when i first started figuring out future trio dnd classes for funsies i thought the build would go like:
grovyle: support/DPS (thief or arcane trickster rogue)
celebi: support/heal (chronurgy wizard + dip into cleric)
dusknoir: tank/support (mastermind rogue)
but as of right now it's:
grovyle: DPS/support (homebrewed assassin rogue + battlemaster fighter with feytouched using silvery barbs to potentially give himself advantage for sneak attack, has +15 to initiative with alert and homebrewed assassin, has extra action with dip into fighter)
celebi: tank/support (chronurgy wizard with 20 con + tough feat)
dusknoir: tank/support (i can't stress this enough, the only fucking one here with healing spells as an eldritch knight fighter + valor bard, has tough feat for more HP)
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neighbour! abby my head is fuzzy she’s so!!!! the breeding strap!!!! oh my god im gonna chew through the wall im gonna gnaw through wires -🌙🐛
i’m eating plywood rn for real. she just. always in fucking boxers !!!!!! jesus christ she’s always in god. damn. boxers. she just knocks on your door in them and it’s all thick, muscular thighs and toned calves. she’s got a deep gash on one of them, and the scar is so thick the white is porcelain.
she catches you staring one time and chooses not to say anything, but it’s all you can think about when you’re drunk at her house party and pushed against her on the love seat, half on her lap.
you’re tense and abby can sense it.
can sense it as she turns to you, head balancing on your shoulder, “you okay baby?” she asks, because she says that a lot. baby. sweetheart. pretty. hey pretty girl. and it’s different now because you’re straddling her thigh, the one you think about, the one with the deep gash you think about.
“you always call me that,” you say, half giggling as you turn to her. she raises a brow, “you don’t like it?”
you look down at her thigh, then reach out and run the line where the scar is. drag a thumb over the denim and abby’s breathing changes.
“how’d you get this?” you ask, pretending you didn’t hear her previous question and flicking your gaze to her. her eyes are big, and she smiles, slow and small.
“how’d you know where it is? you got it memorised?”
“yeah,” you blurt, honest, and her smile gets bigger.
“bar fight.”
“you’re lying.”
abby takes a drag of her beer, “would never lie to you pretty,” and you chew on your lip and squint at her. lean over and take her beer from her. she watches you drink, blue eyes transfixed on how your lips go around the rim.
“what you looking at?” you ask, and abby nods to you, “your mouth.”
you pull your lips away, spit trailing, connected to the glass, and abby immediately takes the bottle from you, taking a sip.
“you win the fight?” you ask, licking your thumb, wet from the bottle.
“huh?”
“in the bar, did you win your fight?”
“oh. yeah. you wanna see it?”
“what?”
“the scar.”
“i’ve seen it. you’re always in boxers, it drives me crazy. just, all thighs and legs—“
“—what?”
abby bumps her leg, knocking it up, and her thigh suddenly pushes between your legs, pressing tight. you jolt forward, hand coming out to balence yourself on her knee, swallowing down a groan that twists into a gasp.
“this thigh?” she jokes, and fuck, heat pools in your belly, pushing to your groin.
“i’m gonna fight you.”
“yeah?” abby teases, leaning forward, and she’s clasping your chin when she asks, “you think you’ll win?”
your breath catches. you’re not sure if abby can see you losing grip on reality, but there must be a part of her that notices your body curl up, eyes glaze over and breathing change when she leans closer, nose bumping again yours as she asks,
“you think you can take me?”
her eyes are bright blue, transfixed on yours, and you swallow, alive under her gaze.
“i think i can take all of you.”
abby’s mouth opens an inch. her eyes flash with something — a bolt through the blue — and her tongue comes out, licking the corner of her mouth. she lazily gazes at you.
“i bet you could. bet you’re good like that, huh?”
you nod, humming softy as you lean closer. abby’s thigh is still tense between your legs and as you move, your pussy slides over the denim of her jeans.
“yeah, i’m good,” you sigh.
abby leans back, and you ache at the loss. she finishes her drink, and you wait like a puppy dog on her lap for her to say it. say it, say it — please please please.
she hands the empty bottle to you.
“be a good girl for me then and get me another drink, would you baby?”
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