I shoved the Pokémon plushies into a trash bag with frantic shoves—Pikachu tumbling, Eevee squished, Snivy last, her diva smirk now tainted poison. My favourite, ruined—by me.
Fucking ruined by that cursed dream—Hellen's phantom touch turning innocent fluff to erotic shrapnel. Bag knotted tight, hauled to the storeroom, door slammed shut like banishing ghosts. I ruined them—how could I?
I ripped off the Pikachu onesie like it burned—as it was completely wet by my... just guess it—yellow plush slithering down my skin with a final, accusing whisper as it balled into the laundry hamper, leaving me shivering bare.
Phantom heat from the dream prickled every inch—nipples peaking hard and traitorous against the sudden air, core clenching empty ache. Why did I dream that?! Hellen is my best friend, and I dreamt such a degrading dream about her! Not just that, why was I thinking myself as an omega?
