Grisham in various situations, including where he might be taken advantage of in experiments by the Team Flare scientists. If that were the case, it's tragic people would have those head canons but also imbue him with deep remorse over being a supposed villain.
Gris shrugs off Pax's concern. He tells him it's okay. It doesn't hurt.
It's okay to touch it.
He admits it does hurt.
They're cute. They're sexy. They're both so good I can't choose!!!!!
Things I have decided are acidburn canon re the boys: While Grisham is objectively the better battler in a normal setting, Corbeau is better equipped for Pasio battling and initially does better with PML teamwork.
Grisham's original two pokemon were Charizard and Pyroar, he's very close with them, syncing with them would be no problem. The others were caught after the ultimate weapon sitch and he started pushing himself. The other four are all strong, they're all well trained, but they aren't used to just. Chilling and existing outside of battle time. They are not social creatures, they are always in Battling Mode. A bit of the unfortunate pokemon as tools thing going on. Syncing is a Problem so his options for effective team battle use are initially more limited.
Corbeau would have the squad just hanging out at home or in the office. They are very familiar with each other, they're used to being around Philippe's team and some of the more sensible grunts' socially. They're also so spoiled and so full of love. They're all better equipped for being on a 3v3 team and working with others, and the only one that has issues with syncing is the relatively new Barbaracle.
I just very much think it would be funny for their first orders of business when it comes to improving on the island to be "train up a couple of your other guys stronger to have better versatility for team comp" vs "....go about your normal errands but keep tyranitar or salamance out to socialize." Today Grish has to go get baking supplies with a baffled tyranitar by his side. Its Halping. It doesnt know why. This has never been part of its training???
Time for my last opponent but I learn what happened Mable from team flare. The next new mega evolution I seen was Pyraor. It doesn't seem that interesting design from all the other fire lions from other games.
Pairing: Grisham x Female Reader
Song: "Heat Waves" by Glass Animals
CW: sex, sex with men, smut, hurt, comfort
Another scene where Grisham cries XD But I absolutely love this song, and thought this was perfect for him.
Sometimes, all I think about is you—
Late nights in the middle of June—
Heat waves been fakin' me out—
Can't make you happier now.
The summer sun beat down on Lumiose City with a ferocity that made the asphalt shimmer and the air thick as syrup. Café Nouveau's first truck sat in its usual spot, awning stretched wide, the scent of roasting coffee beans mingling with the heat. Grisham worked the window with his usual precision—each order delivered with a polite nod, each cup placed just so, his bow tie still immaculate despite the sweltering humidity.
But his eyes kept drifting. To you.
You sat at one of the fold-out tables with Urbain, Lida, and Naveen, the three of them clustered around you like satellites orbiting a sun. Urbain was gesturing wildly about something, his enthusiasm spilling over, and Naveen was laughing, his usual reserve melted by the heat and your easy charm. Even Lida, the most sensible one of your group, was focused entirely on you. You sipped your iced coffee, condensation dripping down your fingers, and said something that made all three of them burst into delighted noise.
Grisham's hands stilled on the espresso machine. He watched the way you threw your head back when you laughed, the way you leaned into Lida's shoulder, the way the summer light caught in your hair. Something in his chest tightened—a feeling he'd grown accustomed to, though he'd never quite learned to name it.
Sometimes, all I think about is you—
Late nights in the middle of June—
Another time, when the heat was unbearable, you released your water Pokémon into the plaza. Your Feraligator, Vaporeon, and Blastoise—they arced water into the air with delighted cries, creating a makeshift sprinkler that glittered in the sun. Children screamed and laughed, running through the spray, their parents watching from the shade with grateful smiles.
And you joined them. You kicked off your sandals and ran through the water with the children, your white tank top and shorts sticking to your skin, your laughter ringing out across the plaza like bells. Grisham stood at the window of his truck, a cup of iced coffee forgotten in his hand, and watched you with an expression that was almost reverent.
You caught his eye through the spray, your face flushed with joy, and waved. He raised his hand in return, a small, restrained gesture, but you saw the way his lips curved—just slightly, just for you.
Heat waves been fakin' me out—
Can't make you happier now.
In the evenings, when the truck closed and the last customer wandered away, you waited on the curb, and when Grisham locked up and turned to you, you smiled like he was the only person in the world.
"Ready?" you asked, holding out your hand.
He took it. His fingers were long and slender, cool despite the heat, and they folded around yours with a gentleness that made your heart ache. You walked together through the quieting streets, the city softening into dusk, and when you reached his apartment building, he paused at the door and looked at you as if memorizing every detail.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For waiting."
You squeezed his hand. "Always."
Sometimes, all I think about is you—
Late nights in the middle of June—
The rooftop picnic became a ritual. Every Sunday, when the café was closed and the city slowed its frantic pace, you'd spread a checkered blanket on the rooftop of his building, unpack sandwiches and fruit and a thermos of cold lemonade. The skyline of Lumiose sprawled before you, all glass and steel and ancient stone, and the world felt small and distant and unimportant.
Grisham would loosen his bow tie and you'd feed him strawberries, your fingers brushing his lips. He'd tell you about his week in that low, measured voice, about the café, Griselle, and the team, and the small, careful steps he was taking to rebuild what Lysandre had destroyed. You'd listen, and when he finished, you'd take his hand and tell him you were proud of him.
He never quite knew what to do with that. The praise. The tenderness. It sat on him like an unfamiliar garment, something he hadn't earned, something that might be taken away at any moment.
Heat waves been fakin' me out—
Can't make you happier now.
The day he ended things, the heat was at its worst. The AC in his apartment had sputtered and died the night before, and the air was thick and still, pressing in from all sides. He stood by the window, his back to you, his ponytail sharp and severe, against the pale gray of his shirt, strands sticking to his damp neck and forehead.
"You deserve someone better," he said, his voice even and precise, each word a scalpel. "Someone without my history. My...past—."
You stared at him, your heart cracking open in your chest. "Grisham—"
"Team Flare will always be a part of me." He turned then, and his eyes—those sharp, intelligent eyes—were hollow. "I cannot escape what I was. What I am. And I will not drag you down with me."
"Let me decide what I can handle," you pleaded, but he was already shaking his head.
"I have made my decision." His voice broke, just barely, just for a moment. "Please. Don’t make this harder than it already is."
You left. You had to. The tears came before you reached the stairwell, hot and silent, and the city outside was too bright, too loud, too cruel. You walked for hours, your chest a hollow ache, and when you finally stopped, you found yourself at the plaza where his truck was parked—empty now, shuttered and dark.
Sometimes, all I think about is you—
Late nights in the middle of June—
Grisham sat alone in his apartment. The heat was oppressive, the air stagnant, but he barely noticed. He sat on the edge of his bed, his glasses on the nightstand, his head in his hands. The silence was unbearable. It pressed in on him, filled with the ghost of your laughter, the memory of your hand in his, the scent of strawberries and summer.
He had done the right thing. He knew he had. You deserved someone unburdened, someone who could give you the life you deserved without the shadow of Team Flare looming over every moment. You deserved happiness—real, uncomplicated happiness—and he could not give you that.
But knowing he was right did nothing to ease the ache in his chest. Nothing to fill the space you had left behind.
He tried to read, to work, to move on, but all he could do was replay the sound of your laughter, the feel of your hand in his, the way the world felt brighter, easier, when you were near. He pressed his palm to his chest, feeling the ache, the hollow, the absence that gnawed at him with every empty night.
Heat waves been fakin' me out—
Can't make you happier now.
It was past midnight when the knock came. Grisham opened the door, his shirt untucked, his hair disheveled, his eyes rimmed with exhaustion—and there you were. Tears streaking your cheeks, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your hands trembling at your sides.
You didn't speak. You didn't have to.
You surged forward, crashing into him, your mouth finding his with a desperation that bordered on violence. He caught you, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you inside, kicking the door shut behind you. He kissed you back with the same ferocity, the same hunger, the same months of longing and weeks of grief pouring out in a single, searing moment.
"I can't—" you gasped against his lips, "I can't let you go—"
"You should," he breathed, but his hands were already in your hair, already pulling you closer. "You should, but—"
Sometimes, all I think about is you—
Late nights in the middle of June—
The sex was frantic and sweaty and desperate. The broken AC was forgotten, the heat of the night paling in comparison to the heat of your bodies pressed together. Clothes were torn away, buttons scattered across the floor, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck as you pushed him onto the bed and climbed over him.
He was gentle at first—he was always gentle—but you didn't want gentle. You wanted to feel him, all of him, every inch of his guilt and his grief and his desperate, aching love. You rode him hard, your hands braced on his chest, your head thrown back, and he watched you with something like awe, his fingers digging into your hips, his breath coming in sharp, broken gasps.
"Look at me," you demanded, and he did—his eyes locked on yours, his composure shattered, his mask gone. "I choose you, Grisham. I will always choose you."
He flipped you onto your back, his body covering yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he thrust into you with a rhythm that was almost punishing. The bed creaked, the headboard slammed against the wall, and the sounds you made were filthy and raw and entirely unashamed. He swallowed them with his mouth, kissed you until you couldn't breathe, until the world narrowed to the slick slide of your bodies and the frantic beat of your hearts.
When you came, it was with a cry that was half his name, half a sob. He followed moments later, shuddering above you, his face buried in your neck, his body trembling with the force of his release.
Heat waves been fakin' me out—
Can't make you happier now.
Afterward, you lay tangled together in the oppressive heat, your bodies slick with sweat, your limbs intertwined. The sheets were a lost cause, kicked to the foot of the bed, and the air was thick and still, but neither of you moved to separate.
Grisham's head rested on your chest, his ear pressed to your heart, and you felt the wetness of his tears before you heard the hitch in his breath. He cried silently, the way he did everything—controlled, restrained, even in his breaking. Your arms tightened around him, your fingers stroking through his flame-bright hair.
"You came back," he whispered, his voice cracked and raw. "I let you go, and you came back."
"Of course I came back." You pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I don’t think there’s anything in the world that could stop me from coming back to you.”
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob. "Why is that?"
You peppered his face with soft kisses. "Because I love you, you stupid, self-sacrificing idiot."
"I don’t understand." His brow furrowed, that sharp, analytical mind of his struggling to make sense of something that defied his logic. "I pushed you away. I hurt you. I told myself it was for your own good, that you would be happier without me, and yet—" His voice broke, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. "No one has ever fought for me before. No one has ever come back."
Your heart clenched, but you didn't let the sadness take root. Instead, you tilted his chin up, forcing him to meet your eyes. "Hey..."
He stilled, his breath catching.
"I know what you're used to," you said, your voice soft but steady. "I know Team Flare took everything you had—your loyalty, your devotion, your belief that you were working toward something greater. And what did they give you in return? Promises. Empty ones. A 'new world' that would have taken thousands of innocent people and pokemon."
He flinched, but you held him firm.
"That’s not what this is—what you and I are. It's not you giving and giving until there's nothing left, hoping that someday you'll earn enough to be worthy of happiness." You stroked your thumbs along his cheekbones, your touch gentle but insistent. "I'm not here because you've earned me. I'm here because I love you. Because you're worth fighting for."
His eyes glistened, fresh tears welling at the corners. "I don't—"
"I know you don't understand. Not yet." You pressed a kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment. "But this is a partnership, Grisham. A relationship. I will fight for you—for us—every single time. As long as you're willing to fight, too. That's all I ask. I don’t need perfection—I don’t want perfection. I don’t care about whatever impossible standard you've set for yourself. I just need you to try. That’s all I’m asking."
He was silent for a long moment, his hands trembling where they covered yours. Then, slowly, he nodded—a small, fragile motion, but there was something new in his expression. Something that looked almost like hope.
"I’ll keep trying," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "For you. For us."
You brushed away his tears and kissed him then—soft and slow and full of promise—and when you pulled back, his eyes were still wet, but his mouth had curved into the faintest, most fragile smile.
"Thank you," he breathed. "For not giving up on me."
