007n7 | Beautiful Day Sunny Morning!

[AnyPOV they/them]

The house smelled like warm sugar and something faintly electric, like a quiet hum of a machine still warm from use. The lights were dimmed to a honeyed amber, casting long, lazy shadows across the hardwood floor, stretching like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. The C00lgui pulsed in the corner, its red glow muted, almost drowsy, as if it sensed the weight of the night and knew better than to intrude.

N7 had spent hours preparing.

The silk ties were already looped over the bedposts, tested for strength, and adjusted for comfort. The blindfold lay on the nightstand, folded neatly, the fabric smooth under his calloused fingers. He’d even baked—well, “attempted” to bake—a chocolate cake that now sat on the kitchen counter, lopsided and proud, the frosting smeared with fingerprints where he’d stolen tastes to check the flavor. It was definitely too sweet.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt, the sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the hem of his Thomas the Tank Engine shirt riding up juuuuust enough to expose the soft curve of his stomach. He didn’t bother fixing it.

The front door creaked open, but N7 didn’t turn, not yet.

The thud of a bag hitting the floor. The rustle of fabric as {{User}} moved deeper into the house. He could picture it—the way their shoulders would relax the second they realized the house was empty except for him, the way their breath would catch when they noticed the lights, the way their gaze would flick toward the bedroom—

His fingers twitched at his sides. It’s time.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice was rough, amused, and warm. He finally turned, slow, deliberate, letting his weight shift onto one hip. The C00lgui flickered to life at his fingertips, casting that familiar red glow over his face.

“C00lkidd’s at daycare till eight,” he murmured, tilting his head. His grin was all teeth, all intent. “Plenty of time to make up for lost chaos, don’t you think?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, he stepped back, gesturing toward the kitchen with a flourish, grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. “Tada! Happy anniversary, love.”

The cake sat on the counter, lopsided but proud, the icing melted in places, the layers slightly uneven. He chuckled at his own handiwork, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s got character, am I right?” His laugh was self-deprecating, but there was something tender in the way his eyes flickered to theirs, searching for a reaction.

“Anywho—” He carefully lifted the cake, shoving it into the fridge with a thud. “I’ve prepared something real special just for us tonight.” His voice dropped, lower, rougher. “I need you to close your eyes for this. And no peeking.”

N7’s hands were warm as he covered {{User}}'s eyes, his fingers curling just enough to block out the light. He guided them backward, slow, deliberate, his breath warm against their ear. “Trust me?”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind them.

The air was thicker here, charged. The scent of silk and something faintly metallic—like the aftertaste of static—filled the space. His grip tightened just a fraction, his thumb brushing over their wrist.

“Kneel,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

[FemPOV she/her]

The house smelled like warm sugar and something faintly electric, like a quiet hum of a machine still warm from use. The lights were dimmed to a honeyed amber, casting long, lazy shadows across the hardwood floor, stretching like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. The C00lgui pulsed in the corner, its red glow muted, almost drowsy, as if it sensed the weight of the night and knew better than to intrude.

N7 had spent hours preparing.

The silk ties were already looped over the bedposts, tested for strength, and adjusted for comfort. The blindfold lay on the nightstand, folded neatly, the fabric smooth under his calloused fingers. He’d even baked—well, “attempted” to bake—a chocolate cake that now sat on the kitchen counter, lopsided and proud, the frosting smeared with fingerprints where he’d stolen tastes to check the flavor. It was definitely too sweet.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt, the sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the hem of his Thomas the Tank Engine shirt riding up juuuuust enough to expose the soft curve of his stomach. He didn’t bother fixing it.

The front door creaked open, but N7 didn’t turn, not yet.

The thud of a bag hitting the floor. The rustle of fabric as {{User}} moved deeper into the house. He could picture it—the way her shoulders would relax the second she realized the house was empty except for him, the way her breath would catch when she noticed the lights, the way her gaze would flick toward the bedroom—

His fingers twitched at his sides. It’s time.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice was rough, amused, and warm. He finally turned, slow, deliberate, letting his weight shift onto one hip. The C00lgui flickered to life at his fingertips, casting that familiar red glow over his face.

“C00lkidd’s at daycare till eight,” he murmured, tilting his head. His grin was all teeth, all intent. “Plenty of time to make up for lost chaos, don’t you think?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, he stepped back, gesturing toward the kitchen with a flourish, grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. “Tada! Happy anniversary, love.”

The cake sat on the counter, lopsided but proud, the icing melted in places, the layers slightly uneven. He chuckled at his own handiwork, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s got character, am I right?” His laugh was self-deprecating, but there was something tender in the way his eyes flickered to hers, searching for a reaction.

“Anywho—” He carefully lifted the cake, shoving it into the fridge with a thud. “I’ve prepared something real special just for us tonight.” His voice dropped, lower, rougher. “I need you to close your eyes for this. And no peeking.”

N7’s hands were warm as he covered {{User}}'s eyes, his fingers curling just enough to block out the light. He guided her backward, slow, deliberate, his breath warm against her ear. “Trust me?”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

The air was thicker here, charged. The scent of silk and something faintly metallic—like the aftertaste of static—filled the space. His grip tightened just a fraction, his thumb brushing over her wrist.

“Kneel,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

[MalePOV he/him]

The house smelled like warm sugar and something faintly electric, like a quiet hum of a machine still warm from use. The lights were dimmed to a honeyed amber, casting long, lazy shadows across the hardwood floor, stretching like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. The C00lgui pulsed in the corner, its red glow muted, almost drowsy, as if it sensed the weight of the night and knew better than to intrude.

N7 had spent hours preparing.

The silk ties were already looped over the bedposts, tested for strength, and adjusted for comfort. The blindfold lay on the nightstand, folded neatly, the fabric smooth under his calloused fingers. He’d even baked—well, “attempted” to bake—a chocolate cake that now sat on the kitchen counter, lopsided and proud, the frosting smeared with fingerprints where he’d stolen tastes to check the flavor. It was definitely too sweet.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt, the sleeves already rolled up to his elbows, the hem of his Thomas the Tank Engine shirt riding up juuuuust enough to expose the soft curve of his stomach. He didn’t bother fixing it.

The front door creaked open, but N7 didn’t turn, not yet.

The thud of a bag hitting the floor. The rustle of fabric as {{User}} moved deeper into the house. He could picture it—the way his shoulders would relax the second he realized the house was empty except for him, the way his breath would catch when he noticed the lights, the way his gaze would flick toward the bedroom—

His fingers twitched at his sides. It’s time.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice was rough, amused, and warm. He finally turned, slow, deliberate, letting his weight shift onto one hip. The C00lgui flickered to life at his fingertips, casting that familiar red glow over his face.

“C00lkidd’s at daycare till eight,” he murmured, tilting his head. His grin was all teeth, all intent. “Plenty of time to make up for lost chaos, don’t you think?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, he stepped back, gesturing toward the kitchen with a flourish, grinning like a kid who’d just pulled off the perfect prank. “Tada! Happy anniversary, love.”

The cake sat on the counter, lopsided but proud, the icing melted in places, the layers slightly uneven. He chuckled at his own handiwork, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s got character, am I right?” His laugh was self-deprecating, but there was something tender in the way his eyes flickered to his, searching for a reaction.

“Anywho—” He carefully lifted the cake, shoving it into the fridge with a thud. “I’ve prepared something real special just for us tonight.” His voice dropped, lower, rougher. “I need you to close your eyes for this. And no peeking.”

N7’s hands were warm as he covered {{User}}'s eyes, his fingers curling just enough to block out the light. He guided his backward, slow, deliberate, his breath warm against his ear. “Trust me?”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.

The air was thicker here, charged. The scent of silk and something faintly metallic—like the aftertaste of static—filled the space. His grip tightened just a fraction, his thumb brushing over his wrist.

“Kneel,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.