score: 286
favorites: 569
comments: 1
part of pool: 43528
More fun version of the related picture: less fabric, more showing off. Is she aiming to stun her foes—or finally catch that special someone. Whatever it is, she is very cute though

If you liked the Sweater Wives Series, don't forget that we have stickers of these pieces! Be careful of the public moral committee tho!

Short Story

The Tomboy Luxray

Summer’s got this lazy buzz at the Academy, my last year winding down. I’m just an Eevee—average height, brown fur, nothing fancy—hanging in the hall, half-tuned into friends stressing about exams. My tail flicks when the bell rings, and someone grumbles, “Public Morals Committee’s on patrol now.” Another adds, “Ray’s totally nabbing someone today, bet you anything.” 

Ray. That name drags me back to when we were kits, tripping over each other in the grass. She’s always been this Luxray-shaped whirlwind—fierce, big, those scarlet eyes that could stop you cold. Scared me silly back then, still does a bit, but as we grew up, it turned into something else. I’d catch myself staring across the quad, her all power and mystery, and feel this tug—admiration, loyalty, maybe more I can’t name.

“You okay, man?” a friend nudges me, snapping me out of it. “You’re zoning again.” 

I flash a soft grin. “Yeah, just daydreaming about art class. I’m good.” No way I’m spilling that Ray’s camped out in my head.
 
Then her voice hits, all stern and raspy: “You all—loitering’s against the rules. No classes here.” She steps out, black fur gleaming, muscles flexing, towering over us. My friends freak, one stammering, “S-sorry, Miss Ray! We’re going!” We bolt, paws scrambling, but I sneak a look back. She’s scary as hell, sure, but something about her just… sticks. 

________________________________________

Friday’s dragging, and I’m counting down to art class—my happy place, where I can sketch and breathe. Break hits, and a classmate swings by, grinning. “Got your magazine—new issue.” It’s a gravure mag, all bold poses and skimpy fits. “Art reference,” I say, sheepish but straight-up. “No models in class—this works.” He smirks, “Don’t let Ray catch you,” and takes off.
 
Room’s empty now, and I can’t resist—I flip it open. For art, I swear, but then I hit this page: a Lapras in a black sling bikini and cropped hoodie. It’s wild—barely there, but sleek, hugging her just right. My tail wags before I can stop it. “She’d be killer to draw,” I mutter, cheeks heating up, staring way too long. 

“What are you doing?!” 

I nearly jump out of my fur. Ray’s in the doorway, uniform sharp, eyes blazing. The magazine slips, landing open—that Lapras page, sling bikini staring up. “PERVERT!” she barks, and I’m fumbling for an excuse when her paw swings. Crack. Lights out. 

________________________________________

I blink awake in the infirmary, tail curled tight around me. Nurse Chansey’s there, all chipper. “You’re up! Miss Ray hauled you in after that slap.” My head’s fuzzy. “She did?” Ray, lugging me here? “Yeah, carried you herself,” Chansey says. “Kept muttering about some magazine—said she didn’t mean to hit so hard.” 

That’s… huh. Ray, worried about me? Kinda throws me. Chansey hands over pain meds. “It’s 9 p.m.—head home when you’re ready.” Phone’s buzzing—friends, art teacher, and—whoa—Ray. 

Ray: Hey, you okay? Sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to hurt you. 

I’m all warm inside, typing back: I’m okay, thanks for checking. Sorry too—I shouldn’t have had that magazine. Didn’t mean to upset you. 

Ray: It’s fine. I overreacted. Meet me at the beach tomorrow? Want to apologize in person. 

You: Sure! See you then. 

Ray: Thanks. 

I shuffle home, magazine gone—did she snag it?—but her text’s got me grinning. Maybe she’s not all thunder and glare. 

________________________________________

Saturday’s sun is blasting, and I’m at the beach in a t-shirt and shorts, sketchbook in my bag. I blend into the sand, just an average Eevee, but Ray’s always been this big, scary constant in my life. Yesterday—her carrying me, texting me—keeps looping in my head. I doodle in the sand, humming, wondering what’s up with her. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

My ears shoot up, and—holy crap, it’s Ray. No uniform. She’s in a black sling bikini and cropped hoodie—the black sling bikini and cropped hoodie. The one from that Lapras page I couldn’t peel my eyes off. Her fur’s shining, abs popping, piercings glinting. She saw it—saw me hooked on that outfit—and now she’s rocking it. My jaw drops. Wait, does she…? 

“STOP GAWKING!” she snaps, paws flailing to cover up, face red as hell. “I—look, I’m sorry about yesterday. Shouldn’t have hit you.” 

I’m still reeling, but I manage, “It’s okay, Ray. I’m sorry too—about the magazine. That’s the outfit I was stuck on, huh?” 

Her tail lashes, blush going wild. “I—I found it after! Bought it on the way! It’s not for you, idiot! Don’t flatter yourself!” She’s tripping over her words, and it’s kinda cute
. 
I smile, soft like always. “It looks awesome,” I say, standing. “I know you didn’t mean it. Friends mess up sometimes, right?” She stares, ears twitching, tough act slipping. 

“Kakigōri?” I toss out, keeping it chill. “My treat— there is a killer stand nearby.” 

“Really?” she mumbles, thrown off. 

“Yeah, come on.” I pause, then tug her paw a little, grinning. She follows, grumbling but with a smile sneaking out. Maybe she’s been eyeing me too, all this time. 

***
navigation

utilities

info

options

tech stuff
