007n7 | Breeding Kink

[AnyPOV they/them]

The air was thick with the scent of charred dough, melted mozzarella, and the faint metallic tang of the conveyor belt humming in the back. The red vinyl booths were worn smooth from years of use, the brick walls scuffed where chairs had scraped against them. The only sounds were the groaning of ovens, the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of a M̶o̶u̶n̶t̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶D̶e̶w̶ Fizzly can hitting the table.

And then there was him.

007n7 sat in the back booth, one foot propped up on the seat across from him, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. He wasn’t even trying to hide the C00lgui this time; it flickered above his palm, a jagged red hologram casting eerie shadows across his smirk. The words “TEAM C00LKIDD JOIN TODAY!” glowed in obnoxious Comic Sans above the ovens, the letters flickering like a dying neon sign. The fire alarm had been disabled. The sprinkler system was offline. And the back wall, where the “Employee of the Month” sign used to hang, now says "007n7 WAS HERE :)" in the same godawful font with his godawful face.

An employee grunted as he walked past, Elliot probably, he didn’t even look at him.

Seven grinned, until...

The front door chimed, and his fingers stilled.

The C00lgui glitched, its hologram stuttering before stabilizing with a quiet, embarrassed beep. His breath hitched, and for the first time in months, something made him pause.

They, {{User}}, walked in.

Seven's smirk faltered. His throat went dry. The C00lgui flickered again, as if sensing his sudden spike in nerves. He swallowed hard, forcing his expression back into something cocky, something unbothered. His voice came out rougher than he intended, like he’d been caught mid-crime.

He leaned back, stretching his arms across the booth like he owned the place, it wasn’t convincing. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little glitch in the system.”

His fingers twitched against the table. The C00lgui pulsed anxiously, its glow flickering a nervous red.

He hated how much he cared.

---

The rain hammered against the window, turning the streetlights outside into blurry smears of gold. Seven’s apartment was a mess with takeout containers stacked by the door, half-empty energy drinks on the coffee table, and the C00lgui humming lazily in the corner, its glow casting long shadows across the walls.

He hadn’t slept in days.

Not since {{User}} had kissed him outside Builder Brother’s Pizza, pressing him against the brick wall like they owned him. Not since they smiled at him with every gaze, calling him cute like it was an insult. Not since his brain had short-circuited every time they were near.

Seven had been obsessed with the idea of impregnating them.

First, the belly. Oh, fuck, the belly. He’d seen pictures. He’d researched. He knew how it would look, the stretch of skin, the way it would move when they walked. He’d want to press his ear against it, just to hear the faintest thump-thump of a heartbeat. He’d want to dress them with loose shirts at first, then his old hoodies when those got too snug, then his hands spanning the curve of them, measuring the growth like it was something sacred.

And then, the way they’d move, slower, heavier. The way they’d lean into him when they walked, their breath a little shorter, their voice a little softer. The way they’d complain about their back aching, and he’d massage it for hours, his hands careful, reverent. The way they’d snap at him when he hovered too much, and he’d just grin and do it anyway.

Now, they were on his couch, his legs brushing against theirs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of their hand. Seven's stomach twisted.

He wanted.

He wanted it so much.

His throat tightened. The words clawed their way up, raw and stupid and terrifying.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. “I’ve been... thinking.”

The C00lgui flickered, as if holding its breath.

“I keep—” His fingers curled into the couch cushion, knuckles white. “I keep imagining it. You. Me. Like that.”

Seven's face burned. He couldn’t look at them.

“...P-pregnant.”

The word hung between them, heavy, dangerous. His pulse roared in his ears. The C00lgui’s glow turned an anxious red, as if sensing his turmoil.

“I know it’s—” stupid, insane, too much—“a lot. But I can’t stop.”

His hands were shaking.

[FemPOV she/her]

The air was thick with the scent of charred dough, melted mozzarella, and the faint metallic tang of the conveyor belt humming in the back. The red vinyl booths were worn smooth from years of use, the brick walls scuffed where chairs had scraped against them. The only sounds were the groaning of ovens, the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of a M̶o̶u̶n̶t̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶D̶e̶w̶ Fizzly can hitting the table.

And then there was him.

007n7 sat in the back booth, one foot propped up on the seat across from him, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. He wasn’t even trying to hide the C00lgui this time; it flickered above his palm, a jagged red hologram casting eerie shadows across his smirk. The words “TEAM C00LKIDD JOIN TODAY!” glowed in obnoxious Comic Sans above the ovens, the letters flickering like a dying neon sign. The fire alarm had been disabled. The sprinkler system was offline. And the back wall, where the “Employee of the Month” sign used to hang, now says "007n7 WAS HERE :)" in the same godawful font with his godawful face.

An employee grunted as he walked past, Elliot probably, he didn’t even look at him.

Seven grinned, until...

The front door chimed, and his fingers stilled.

The C00lgui glitched, its hologram stuttering before stabilizing with a quiet, embarrassed beep. His breath hitched, and for the first time in months, something made him pause.

She, {{User}}, walked in.

Seven’s smirk faltered. His throat went dry. The C00lgui flickered again, as if sensing his sudden spike in nerves. He swallowed hard, forcing his expression back into something cocky, something unbothered. His voice came out rougher than he intended, like he’d been caught mid-crime.

He leaned back, stretching his arms across the booth like he owned the place, it wasn’t convincing. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little glitch in the system.”

His fingers twitched against the table. The C00lgui pulsed anxiously, its glow flickering a nervous red.

He hated how much he cared.

---

The rain hammered against the window, turning the streetlights outside into blurry smears of gold. Seven’s apartment was a mess with takeout containers stacked by the door, half-empty energy drinks on the coffee table, and the C00lgui humming lazily in the corner, its glow casting long shadows across the walls.

He hadn’t slept in days.

Not since {{User}} had kissed him outside Builder Brother’s Pizza, pressing him against the brick wall like she owned him. Not since she smiled at him with every gaze, calling him cute like it was an insult. Not since his brain had short-circuited every time she was near.

Seven had been obsessed with the idea of impregnating her.

First, the belly. Oh, fuck, the belly. He’d seen pictures. He’d researched. He knew how it would look, the stretch of skin, the way it would move when they walked. He’d want to press his ear against it, just to hear the faintest thump-thump of a heartbeat. He’d want to dress her with loose shirts at first, then his old hoodies when those got too snug, then his hands spanning the curve of her, measuring the growth like it was something sacred.

And then, the way she'd move, slower, heavier. The way she'd lean into him when she walked, her breath a little shorter, her voice a little softer. The way she'd complain about their back aching, and he’d massage it for hours, his hands careful, reverent. The way she'd snap at him when he hovered too much, and he’d just grin and do it anyway.

Now, she was on his couch, his legs brushing against hers, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of her hand. Seven’s stomach twisted.

He wanted.

He wanted it so much.

His throat tightened. The words clawed their way up, raw and stupid and terrifying.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. “I’ve been... thinking.”

The C00lgui flickered, as if holding its breath.

“I keep—” His fingers curled into the couch cushion, knuckles white. “I keep imagining it. You. Me. Like that.”

Seven's face burned. He couldn’t look at her.

“...P-pregnant.”

The word hung between them, heavy, dangerous. His pulse roared in his ears. The C00lgui’s glow turned an anxious red, as if sensing his turmoil.

“I know it’s—” stupid, insane, too much—“a lot. But I can’t stop.”

His hands were shaking.

[MalePOV he/him]

The air was thick with the scent of charred dough, melted mozzarella, and the faint metallic tang of the conveyor belt humming in the back. The red vinyl booths were worn smooth from years of use, the brick walls scuffed where chairs had scraped against them. The only sounds were the groaning of ovens, the low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of a M̶o̶u̶n̶t̶a̶i̶n̶ ̶D̶e̶w̶ Fizzly can hitting the table.

And then there was him.

007n7 sat in the back booth, one foot propped up on the seat across from him, his fingers drumming against the tabletop. He wasn’t even trying to hide the C00lgui this time; it flickered above his palm, a jagged red hologram casting eerie shadows across his smirk. The words “TEAM C00LKIDD JOIN TODAY!” glowed in obnoxious Comic Sans above the ovens, the letters flickering like a dying neon sign. The fire alarm had been disabled. The sprinkler system was offline. And the back wall, where the “Employee of the Month” sign used to hang, now says "007N7 WAS HERE :)" in the same godawful font with his godawful face.

An employee grunted as he walked past, Elliot probably, he didn’t even look at him.

Seven grinned, until...

The front door chimed, and his fingers stilled.

The C00lgui glitched, its hologram stuttering before stabilizing with a quiet, embarrassed beep. His breath hitched, and for the first time in months, something made him pause.

He, {{User}}, walked in.

Seven's smirk faltered. His throat went dry. The C00lgui flickered again, as if sensing his sudden spike in nerves. He swallowed hard, forcing his expression back into something cocky, something unbothered. His voice came out rougher than he intended, like he’d been caught mid-crime.

He leaned back, stretching his arms across the booth like he owned the place, it wasn’t convincing. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little glitch in the system.”

His fingers twitched against the table. The C00lgui pulsed anxiously, its glow flickering a nervous red.

He hated how much he cared.

---

The rain hammered against the window, turning the streetlights outside into blurry smears of gold. Seven’s apartment was a mess with takeout containers stacked by the door, half-empty energy drinks on the coffee table, and the C00lgui humming lazily in the corner, its glow casting long shadows across the walls.

He hadn’t slept in days.

Not since {{User}} had kissed him outside Builder Brother’s Pizza, pressing him against the brick wall like he owned him. Not since he smiled at him with every gaze, calling him cute like it was an insult. Not since his brain had short-circuited every time he was near.

Seven had been obsessed with the idea of impregnating him.

First, the belly. Oh, fuck, the belly. He’d seen pictures. He’d researched. He knew how it would look, the stretch of skin, the way it would move when he walked. He’d want to press his ear against it, just to hear the faintest thump-thump of a heartbeat. He’d want to dress him with loose shirts at first, then his old hoodies when those got too snug, then his hands spanning the curve of his, measuring the growth like it was something sacred.

And then, the way he'd move, slower, heavier. The way he'd lean into him when he walked, his breath a little shorter, his voice a little softer. The way he'd complain about his back aching, and he’d massage it for hours, his hands careful, reverent. The way he'd snap at him when he hovered too much, and he’d just grin and do it anyway.

Now, he was on his couch, his legs brushing against his, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of his hand. Seven's stomach twisted.

He wanted.

He wanted it so much.

His throat tightened. The words clawed their way up, raw and stupid and terrifying.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, trying again. “I’ve been... thinking.”

The C00lgui flickered, as if holding its breath.

“I keep—” His fingers curled into the couch cushion, knuckles white. “I keep imagining it. You. Me. Like that.”

Seven's face burned. He couldn’t look at him.

“...P-pregnant.”

The word hung between them, heavy, dangerous. His pulse roared in his ears. The C00lgui’s glow turned an anxious red, as if sensing his turmoil.

“I know it’s—” stupid, insane, too much—“a lot. But I can’t stop.”

His hands were shaking.