranged orange resting among them. He set them down within your reach before offering you the glass.
âDrink,â he said simply.
You didnât hesitate. Your fingers curled around the cool surface, and you took a long, grateful sip, then another, not realizing just how thirsty you were until the water hit your tongue. The chill of it was refreshing, grounding, helping settle the lingering haze in your mind.
âThank you,â you murmured, lowering the glass.
Lysandre inclined his head slightly, already reaching for a grape, rolling it briefly between his fingers before eating it. He watched you for a moment. Assessing. âHow are you feeling?â he asked.Â
The same question. But from him, it landed differently. Less gentle, perhaps, but no less attentive.
You exhaled softly, reaching for a strawberry. âIâm good,â you said, echoing your earlier answer before adding, âBetter than I thought Iâd be.â You glanced at him, a faint, almost sheepish smile tugging at your lips. âFor a first time, I mean.â
Lysandreâs gaze sharpened slightly at that. âYou handled yourself well,â he said.Â
Simple. Certain. Not flattery. But assessment.
âAnd,â he added after a brief pause, âyou handled us well.â
There was weight to that. Recognition. Respect.
âI admire that.â
Heat crept faintly into your cheeks at the bluntness of it. You looked down briefly, turning a grape between your fingers before popping it into your mouth.
âIt was a littleâŠsurreal,â you admitted after a moment. âAt first.â Your gaze lifted again. âBut the way you both handled thingsâhandled meâhelped.â
Another pause. Then, almost as an afterthoughtâ
ââŠThough Iâm still trying to process the whole âround twoâ thing.â
That earned the faintest shift in his expression. Not quite a smile, but close.
âThat,â Lysandre said calmly, reaching for another piece of fruit, âis why I brought these.â His gaze flicked briefly to the plate. âSo that you have the energy.â
You blinked. Then huffed a small, quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as you reached toward the orange. âOf course it is.â
Lysandreâs hand closed lightly around your wrist. Not abrupt, but firm enough to stop you.
âPlease, allow me.â
You paused, glancing up at him.
ââŠYou donât have toââ
âI insist.â The words were calm. Matter-of-fact. Not dismissive. JustâŠdecided.Â
His grip eased, but didnât fully release until you let your hand fall back. Then, without another word, he picked up the orange. His fingers moved with quiet precision as he peeled the orange, the rind separating cleanly beneath his fingers. He took his time with it. No wasted motion, no haste, the citrus scent slowly blooming into the air between you, bright and fresh against the lingering warmth of the room.
You watched him. A little unsure. A little curious.Â
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Thenâ
âIt is not often,â he said, voice calm, measured, âthat we find someone capable of⊠accommodating us both.â His eyes flicked up briefly, meeting yours before returning to the fruit in his hands. âWe do not make a habit of this.â
You tilted your head slightly, watching him. âBecause of you?â you asked, a hint of teasing curiosity slipping in.
That earned the faintest pause.
âBecause of us,â he corrected.
The peel came away fully, and he began separating the segments with the same deliberate care.
âMost people,â he continued, âhave a preference. They want one, or the other.âÂ
A section came free. He set it aside.Â
âAnd even those who seek me outâŠâ A slight shift in his toneâsubtle, but there. âOften find that what they think they want is not what they can manage.â
You huffed a small laugh at that. âToo intimidating?â you offered lightly.
His gaze lifted again. âToo much,â he said simply.
Another segment separated cleanly in his hands.
âOr,â he added, almost as an afterthought, âI find them not worth the investment.â
That made you pause, and your brow lifted slightly.Â
ââŠThatâs kinda harsh.â
âIt is accurate.â There was no hesitation in it. No apology.
You shook your head a little, a quiet laugh slipping out despite yourself. âWell,â you said, leaning back slightly on your hands, âIâm not entirely sure what I did to earn that kind of praise or attention from the great Lysandre.â The teasing was light, but genuine.
Lysandre stilled for a moment. Then his eyes settled fully on you again. Whatever faint amusement had been there before shiftedâsharpened. âI do not offer praise lightly,â he said. Each word was deliberate and measured. âI mean what I say.â
There was weight behind it, just certainty. And before you could respond, he lifted one of the orange slices and held it just in front of your lips.Â
You hesitated only for a second. Then the memory flickered back to his cafe when he had fed you the last bite of his steak tartare with the same quiet insistence. Then, you parted your lips and took it, carefully, your lips brushing his fingers.Â
Lysandre didnât pull away immediately. His gaze remained fixed on you as you bit down and chewed, the juice sharp and sweet against your tongue. And something in his expression shifted again. Approval. Satisfaction. And desire.
You chewed thoughtfully, the sweetness of the orange lingering on your tongue as Lysandre reached for a segment of his own, lifting it with the same quiet precision. For a moment, the two of you simply ate in silenceâthe atmosphere no longer as charged as before, but far from neutral.
You glanced at him, watching the way he moved, the way he carried himself even in something as simple as eating. Then, almost without thinkingâ
âWhat drew you to himâto Augustine?â
Lysandre paused, just slightly. The segment hovered briefly between his fingers before he finished the motion, bringing it to his lips. He chewed once, twiceâunhurriedâbefore his gaze shifted back to you. It wasnât annoyance, or deflection. Just consideration.
âYouâre curious,â he noted.
You shrugged lightly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
âMaybe a little.â
A beat passed.
And then he indulged you.
âAugustine isâŠâ He paused, as though selecting the correct word. âExceptional.â A simple answer but the way he said it carried weight. âHe is not only a beautiful man, but a beautiful person.â
Another piece of orange was separated cleanly in his hands.
âHe represents what this world is capable of being,â Lysandre said. âWhat it should be.â There was something deeper beneath that now. Something firmer. âAnd that,â he added, more quietly, âis worth preserving.â
The word lingered, but you didnât fully unpack it. Not yet. Lysandre continued as if nothing had shifted. Â
âAnd,â he added, almost more lightly, âhe is one of the few who can tolerate me.â
That drew a soft huff of amusement from you.
âTolerate you?â
Lysandreâs gaze flicked back to you. âI am aware,â he said evenly, âthat I am notâŠeasy.â There was no insecurity in it. Just fact. âIntense. Demanding. At timesâŠoverwhelming.â
A small pause.
âIntimidating, to some.â
You nodded slowly.
ââŠYeah, you are,â you admitted. âAt first.â
That caught his attention. âOnly at first?â he asked. There was the faintest edge of curiosity there now.
âYou canât overthink it,â you continued. âAnd you shouldnât try to change it.â Your fingers stilled. âYou have to justâŠadjust to it. Learn how to meet it where it is.â A small breath. âTemper it a little. Work with it.â
You glanced up at him.
âNot endure it.â
Something in Lysandreâs expression changed. Subtleâbut immediate.
Your attention dipped back to the fruit in your hand. âAnd once you do that,â you added lightly, âitâs not overwhelming anymore. It justâŠis.â Without thinking, you lifted the orange slice toward him. The gesture was easy. Innocent. Your fingers brushing just slightly against his lower lip as you offered it.
For a split second, nothing happened. Thenâhis hand closed around your wrist. You barely had time to register the shift before he suddenly pulled you forward, and his mouth claimed yours. Hot and demanding.
You tasted it immediately: the faint citrus of the orange still lingering on his tongue, sharp and sweet beneath the heat of the kiss. It made everything feel more vivid, more immediate, your senses catching on it as his lips moved against yours with unmistakable intent. This wasnât like before. There was no careful restraint now. No distance.
Lysandre pressed forward, and you went with him.
Your back met the bed in a smooth, controlled motion, his hand still at your wrist guiding you down as his body followed, settling between your legs with purpose. The shift drew a soft sound from youâhalf surprise, half something elseâas you felt him there, solid and warm, already beginning to harden against you.
For a split second, you froze. Caught off guard by the sudden intensity. But then, you responded. Your hands came up instinctively, finding him, his shoulders, his arms, as you matched him, meeting the kiss with your own growing urgency, your body already reacting, already opening to him.
Lysandre seemed to approve of that. The shift in you. Because the kiss changed. Deepened. Then broke. Not away. Just lower. His mouth dragged from your lips to your jaw, then down along your neck, each kiss deliberate, heated, leaving a trail that made your breath catch as he moved. He didnât rush it, but there was nothing gentle in the way his lips pressed to your skin, the way his teeth grazed, then nippedâjust enough to make you gasp.
Marks.Â
Intentional.
Claiming.
Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested against him as he continued, his mouth working lower, the heat of his breath following the path he carved along your throat.
He reached your chest and unclasped the lingerie bra, freeing your breasts, and then paused, but only for a second. Then his mouth was on you.
The first contact drew a sharp inhale from you as he closed around your nipple, not tentative, not teasing, but immediate, and consuming. His tongue flicked against you, firm, deliberate, before his lips sealed, pulling, tugging, the sensation intense enough to make your back arch slightly beneath him.
âAhââ The sound slipped out before you could stop it.
And that only seemed to encourage him.
His hand came up to steady you, fingers pressing into your side as his mouth workedâtongue, teeth, pressureâevery movement purposeful, every shift designed to pull more from you, to build, to push. Your body responded instantly. Heat pooled low again, faster this time, your breath growing uneven as your fingers slid into his hair, gripping lightly without thinking.
âLysandreââ His name came out breathless and unsteady.
He released you just enough to drag his mouth across your skin, a final, lingering pull before moving back upâback to your throat, your jaw, your lips. And then he kissed you again. Hard. Hungry.
Any restraint that had been there before now sharpened into something focused, something consuming as he took your mouth again, his hand coming up to your jaw to hold you there, to keep you with him as your bodies moved together, your breath, your sounds, your reactions feeding into his own.
âWell,â came Sycamoreâs voice from across the room, warm and unmistakably amused, âI see you two didnât waste any time.â
Lysandre broke the kiss. His mouth lingered close to yours, breath still warm against your lips before he finally pulled back, slowly, and deliberately, his hand remaining at your jaw as his gaze shifted past you toward the doorway.
You turned your head slightly.
Sycamore stood there, one hand braced casually against the doorframe, hair still slightly damp, completely naked and entirely entertained. His eyes flicked between the two of you, taking in the sight, the position, the flushed skin, the marks already beginning to form, and his smile widened just a touch.
âI leave for a few minutes,â he continued lightly, âand youâve already started without me.â There was no accusation in it. Only humor, and interest.
Lysandreâs thumb brushed once along your jaw before his hand slipped away, though he didnât move farâstill between your legs, still close.Â
âYou were taking too long,â he replied evenly.
Sycamore huffed a quiet laugh at that, pushing himself off the doorframe as he stepped fully back into the room.
âIs that so?â
His gaze settled on you then, softer, checking in even as that familiar warmth returned to his expression. âWell,â he added, voice dipping just slightly as he approached, âI suppose I shouldnât keep you waiting any longer.â
Lysandre turned back to you, lowering his face to yours and brushed his nose lightly against your cheek in a brief, grounding nuzzle as he murmured to you.Â
âImpatienteâŠâ The word was low, almost teasing, meant more for you than anyone else.
Then he moved, smoothly, composed once more. He slipped off of you, the sudden absence of his weight noticeable as he reached for the tray and glass, lifting them from the bed with practiced ease. The shift gave you space to breathe, to feel the lingering heat heâd left behind.
Without another word, Lysandre turned and made his way toward the bathroom.
As he passed Sycamore, there was the briefest glance between them. Something silent, and understood, before Lysandre disappeared inside, the door closing softly behind him.
Word Count: 1,139
Character/Pairing: Griselle x female reader
Summary: Griselle hasn't forgotten the tomato incident and decides to have you help her with her Talonflame's dirt bath...
The Sinnoh-mud bags were heavier than they looked, but youâd been hauling garden compost for seasons now; your muscles flexed with a quiet, reliable strength that Griselleâs sharp blue gaze couldnât help but linger on, even as she pretended to be unimpressed. Wild Zone 8 baked under the late morning sun, the sand shimmering as you carried the last of the bags from the zone entrance, arms flexing naturally under the heavy weight. Griselle trailed behind, arms folded, her ponytail bobbing, glasses perched on her nose and her lips pursed in a quintessentially unimpressed line.
Griselle rolled her eyes, voice dry. âAnd waste gas? In this economy? Please. Besides, I thought you liked a challenge.â
âI also like efficiency,â you snorted, dropping the bag where the others were, shoulders gleaming with sweat. âAnd donât act like youâd be wasting gas. Itâs only a few blocks away.â
She made a show of inspecting her nails. âJust open and dump it where I said. And make sure itâs even.â
You let out a huff, then called out your Vaporeon and Greninja, who appeared with gleaming eyes, alert and ready. Greninja immediately took up a silent watch, eyes scanning the dunes for trouble, while Vaporeon padded over to nuzzle your knee, tail flicking. One by one, you tore open the bags and dumped them, clouds of dust blooming as the dirt poured out.Â
A few bags in, sweat glistening on your forehead, you paused, wiping your brow. âYouâre not still mad about the tomato thing, are you?â
She didnât answer, but the flat set of her mouth and the glint in her gaze said it all. You groaned, rolling your neck before throwing your hands up in exasperation. âAw, câmon, Griselle! I already apologized.â
She arched an eyebrow, her tone sing-song sharp. âShouldâve thought of that before you decided to get that disgusting vegetable on me.â
âItâs actually a fruit.â
Her eyes narrowed as her lips pursed. âWhatever. Get to work. Iâm not paying you to stand around and complain.â
You shot her a dirty look before tearing open another bag, the earthy scent of Sinnoh mud wafting up, rich and peaty. âYouâre not paying me at all,â you muttered under your breath. You dumped the dirt, savoring the stretch and flex in your arms, and caught her watching you, eyes narrowed, gaze trailing over your biceps. Hiding a grin, you hefted another bag, making sure to exaggerate the motion, feeling your muscles tense beneath your skin. âWhy do you even need all this dirt, anyway?â
She flipped her ponytail, not meeting your eyes. âItâs for Talonflame.â
You blinked, pausing mid-pour. âYour Talonflame needsââ You scrutinized the bag. ââimported dirt?â
Griselleâs lips twisted with annoyance. âYes. For her dirt bath.â
You shook the now empty bag before tossing it aside. âAnd whyâŠdoes your Talonflame need dirt? And why Sinnoh mud, specifically?â You peered at the bag again. âFrom Route 212⊠I thought that was the marsh...â
She ground her teeth, exasperation flaring. âItâs mineral-rich. Supposed to help with feather health. The mudâs got propertiesâlook, itâs a thing, okay?â
You walked over and reached for another bag. âWhy doesnât she just bathe like a normal bird? Thereâs a lake, or even the canalââ
âShe doesnât like water baths anymore,â Griselleâs voice softened just a fraction, âHad an accident with a Hydro Pump back in my Team Flare daysâleft her skittish. Sheâs avoided water baths ever since. Even if itâs raining outside. But sometimes, if itâs just drizzling, sheâll step out and fluff her feathers, but anything more than that and sheâll freak. Dirt baths are the only ways to keep her feathers somewhat clean and healthyâ
You listened, genuinely, hearing the note of protectiveness beneath her usual snark. âThatâs very sweet of you, Griselle. But why make me do the heavy lifting?â
She snapped back to her usual bite, âYou squirted a tomato on me! Youâre lucky I didnât make you carry these from Sinnoh yourself.â
âYou sure you didnât just want to ogle my arms?â
That caught her off guard. She jerked her gaze away, cheeks tinged with pink under her glasses. âKeep dreaming. Youâre not that impressive.â
You grinned, hoisting another bag and flexing deliberately. âIf youâre going to ogle, at least admit it. Look, youâre drooling.â
She sputtered, hand flying to her mouth, cheeks flushing. âI am not! Ugh, youâre so annoying, I swear!â
âYâknow,â you offered, scrubbing and washing the dirt off of your hands, âyou could get her a mister. One of those portable ones, with a little pump and a fine spray? If the drizzleâs the only water sheâll tolerate, it might help without waiting for the weather to cooperate. Might even make her less skittish about water, if she gets used to it on her own terms.â
Griselleâs gaze flicked to you, skepticism and interest warring in her blue eyes. âA mister,â she repeated, as if tasting the word. âWhat, like sheâs some prize rosebush?â
You shrugged, flashing her a smile. âSheâs rare, clearly high-maintenance, and you dote on her. Seems appropriate.â
She snorted, rolling her eyes, but you saw her considering it, a thoughtful tilt to her head. âIâll look into it. If she likes it, maybe youâll get out of dirt duty next time.â She turned her attention back to Talonflame, letting out a sigh, something softer than her usual exasperation. âSheâll be at it for a while.â Quieter, she added, âThank you.â
You grinned, flicking the water off of your hands before drying them on your pants. âAnytime. Besides, you clearly needed the view.â
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched, and you caught a rare, genuine smile hiding at the corner of her mouth. âDonât push your luck.â
âI want to write a fic about this but I donât think anybody will be interested in itâ ummm hello excuse me maâam what do you mean you donât think anybody will be interested in it??? YOU. YOU ARE INTERESTED IN IT???? write it because YOU are interested in it and YOU want to write about it. fanfic writing should always be first and foremost about YOUR enjoyment, not other peopleâs.
Word Count: 1,240
Characters: Griselle, Grisham
Summary: You're harvesting some crops from Lumiose's community rooftop gardens for the soup kitchen you all volunteer for since their supplies are low. When you find out that Griselle absolutely hates tomatoes, well...you decide to be a menace to her.
The air buzzed with the scent of ripe tomatoes, waxy leaves, and the faint sweetness of basil baking in the heat. You knelt in the soft soil of Hotel Zâs rooftop garden, hands sticky with tomato resin, a woven basket already half-full of glossy red and yellow fruit. Grisham stood a row over, his flame-colored hair cinched into its tidy ponytail, glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he delicately pinched sprigs of thyme and parsley, a second basket already brimming with tea leaves.Â
Griselle, who was closer to you, looked distinctly out of place among the tangled squash vines, her neat ponytail bobbing with every exasperated huff. She picked peppers with the air of someone performing a community service against her will, muttering under her breath about the indignity of hard labor. Her sigh was so theatrical it nearly wilted the basil. âYou know,â she called, snapping a pepper off its stem, âif youâd just ordered enough from the shelterâs supplier, we wouldnât be out here risking heatstroke for a bunch of vegetables.â
âWeâre short because the shelterâs demand increased,â Grisham replied, voice calm and annoyingly reasonable. âAnd this is hardly extra work. Itâs for a good cause.â He gently placed a bushel of parsley leaves he snipped into his basket. âAnd youâre the one who insisted on fresh, Griselle.â
She shot him a withering glare. âI meant fresh from the market, Gris, not from the gardens where itâs hot like Pyroarâs breath.â
Grisham didnât look up from the neat bunch of thyme he was snipping. âYou know what the gardens mean to the folks out here.â His voice was patient, a slight smile playing on his lips. âAfter all, we started Cafe Nouveau for those who canât afford the high prices of the cafes. What better way to provide for the people than community gardens?â
Grisham nodded, the faintest glimmer of a smile tugging at his mouth, as he straightened and brushed dirt off his knees. âYour idea to broker peace with the wild pokemon two summers ago was a brilliant solution. Iâll admit, I was skeptical, but the results speak for themselves.â He nodded toward a pair of wild Fletchling pecking delicately at a patch berries, their feathers gleaming in the light. âShared labor, shared bounty.â
That made your smile widen, and you started filling another basket with tomatoes, fingers flying over the vines. âYou know what? I think Iâll make some gazpacho too. Something cool to go with the ratatouille. We have so many tomatoes, itâd be a crime not to.â You looked pointedly at Griselle, who was glaring at a row of peppers like theyâd personally offended her. âHey Griselle, could you grab a few more peppers? And maybe a few cucumbers?â
Griselleâs ponytail bounced as she jerked her head up to look at you. âCucumbers? Why? Isnât the ratatouille enough work?â
âI need it for gazpacho,â you replied, filling your palm with sun-warmed tomatoes. âAnd thereâs plenty to go around.â You reached for another cluster of cherry tomatoes, singling out one and popping it into your mouth, savoring its umami and sweetness.
Griselle grumbled but moved off toward the next row, her movements quick and irritated. She shot you a sidelong look as you snacked, wrinkling her nose. âHow can you eat those things raw?â
Grisham, busy with his tea leaves, didnât look up. âLet her enjoy herself, Griselle.â
You licked juice from your thumb, grinning. âI adore tomatoes. Grew up with tomato sandwichesâjust thick slices, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, a little mayo, and nothing else. Sometimes Iâd eat them like apples.â
Griselle blanched, her blue eyes going wide behind her glasses. âThatâs disgusting. Seriously, who does that? Raw tomatoes are the single worst thing to ever happen to food. Theyâre slimy, theyâre seedy, and they ruin everything they touch. I donât know how you stomach them.â
You shrugged, popping another cherry tomato into your mouth, letting the juice burst across your tongue. âYouâre missing out. Tomatoes are summer in fruit form.â
She made a face, muttering under her breath about âtomato freaksâ and âculinary crimes,â but kept picking. You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.
The next time Griselle stomped by, basket full of peppers and newly picked cucumbers, you caught her eye, and selected a particularly plump cherry tomato. Then, making sure she was just close enough, popped it between your teeth, biting down with a flourish so the juice squirted straight at her, splattering across her white tank top.
Griselle shrieked, dropping her basket, peppers and cucumbers tumbling, hands flying to her shirt. âYou fucking bitch!â She frantically looked around for something to wipe it off with, spotting some towels on a table nearby. âEw, ew, ew, ew, ewwwwww!!!â
Grisham walked up to your side with his baskets, heaving a long-suffering sigh. âWas that really necessary?â
You grinned at him, licking tomato juice from your lips. âAbsolutely.âÂ
He regarded you with that inscrutable, almost amused look, then glanced at Griselle, who was busy swearing under her breath and trying to blot her shirt with a towel.
âYou realize she wonât speak to you for a week now,â he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. âProbably wonât even acknowledge your existence.âÂ
You shrugged, before moving to collect the fallen vegetables. âYou mean a week of peace and quiet without someone grumbling and complaining? Oh, whatever will I do?â You gathered and placed the vegetables in the abandoned basket. As you straightened you ginned and stretched in the sun, the prospect of a Griselle-free week tantalizing. âWhat about you, Grisham? Will you ignore me too?â
He considered, lips quirking in a rare smile. âTempting. It might be restful, just for a bit.â
You pouted, batting your lashes. âYeah, right. We both know you wouldnât last a few minutes without putting your hands on me, knowing Griselle would be out of the picture for a bit.â
He laughed, low and warm, shaking his head. âNo, I suppose I wouldnât, but Iâm willing to risk it for the novelty.â
Griselle, tank top ruined, stalked off down the row, muttering dire threats under her breath. You and Grisham watched her go, then shared a lookâa silent agreement that, for once, you were both on the same side. The sun blazed, the gardens thrived, and the promise of cooking ratatouille and gazpacho for dozens with laughter, friendship, and just the right amount of chaos.