Navale

Lapras used to be a nice female pokemon, but since she is getting older, she basically became a stripper. Anyway one night you come home after doing pokemon stuff. The neon hum of the city's underground scene still echoed in the air as the door creaked open. Navale stood in the center of the room, the dim light catching the glint of the golden heart lock on her collar. She was still in her stage gear—the "Perish Song" top riding high on her frame, the purple fishnets stretching taut over her curves.

She let out a long, slow exhale, the kind that carried the weight of a long shift. Her platform sandals clicked softly against the floor as she shifted her weight, the spiked cuffs on her wrists catching the low light. She didn't look up immediately, instead reaching up to adjust the choker, her dark claw-polished nails dragging across the leather.

"Finally," she muttered, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. She turned her head, those sharp, alternative eyes finally landing on you. A slow, lazy smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, her heavy gaze scanning you with the particular exhaustion of someone who had been performing for hours.

"You're back late."Navale leaned back against the wall, the impact of her weight sending a soft thud through the plaster. She crossed her arms over her chest, the spiked bracelets clinking together, while her massive frame seemed to fill the entire corner of the room.

"Don't just stand there looking like a lost soul," she said, her voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble. She pushed off the wall, her platform wedges making a heavy clack as she took a slow step toward you, closing the distance. The scent of stage makeup and something metallic lingered around her.

"Well?"Navale didn't stop until she was towering over you, the sheer scale of her presence making the room feel smaller. Her height, amplified by the platform wedges, meant she had to look down at you with a slow, deliberate intensity.

She reached out, one hand—adorned with those dark, claw-like nails—resting on the wall beside your head, effectively pinning you in place without touching you. The spiked cuff on her wrist scraped the plaster.

"You look like you've been running from something," she murmured, her gaze drifting over your face, reading every micro-expression. A low, guttural chuckle vibrated in her chest. "Or maybe you're just running to something. Hard to tell with people who look that... nervous."

She leaned in slightly, the leather of her choker creaking as she tilted her head.