A Realistic Pokemon RP
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FULL NAME: evelyn wickham
NICKNAMES/ALIASES: evie; everett (deadname)
BIRTHDATE: august 08
IDENTIFYING FEATURES: a scar running all the way down the outside of her left shin; cheekbones that could end your life
A NOTE ON GENDER IDENTITY, EXPRESSION & APPEARANCE: while evie dresses in pink and skirts and dresses and will most often refer to herself as a girl, she is actually very protective of her identity as nonbinary trans and when asked will clarify that she's a demigirl. as for her appearance - she does not have any plans to go on HRT or have bottom gender reassignment surgery (she really does love her sharp angles and she thinks her dick is pretty!!), but top GRS is (hopefully) in her near future.
TW: parental death, vague mentions of sex work and very vague mentions of transphobia
your mother called you everett, but you can't remember what it sounded like. you can't even remember her face, really. you had photos, sure, but you ripped her out of them a long time ago, the same way she ripped you and your father out of her life.
your father called you evie, invariably. even when he was upset, you were never everett. he had a soft voice and a gentle heart, and he let you be who you are, a tutu-wearing princess, and he kissed your bloody knees and tear-streaked cheeks when cruel children tried to make you feel wrong for it.
he is torn away from you, far too soon and even more unfair, when you are eleven years old. you wait for him to pick you up in front of your school for over an hour before a teacher coaxes you back inside; she heard sirens, she says in a hushed tone to a colleague.
the eevee that he helped you catch over the summer is all you have left. eevee and evie. it would be funny, if you weren't falling apart.
your social worker helps you pack your things, and he doesn't rush you when you need to sit down and cry, which is often. when you're finally ready, little fingers wrapped around the only way you know how to keep your father with you - an old locket of your grandmother's that he gave to you when she passed years earlier - your social worker takes your hand in his, your bag in his other, and just like that… everything is gone.
you change families often. it's not that you're hard to deal with; you're just… different. different in a way that makes some of them hate you. some of them don't understand, and some of them, your social worker's young shadow says with a sad smile, felt they couldn't do right by you. privately, you agree.
you try to run away, just once. you don't even have a good reason, really. you trip running downhill in cyllage city and you skid all the way down to the bottom on your shin. your foster mom cries and panics all the way to the hospital, in the emergency room, while a doctor methodically pulls asphalt and denim out of your shredded leg. she asks you why you did it, and you don't have an answer for her. it's not pretty. you're not pretty.
you don't cry until hours later.
you age out. nobody adopts you. you're thrust into the world with no permanent family, no support system, nothing. the man who took over your case when your old social worker retired is young, green, and enthusiastic, so he sits with you outside of work and helps you figure things out - what you want to do. where you want to be (onstage, with eevee in your arms, in matching faux fur trim, and you can smile and mean it, and nobody calls you everett). you have eevee, a laptop, and a phone, and that's enough. it has to be enough.
but you need money for costumes, money for accessories, money for grooming, money for hotel stays, money to - to figure out the fucking baking segment of the tournaments when you never had a mother or grandmother to pass down their family secrets.
it's funny how many men will pay good money to watch a girl do as little as wiggle her ass with a tail in it or tie herself with ribbons on the internet, and you make a little niche for yourself, unintentionally, with your performance costumes. you like it; you like it more than you thought you would. you feel pretty. you don't have to worry about money anymore. win-win.
you drift between kalos' many hotels, like all the young trainers do, and like this it's easy to forget that you don't have somewhere to go when the tournaments are over. eevee is your best friend all the while; when she evolves into sylveon, it's not a surprise, but a confirmation. a reassurance.
there's still love in you, and you are still brave enough to let it show.
you meet frillish by accident, traveling to other regions to perform. you walk the beach in driftveil city for a much-needed break, ankle-deep in the water, sylveon choosing to walk higher up in the dry sand - she likes the warmth of it between her toe beans. she still reaches out her ribbons to tickle the tips of your fingers as you walk, as if the couple feet between you is still too much distance; it makes you smile. she always does.
something tickles your toes, cold and gel-like, and before you understand what's happening, you're on the ground, half under the water, and the touch to your toes turns to a vice around your ankle in an instant. you can't move, but sylveon has all four ribbons wrapped around you and her teeth dug into your shoulder to fight to drag you back onto land.
most sylveons aren't big fighters, but yours wasn't even when she was an eevee; you've never heard her cry in anger before, and it chills you. you can't quite see what she's screaming at in your periphery - where it ends and the fiery sunset horizon begins is unclear, but you think it has a pink tint. you don't have to wonder long. sylveon's calming abilities always proved useful when meeting young admirers of their performance, full of ambition and vibrating nerves that she could always calm with a little brush of her ribbon on the little girls' cheek. the screaming stops. she chirps the way she normally does for a moment, and the vice grip lifts from your ankle.
frillish floats over in front of your face, curiously, and as you regain feeling, pins and needles spreading down your fingers and toes, you smile at her.
"how pretty," you say, less than graceful as you try to remove your hair from your mouth with half-numb hands. frillish looks stricken for the barest moment; she sprints - if a ghost or a jellyfish can sprint - back into the ocean before you can say anything else.
it's dark out before you can drag yourself to your feet to make the walk back to the hotel - this time, sylveon wraps her ribbons halfway up your arm, to hold you tight and close.
you can't help either your curiosity or your trust in a gut feeling - you go back the next night, sitting on the sand with sylveon protectively by your side as the sun sets.
you talk with frillish like this every night for a week, only a minute or two at a time until she disappears the first couple days, but by the end, you invite her to stay with you - to dance with you and sylveon.
she presses the button on the pokéball herself.