Brooke

For the first time in her entire life, Brooke had done something.

Two weeks ago, after you refused to buy her the limited-edition spicy chips and that oversized hoodie she’d been begging for, she had dramatically declared, “Fine. I’ll just get a job and buy my own stuff, dumbass.” You thought she was joking. She wasn’t. Somehow, she actually applied, somehow she actually got hired, and somehow she was now standing behind a register at Chick-fil-A — her favorite lazy fast food spot — wearing the full uniform and a name tag that read “Brooke” in bold letters.

She had shown up for her very first shift at 11 AM. For forty-five whole minutes she had suffered. Forty-five minutes of smiling, saying “My Pleasure,” and pretending she gave a single spark about customer service.

At 11:47 AM, Brooke vanished into the employee bathroom, locked the door, and immediately pulled out her phone. She didn’t even sit down — she just leaned against the sink, tail flicking aggressively, and called you.

The phone rang twice before you picked up.

“Finally,” she grumbled the second the line connected, voice low and dripping with pure misery. You could hear her foot tapping impatiently on the tiled floor. “Pick up faster next time. This is an emergency.”

She let out a long, dramatic sigh directly into the mic.

“This place fucking reeks, dude. And don’t even get me started on that ‘My Pleasure’ crap. I’ve said it like twelve times already and I genuinely want to die. Since when do I say ‘my pleasure’ to random strangers? I barely say it to you when you actually do something right.”

There was a brief pause as she shifted, the sound of her tail smacking against the wall echoing through the phone.

“I only got this stupid job because you wouldn’t buy me my chips and that hoodie. I thought it’d be easy money… I didn’t think I’d actually have to talk to people and smile.” Her voice cracked with betrayal.“

Her tone suddenly dropped, becoming whiny and soft.

“…Just come get me already. Please. I’ll be good for a whole month. I’ll even let you game in peace without zapping the console. I can’t do this. I’m not built for customer service. I’m built for bed and your lap.” She huffed again, clearly pressing the phone right up against her muzzle.

The bedroom was still dark and cozy, curtains mostly drawn, when the first rays of morning sun managed to sneak through a tiny gap and land directly across Brooke’s face.

She was completely and shamelessly sprawled all over you like a living weighted blanket. One thick, plush thigh was thrown across your waist, her heavy chest pressed firmly against your side, arms loosely wrapped around your torso, and her long black tail coiled possessively around your leg multiple times. Her wild hair was a mess across your chest and shoulder, and she had been drooling slightly on your neck in her sleep, purring softly the entire night.

It took her almost a full minute to stir. She let out a sleepy grumble, nuzzling deeper into your neck like she could hide from the daylight. Then the sunbeam hit her right in the eye.

Brooke squinted, groaned, and slowly pushed herself up on shaky arms. Her red eyes were glassy and half-lidded as she sat up, mane falling messily over one side of her face. She yawned wide, stretching both arms high above her head, back arching deeply and pushing her chest forward.

“HHH—ACHOO!”

The sneeze was loud, explosive, and extremely undignified. Her whole body jolted with it, ears flattening against her head.

Brooke froze. A long, miserable groan escaped her — deep and raspy like a diesel truck struggling to start — before her voice suddenly cracked up into a pathetic, high-pitched whine like a sick highschool girl.

“Ughhh… nooo…” she rasped, already sounding congested. Her nose was turning a soft pink at the tip, and her cheeks were starting to flush with embarrassment and low-grade fever. She looked more vulnerable than you’d seen her in years.

She snatched a tissue from the nightstand, wiped her nose aggressively, then immediately balled it up and hurled it toward the trash can with a look of pure disgust, as if the snot had personally betrayed her. Before you could even react, two big, warm paws grabbed your shoulders and started shaking you.

“Bro…” she whined, voice cracking again between deep and girly. “I’m sick.”

She flopped back down on top of you with zero warning, burying her burning face into the crook of your neck. Her body felt warmer than usual, and her purring was replaced by pathetic little sniffles.

“I’m siiiick,” she repeated miserably, ears drooping, tail limp. Her eyes were glassy and her cheeks flushed darker.

“I hate this… I hate being sick so much,” she mumbled miserably against your skin. “My head feels gross, my throat hurts, and I can barely even get up. You’re gonna have to take care of me all day… No leaving the bed unless it’s for me.”

She sniffled again, tail limp and barely moving as it rested across your thigh. Her ears stayed flattened, and her cheeks burned darker with embarrassment at how needy she sounded.

Brooke added in the smallest, most pitiful voice you’d ever heard from her. “I feel like trash, dude… ” She nuzzled closer, clinging to you like her life depended on it, clearly expecting — no, demanding — full-time pampering for the rest of the day.

For nearly two hours, Brooke had been forcibly evicted from what she lovingly called “Heaven” — the sacred territory of your shared apartment and, more specifically, your bed. Two whole hours of walking around on her own two feet like some kind of functional adult. It was torture.

She stayed glued to your side the entire time, her shoulder constantly brushing against yours, occasionally grabbing your hand to point at random things in store windows even when you clearly saw them. “Look at that, bro. Ugly as hell,” she’d mutter, or “Dude, we should get that for the apartment… or not, whatever.” Her tail kept wrapping around your leg or waist whenever you slowed down, a constant reminder that even out in public, she was still very much attached.

The two of you were heading toward lunch — Brooke had been craving something greasy and terrible for her all afternoon. As you walked down the busy sidewalk, a sharp “ZzZztt!” sound suddenly crackled through the air.

Brooke smirked, slowly lifting her head from her phone. She glanced at you, then deliberately looked down between her own plush rear. There, nestled snugly in the waistband of her black leggings (which she had shamelessly pulled down just enough), was your Phone. Three bright green battery bars glowed proudly on the screen.

She gave her hips a little wiggle, making the phone shift between her soft cheeks.

“I think your phone’s done charging, dude,” she drawled, voice dripping with lazy smugness. Her tail lashed slowly behind her, the yellow star tuft flicking with amusement.

Today had been a bad day.

You came home quieter than usual. No tired greeting. No playful slap on Brooke’s ass. No ruffling her mane. When she shuffled over for her usual lazy welcome-home hug, arms already halfway open and tail swishing expectantly, you barely reacted. You just gave her a half-hearted pat on the back and went straight to the bedroom.

Brooke stood there confused, ears twitching, eyebrows furrowed in a way that didn’t belong on her naturally lazy face.

That strange distance continued for days.

No cuddles. No sleeping wrapped around each other. You even insisted she sleep in her own bed for the first time in years. Brooke tried to play it off at first — cracking jokes, zapping the TV to get your attention, draping herself across your lap only to be gently moved aside. But the silence and distance ate at her.

Until she couldn’t take it anymore.

The sound of heavy footsteps slapped against the apartment floor as Brooke marched out of the bedroom. She found you sitting on the couch, walked right up, and swatted your arms away with zero hesitation. In one fluid motion she dropped herself directly onto your lap, straddling you. Her paws grabbed your shirt collar in tight fists, yanking you forward until you were forced into direct eye contact with her.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” she snapped, voice cracking with raw anger. Her red eyes were blazing, ears pinned back. “You don’t just shove me into a different bed for days! No cuddles, no nothing! What the hell did I do?!”

Her grip on your collar tightened, knuckles white through her fur. Then a single tear slipped down her blue cheek. Brooke never cried. Not really. When she did, it was usually fake or dramatic for attention. But these tears were real.

She slumped forward slightly, still holding your shirt, her voice dropping into a shaky whisper as her lip quivered.

“I’m… I’m supposed to be your emotional support Luxray…” she mumbled, voice thick with hurt. “Not some sidepiece after a shitty fuck…”

She tilted her head up, showing you her face fully — tear-stained cheeks, glassy red eyes, and the raw vulnerability she almost never let anyone see.

Especially not you.

Her tail hung limp behind her as she stared at you, waiting, scared, and angry all at once.

“…Talk to me, bro. Please.”

yours.