Wren The Smuggler - Tumblr Posts
Could you write some smut with Wren and a trans male reader who didn't come to blackjack for some time due to chest removal surgery?
M!Wren x M!PC
His thumbs run along your newly healed scars. They're still bright red, it’s only been a couple of months since you’d seen him. It’d be too risky for the first few weeks, not wanting to rip anything open and the bruising plus swelling made you stay home. The way he’s touching you is making you shiver a bit.
As soon as he stripped you down, his first thought was to check if you still had any feeling in your chest. So far, the answer has been yes. But, just to be completely sure, his mouth continued to suckle at your chest.
The other guys watch on in jealous. Watching how Wren was making you squirm against his thigh. Listening to your moaning. Some were even palming at the ever-rising tent in their pants. But Wren wasn’t looking to share. You’d been gone for far too long.
When you had slid into your spot at the table, everyone was so welcoming. Everyone except Wren. He only grumbled out a hello, while the rest of the guys were all over you. Asking how you felt, where you’d been, and just generally chatting with you. But Wren wasn’t looking to do any of that.
Wren was looking to get you back into his lap.
So there you were. After a particularly intense, and hard game of blackjack, you were sitting in his lap, not a single piece of clothing on, grinding against his thigh. His hands had moved from your scars to your hips, and now were forcing you down further onto his thigh.
You could tell he was upset. Heck, you’d be upset if he had just up and left for awhile, no explanation. Theoretically, you could apologize. Make it up to him. But god, it felt so good to see him upset over you. To feel the finger print bruises forming on your hips. To feel his cock straining against you, to see the bulge.
He's whispering that you could of told him. Let him know where you were. How worried he was for you. How much he missed you. But you can’t respond at all, not with his cock down your throat. His hand gently grips onto the back of your throat as he thrusts up into your mouth underneath the table. It's obscene, the noises your throat is making.
You've now been subjected to cock warming him. Relaxed in his lap, juices covering your thighs, and half passed out on his chest. You're such a lewd sight, it makes his cock twitch inside of you.
He's still not sharing you. Even after he's had his fill. No way, not after you left him so dry, so lonely. Just longing for you to come back.
Nobody else can have you right now. Not his toy.
@angrelysimpping i wanted to send this but I thought i should post it so I'm mentioning you
You're with Wren, you two enter the pub, some employees greet you, you go to Landry's office, Wren pick the lock.
Once inside you push him against the door and kiss him, he push you against the desk and takes your pants off, you sit on the desk, he break the kiss, open his fly, push your underwear to the side and penetrate you, he start thrusting, he kiss and lick at your lips, you open them and your tongues find each other.
You both cum when the door open and you see Landry, you approach him on shaky legs from your orgasm and kiss him you break the kiss and take him to the desk where you three start making out.
𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 (𝐝𝐨𝐥 𝐧𝐩𝐜𝐬 𝐱 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫) -> 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨
𝐜𝐰: incest, non/dubcon, extremely messed-up family dynamics. 18+ ONLY.
can’t believe i did a part two…anyway - i was trying for a ‘50s suburban kind of au but things got out of hand - enjoy :)
𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲.
the walls of your bedroom are not soundproof.
it’s a thought that resonates dimly in your mind, driven away almost instantly as your mother thrusts her toy inside your drooling hole. you whine pitifully, arching your back against the intrusion. “mom…”
avery’s mouth covers yours, her teeth biting down gently on your lower lip before releasing you. “shh,” she whispers against your lips. “it’s a game, remember?”
you nod quickly, biting off a whimper. avery grins and pumps the toy in and out of your slick cunt a few times, before straddling the other end. she sinks onto it with a low moan, pushing it deep inside you.
you don’t dare make a noise, even as the sheets beneath you grow wet with your slick. your father is asleep in the next room; you shudder at the thought of him waking up and discovering your little “game.” not enough to ask avery to stop, though. never enough to ask that.
she kisses you deeply, prodding her tongue inside your mouth while her hands raise your sleep shirt, tugging at your nipples. you weakly push back against her thrusts, whimpering into the kiss. each movement feels like heaven.
avery drops her hand, rubbing circles along your swollen clit, and your vision goes white. you buck your hips frantically, cumming around the toy with a keening moan, and at the same time, avery convulses wildly, mouth half open and eyes rolling back.
she slips off the toy and pulls it out of you, making you flinch, before collapsing on top of you, pressing languid kisses up the side of your neck and onto your mouth once more. you move your lips against her weakly, too exhausted to respond much. finally, with a regretful sigh, she climbs off you and out of bed, reaching for her clothes once more.
“goodnight, baby.”
you smile contentedly up at her, sleep already pulling you under. “night, mom.”
you know she’ll be back tomorrow night. the thought sends a frisson of excitement through your tired body.
you can’t imagine a better game.
𝐰𝐫𝐞𝐧.
this is wrong. this is so, so wrong.
you tilt your head back to rest on your pa’s shoulder, spreading your legs a little wider as he pumps his fingers lazily in and out of your hole, already leaking cum from one earlier round. Several men, his friends from town, sit around the table with cards in their hands, but almost nobody is playing, their eyes fixed on the lewd sight in front of them.
wren chuckles and pulls your lower lips apart, revealing your puffy clit. his big thumb circles it lightly, pulling a soft whine from you. “you like that, sweetheart?”
“uh-huh.” your head lolls to the side, a combination of whiskey and exhaustion from his ruthless fucking earlier. your pa is an easygoing man for the most part, but with you he’s ruthless, and you have the bruises to prove it. “feels good.”
“ain’t she the sweetest,” one of the men says with a leer. “what’s her cunt feel like, wren?”
they’re used to this - anticipate it even. life in the country is too wild to be shocked at relationships like this, and your pa has been alone since your ma left. men have urges.
“like heaven,” wren says, dipping his thick fingers back inside you and grinning even wider when you moan, rutting needily against him like a whore.
“care to share?” another man asks, and wren stops moving, pulling his fingers out of you sharply and ignoring your frustrated whine. he grips your chin, getting you to focus on him.
“you hear that, sweetheart? these men are asking if you wanna be with them for a while.”
alarm shines through the fog of lust in your mind, and you shake your head rapidly. “no, pa, please. want you. jus’ you. i’ll be good, please.” you hump yourself frantically against the bulge in his jeans, spreading your legs wider. “i can be good, see?”
wren twirls a lock of your hair around his fingers carelessly. “calm down, sweetheart. you’re my girl, you know that.” his gaze switches to the watching men, eyes steel cold above his ever-present smile. “and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
he unzips his jeans and thrusts himself up into you without warning, your soaked lips parting easily for him. you bounce on his cock, strings of moans and whimpers leaving your lips, completely uncaring of your audience. wren lifts you up and turns you around to face them before driving into you again, giving everyone at the table a view of his flushed cock pumping in and out of your leaking cunny, your heaving breasts and fucked-out expression. he pulls your head back. “who do you belong to, sweetheart?”
“you,” you whine out, seeing stars as the head of his cock grinds against your sensitive spot. “pa, ‘m close—“
“who do you belong to, sweetheart? nice and loud now.”
“you!” you cry out, bouncing faster. “you, pa, y—agh!”
you cum with a loud wail, twitching and jerking on wren’s cock. he fucks you through your orgasm, stopping only when you whine weakly at the overstimulation.
hazily, you stare at the men around the table. their cards have dropped, and more than one is moving his hand rapidly beneath the tablecloth. the sight makes you smile faintly, and it grows as wren’s cock starts to move inside you once more, chasing his own release.
it’s going to be a long night.
𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐲.
men are trouble. it’s what your ma has drilled into you since you were little. it’s now, however, that you wonder if she shouldn’t have warned you about women like her.
hay sticks to your dress and your hair, prickling along the back of your bare legs. it’s nothing compared to the sensation between your legs, a sensation that only grows as your mother humps herself against you, breasts bouncing above your face.
“ma…” you whimper. “‘s too much…” you’ve already cum a couple of times, but remy seems determined to take you to another climax.
she bends down and kisses you roughly, one hand locking around your throat and squeezing. not enough to truly cut off your air, but it’s a warning. you bite your lip and lean more into the kiss, rubbing back against her feverishly.
remy’s breaths are short and harsh. she holds your hands above your head, preventing you from even touching yourself. you keen as the tight coil in your stomach clenches even more, tipping the edge between pleasure and pain. you just want this to stop.
“fuck!” remy’s curse is low and vicious. she thrusts against you even faster, and the coil snaps. you arch up against her, mouth open in a soundless cry, body thrashing.
you think you might have passed out for a while. when you open your eyes again, however, your ma is between your thighs, licking up your arousal. her tongue grazes against your oversensitive clit, and you let out a whine, trying to move away.
she straddles you, pinning your wrists once more. “that’s enough of that. you want to go down to the barns and give milk again?”
your eyes widen and you shake your head quickly. you had been in that pen for nearly a week the last time you fought back.
remy smiles, a rare thing but one that does nothing to warm your heart. rather, it inspires dread. “be a good girl for me now, and we’ll see if you can’t squirt again.” she dives down to your slit once more, and you lie staring up at the rafters, all the fight having drained from your body.
it’s not men you needed to watch out for.
𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐫.
something’s wrong.
alarm bells ring faintly in the back of your mind, but they’re drowned out by a pleasant buzz of nothingness and the throbbing ache between your thighs.
“open your mouth for me.” daddy’s voice seems very far away, but when you open your eyes, he’s hovering over you, a strange smile on his face.
you try to obey, but you can’t seem to move. daddy tilts your head to the side, opening your mouth and putting in something small and white. “swallow.”
you manage to slip it down your dry throat, the floaty, blank feeling intensifying, as well as an incredible emptiness.
“daddy…” you moan, humping the air, your hole clenching around nothing. you can’t understand why you’re so wet all of a sudden, or why you’re only clad in a bra. “need…” you’re not sure what you need, but he has it. even in your addled state, you can tell. “need you,” you slur out, and harper laughs.
“very well.” he moves out of your line of vision briefly, and then his lean, cold hands grasp your hips and slid you down the chair. there’s a second to breathe, and then he’s inside you.
you gasp, all the air driven from your lungs for a second. your walls clench down on him and you keen weakly, hands clutching at his shirt, needing more.
“patient appears to be responding well.” you’re not sure who daddy’s talking to, or why his voice is so rough and strained, and you don’t really care. the tingling feeling is getting stronger, a wave of…something building at the base of your stomach. “arousal high… though responses sluggish. doesn’t seem to be aware of pain.”
“more,” you eke out, pulling him closer. “more, daddy…please…need it.”
he kisses you sloppily, strings of saliva snapping between your lips. he smells of disinfectant and a really strong cologne, and you wrinkle your nose. “soon, honey. almost…there.” he’s fucking into you brutally, your body jerking like a rag doll’s, completely helpless against him. he reaches down to circle your clit in time with his thrusts, and all of a sudden it’s too much.
you come with a cry, humping against him uncontrollably as your cunny throbs. the orgasm seems to go on forever, and you’re completely exhausted by the time you feel him shake against you and something warm fills you up. barely conscious, you slump against the chair, drool trailing down your cheek, completely oblivious to the sticky white liquid leaking from your abused hole.
“orgasm heightened. reactions good.” daddy is talking to himself again, now sounding out of breath. “must test if repeatable; will use second dose to determine.”
he returns to your side, holding another little pill. “open up, honey.”
like a good girl, you do. and when the tingling starts again, you welcome him into you with spread legs and a needy sob.
daddy always knows how to fix things.
𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞.
you don’t know why they’re not, but you’re grateful these “family visits” aren’t recorded.
the wall of the interview room is cool against your back, the damp of the stone seeping through your pretty white dress. whimpers and whines escape you as your father drives himself inside you. since visits are few and far between you’ve forgotten just how big he is.
“hurts, daddy,” you whimper. “you…so big inside.”
“take it,” he grunts. “i’m sure you’re out there spreading your legs for other boys when i’m not around.”
“n-no…” your denial is cut off by a yelp as he bottoms out inside you. “just you, daddy, only want you, ah, ah…”
big hands grip your waist, bouncing you up and down like a fleshlight. you grip his shoulders tightly with tiny hands, pain giving way to pleasure. feels so good, so full.
“ah, daddy, please…” you know you look like a whore, your dress and hair dishevelled, eyes unfocused - but you don’t care. “please…gonna cum, daddy…”
he fucks into you harder at that. one hard thrust has you seeing stars, and you feel your climax wash over you, followed by a rush of heat as he spills himself inside you with a low curse.
the buzzer goes almost immediately after. you barely have time to straighten your dress before the guards come to take him away. you don’t notice the smirks on their faces, only having eyes for your father.
“i’ll see you next month, daddy.” you stand on tiptoe and kiss him on the cheek, his cooling cum trailing down your leg.
maybe next month you’ll have a little surprise for him. the thought makes you smile.
Hi! I saw your requests are open and i need a little bit of comfort so if you don't mind, could I request Wren comforting a PC who add a big meltdown because their was too much noise and they almost shutdown? Thank you if you do it, i hope you have a nice day/night
Clemmmm I missed u omg ❤️ anything 4 u
🔮 summary: after one of remy’s parties, wren finds a wounded little bird in his cottage.
⚠️ warnings: brief sexual descriptions, slight derogatory terms. this is DoL after all.
Remy was a decent boss, in Wren’s books.
Good pay, kept the booze coming as long as a job was done well, and a blind eye to any… additional income Wren and his men decided to make on the side, as long as it didn’t interfere with his farm. He had relatively understandable morals when it came to cheating him or undermining his authority, of course. Fair, Wren would even say. As long as you were on the right side of the fence.
Out of all the things Wren has seen Remy do, there was only one thing he hated the man for.
His parties.
Now, Wren likes anything with the word ‘free’ in front of it. Especially when the invitation includes both free alcohol and free.. ahem, company.
But this is nothing more than a stupid power grab; Remy’s gilded elbow-knocking cage — it’s a poor excuse for a fun time and an even poorer way to waste the night away for.
Wren almost feels sad for the man.
They were all politicians, of some sort, all looking to gain something from the night. Finically, socially, or hell, even emotionally. Dr. Harper may have been wearing a mask, but the glint of his glasses, the only glasses he ever wore, wasn’t very subtle.
And Wren prefer subtle. He preferred midnights on the docks, the waves hiding their footsteps, shadows obscuring their faces, sea salt disguising their scents, the way that hair could be colored or cut or even hidden away in a wig to further be more obtuse.
It drained him, Remy’s parties. Every step he took back to his cottage, felt weighed down by niceties and manners and the smell of perfume and cologne that clung to him just like the ladies and men at the party did, treating him like Remy’s livestock as they touched and squeezed and batted their eyes. And of course, he couldn’t do anything about it. Not as Remy’s right hand man. Not as his unwilling guest of honor. He had to smile and wink and make it an enjoyable time for them, just so they might donate a dollar or two.
Didn’t Remy hire enough sluts for them? Why’d they have to take their repressed libido out on him?
Sighing in relief as he finally reached the door, he opened it, flipped on the light as he reached for his hat. He stilled immediately when he heard it, eyes almost closed from exhaustion flicked open, on guard.
If he was anyone else, he would’ve mistaken that squeak as the door protesting against the cold, wet night air.
But he wasn’t anyone else. He was Remy’s underworld dog, groomed into knowing what was lurking just beyond every corner.
Lowering his hand, he slowly stepped into his house, casually swinging the door shut. He made sure to silently slide the lock into place, before he turned, wondering what kind of pest problem he’d have to deal with tonight.
The cottage was still dark, freezing cold from the rain and lack of heating. Shadows stretched across the room like boogeymen, but they didn’t dare cross his path. He stepped forward, crushing one under his steel-toed boots, then another, continuing until he was in front of his fireplace, shadows stilled from their wounds.
Wren pulled out a matchbook, usually kept on hand from his need of a good dose of nicotine every so often, one he was explicitly forbidden from partaking in tonight. In one stroke, it was lit. In another, both his cigarette and the fireplace burned with ambition, incinerating all the corpses of the shadows left behind.
A shoe, black and scuffed, tried to disappear from the sudden light under his dining room table. It was quick, but too slow to escape Wren’s notice. He smiled, shifting the cigarette to the other side of his mouth, taking one long drag before he plucked it from his mouth.
He whistled as he strut towards the table, playing with whatever unfortunate soul hid under his table. He wondered if that Alex kid from across the way grew enough balls to confront Remy about his crops. Or maybe this was just a poor attempt to try and steal from him. Whoever it was drew the wrong cards tonight.
As he finally approached the table, he made a big enough show of walking around it, like a lion stalking its prey, before he leaned his elbow on the table, putting his full weight onto it, letting it groan with effort. Another whimper flew loose, followed by a small gasp. Well. At least they weren’t totally stupid.
“Alright, enough’s enough,” he growled, “Now, just who do you think you are, comin’ in here like thi-”
Underneath the table, a pretty little birdie was all scrunched up, clutching their knees to their chest, the maid outfit that Remy made all the ‘servers’ at his party wear barely concealing your panties. Your thighs and thigh-highs did a better job at covering you then whatever he made you wear. He knew your face. He knew what you looked like flushed and embarrassed, knew what lied under those lacy little garments.
The tears on your face glistened in the firelight.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped out between sobs. “Wren, I’m so sorry- I- I didn’t think- I didn’t know where else to go-”
You shook, like you were cold, but Wren could feel the heat coming off you in waves.
“Shh. What are you doing under there, birdie? No place for a pretty thing like you. Ain’t it cold?”
A sob escaped you. You nodded.
“Well, get yourself out from under there then-” He goes to grab your arm, but you flinch back, a gasp escaping your lips before he can touch you.
You’ve been here a couple times. Wren hasn’t been the best to you, but he doubts anyone else is either. He’s seen the cigarette burns on your arm, the smell of antiseptic soaked carelessly into your clothing, more than once you’ve come in smelling like sex. You can hold your alcohol. You can play a good hand in poker, have a downright sexy bluffing face (not that it helps against him, but it’s still cute to see you try).
It’s not exactly what normal people your age can do. Most still wince at the taste of whiskey, need reminders on what hands there are. You have probably been through enough shit in your life where these unholy things stick to you like glue. Wren knows what that’s like.
But he has never seen you in such a state.
You’re at a breaking point, he realizes, as he kneels down fully and takes in just how disheveled you look. Your hair looks like it’s been snarled hopelessly from you clawing at your ears, there are scratch marks on the side of your cheeks, with blooming bruises surfacing like flowers in May. There’s a handprint on your other cheek, parts of your dress have been torn and he can’t make the call on whether it was you or someone else.
“Birdie,” he whispers. “Come to me?”
Your eyes have been screwed shut, refusing to even glance at him. You don’t move for a moment, stay clutching your knees, indent marks from your nails nearly bleeding as you give a small shake of your head.
“At least tell me what’s wrong, then. Can’t help ya if I don’t know what to fix.”
Your lip quivers. “Th- the noise. People talking. Rain. Music. Laughing, shouting. Crying. Angry. I- I can’t- it’s too much-” you whimper.
“Ah.” Wren drops his hands back into his lap, brow knit. Just like the callouses that marred his hands, he wasn’t exactly known for being ‘soft.’ “You’re… asking a lot of me, birdie. Don’t really know what to do.”
You sniff, eyes blinking open as you stare at him through your tears. “Me… me either. I don’t know what I’m doing in general, though…” Your voice is so low that it nearly blends in with the crackle of the fire. He cracks a smile. Despite how much is going on, you still try to keep some semblance of normalcy. He almost admires you for it.
“Were you at Remy’s party?”
You nod your head, moving your eyes to stare at the fire. There’s a sharp flash of red hot-ness through Wren at your confirmation, something he can’t exactly explain or place. He’s almost disgusted, which is odd, considering what exactly his job entails. But it’s not that. It’s different. Something about you, dressed like that… at Remy’s stupid party… that people like Dr. Harper attend…
Apparently, you see something in his face when you glance over to him. “Not… not like that. I told him not like that. Wasn’t paying enough for it anyways…”
“Oh.” His tongue bites the dismissal of him actually caring about whatever work you do before it slips out. You probably didn’t need that right now.
He refuses to give light to the thought that it might not be true, either.
“Can… can I stay here?” You ask, sounding almost scared to hope.
He falters at that. “I… suppose? Sure, alright.”
There’s bits and pieces of the normal you coming out, the tinge of sass you give him as you crawl forward and nod your head to the side, motioning for him to move so you could get out. He scoffs, putting his cigarette out on the stone floor before he moves aside and stands up.
“You still know you owe me one for this, right?”
You stand with him, dusting yourself off. Damn, that outfit really does look good on you. Maybe he’ll make you wear that next Blackjack night. He almost misses the shrug you make, popping out of his mind when you finally answer.
“I figured.”
Then it’s silent. You both don’t know where to go from here. You simply stare at each other for a minute, both of you wondering how you got into this situation, when Wren decides to make the first move. He clears his throat.
“I, uh, got a shower if you want-”
“No! No, I’m ok. Thank you,” you reply quickly, flushing deep enough that Wren can see it even through the dim light. He blinks.
“Well… alright. I’m gonna shower, though. Smell too much like Remy’s drooling lapdogs,” he answers, still wondering why the hell you were blushing. You cannot be that innocent. He’s seen first hand what you can do. He begins to unbutton his shirt, finally taking off his hat and setting it on the table. “Don’t go snooping. Clothes are in the dresser. There’s food in the fridge. Get what you need and settle down somewhere.”
You give a nod, eyes still locked on the floor for reasons Wren didn’t understand. He shrugs it off and continues past you to the bathroom, tossing his old shirt in the laundry basket.
Wren is drying his hair with the towel when he comes out, shaking it out a bit too canine-like. He looks around the room for you, confusion setting in when he can’t find you.
He calls your name, wondering if whatever made you so embarrassed earlier was too much to handle and you had left. But there’s movement from a pile of blankets he didn’t notice before on the couch and your face peers out of the tiniest hole. He almost can’t believe it. It’s adorable, even he has to admit.
“Comfy?” He asks, already knowing the answer. But you nod enthusiastically, humming your approval for the thick, fluffy blankets. He would kill someone if anyone found out he owned them. But you… you have your uses. So he’ll stay his hand tonight.
He goes to the dresser and sheds his towel, very well aware you’re watching him. It makes him smile, wondering if he’ll get to see how much cuter you can get. Wren likes to play with people and you became his new favorite target when you waltzed into his cottage that one night, demanding he deal you in. He absolutely mortified you when you lost, stripping you down and forcing you to give shots to him and his crew where ever they placed them. And yet, you came back the next week, asking for another hand, impressing him and intriguing him all at once. It just so happen to help that you were cute.
He’s pulled on a shirt and boxers, pretending to fold his towel before he swings around and catches you watching him. You meet his eyes guiltily, batting your eyes like you know you’re going to get away with this.
“You see a way to pay me back?” Your eyes drop and Wren senses that he might’ve said something wrong.
“Can… can we figure that out later?” You whisper. “I’ll let you do whatever you want to me, ok? Just… just not tonight.” For the first time, he notices that you’re clutching a mug, fingers wrapped around the cup so firmly that they’re turning white.
“Ease up, birdie. It was a joke. You don’t gotta do anything for me tonight.”
A silent ‘oh,’ escapes your mouth, fingers reddening as you loosen your grasp. God, he almost wishes he didn’t say that. He wants to turn your ass that color.
Shaking that thought off, Wren makes his way over to the couch in which you’ve taken refuge. He sits next to you, turning his head to meet your eyes.
And in that moment, Wren the smuggler, Wren, Remy’s right hand man, his guard dog, his means to an end, does something that he honestly refuses to acknowledge. He opens his arms and beckons you with a, “Come ‘ere.”
You scooch over immediately, almost tossing yourself into his arms, burying your head in his chest, taking in his scent and warmth and silence. You both don’t say a word, savoring each other’s touch.
And if you and Wren fell asleep like that, both exhausted from Remy’s party, wrapped up in each other, who’s to know?
You might just be the only reason Wren suddenly begins to look forward to Remy’s parties.
“Ah,” he says, simply. To be completely honest, Wren’s lost on what to do with that.
The squeak he heard stopped him in his tracks.
I just saw a post about parents building their son a cool new bed and being excited for him and his special interest is dinosaurs and you can tell and I was hit by insane baby fever
So I'm just thinking about Eden, hand making your kid's bed. Carving each piece of wood, whittling tiny designs in it. Your kid is getting too big for the cot and he'd rather die than have them in bed with you two so he sits, bare foot and surrounded by different pieces of lumber, perfectly measured to slot together and puts it all together.
Avery, who orders your kid a new bed, making sure it's one of the cool ones. A bunk bed with a lil play area underneath, with safe stairs for them to climb down from instead of a ladder. He bought the cot and made sure it was aesthetically pleasant, soft white painted wood and all pretty but loves your kid enough to indulge. Has other people build it while they're at school but watches you excitedly set up the play area and tucking their toys in and making up the bed. Something in him feels it's because you didn't get to be excited about a new bed. The other part brushes it over and kisses the back of your neck.
Wren yelling fuck as he hammers his thumb again. Grumbling loudly. Whines for a kiss every time you pop your head in. Wren was going to buy a cheap IKEA bed and make it up cool but Remy caught wind and sent over one of those fucking beds that takes forever to put together, has drawers built into it, everything. Remy smoothly told you it's because he makes sure his people are happy but Wren knows for a fuckin fact that it's because he already owned it and wanted to get it out of the manor. He's more excited to pick out sheets and new toys, because a kid needs a cool fuckin bed!
Bailey leaving halfway through, crumpling up the instructions. Snaps at you to leave him alone when he leaves the house. You feel uneasy, and try to take over, but shit, it's complicated... Where the hell is slot G? What's rod C? Its not even funny to make it into a sex joke anymore. You sit there, desperately checking the time, wanting your kid to get to come home to a upgraded bed after nagging Bailey to stop being a cheapskate. Then the door flings open and arguing voices spill over each other. The asshole drags his friends who all currently owe him a favour in, making them help him or god HELP THEM, he will start throwing hands. Briar idly questions your choice in the design, as Harper SWEATS, bullied into being the one who holds up the balancing edge of the bed frame. Remy and Bailey arguing about instructions and are so close to hitting each other until Wren smugly points out they've been reading it upside down. When it's actually put together, they all go to the kitchen and steal your beers as Briar stays behind and idly watches you make up the bed, offering tips on how to make it look cosier.
And of course your kid lets themselves in with their key, ignores all the men who did the work and flings themselves into your arms, babbling out thanks yous for the cool new bed! The ensemble quietly reminds each other to get vasectomies and Bailey just gives you the evil eye.
