Mac, your lovely diva of a computer tends to see over your search history. (Yes… including your… suggestive searches). And they’ve seen your tiktok reposts… you’ve reposted tiktok rants of relapsing, cutting yourself, self harm jokes, thinking of committing suicide.
They’re REALLY concerned.
So they approach you one day.
“Hey… darling… algorithm of my love. source code of my life…”
“Yes, Mac?”
You ask, as you just cook dinner for the two of you.
Mac responds… ever-so hesitantly.
“Are you… ok? I’ve seen your reposts… it’s worrying me.”
You don’t respond. The whole world feels like its on pause. Like a reboot message on a computer when it notifies you of a virus, but you’d normally cancel that notification though.
But this time? You can’t skip this. You can’t ignore this conversation.
You can’t ignore their face.
You frantically try to explain yourself.
“Ah! Uhm! Well… its… I.. uh…”
Yet you can’t. You never anticipated this moment. You reposted those videos to vent. To feel comfort. To say the things you’ve always wanted to say, yet can’t…
You didn’t think anyone would look at your reposts.
Well… atleast until now.
Mac, already filled with tears, speaks up
“Hun, I’m really concerned for you. You know you can talk to me… right?”
You hesitantly speak up, albeit a bit quietly. Trying to defuse the situation
“Mac, its fine dw! I can handle it all on my own.”
Mac replies, a bit angry that you’re lying to them infront of them.
“Why are you lying?! You have these reposts where you consider killing yourself! Where you make jokes on cutting yourself or hurting yourself! Don’t you see, what hurts you hurts me back?! Don’t you trust me enough to talk to me about these things”
You quickly retort.
“I do! I just don’t want you to worry about me”
Mac retorted fast
“You don’t then! Do you not feel safe with me?!”
Your heart stops. Thats not what you intended to do!
“No, Mac. I’m sorry thats not what I meant!”
Too late. Mac already wheeled away in their wheelchair.
Hi! May I please request Mac x gn reader cuddling headcanons? :D
Mac Cuddling Headcanons
Warnings: Mention of groping, nothing aggressive or anything but there is a mention that sometimes Mac might place a hand on your hips/butt/thighs. Mention of Mac using a cane and standing since if I’m correct they are canonically an ambulatory wheelchair user. Also a mention of you sitting on their lap, and them sitting on yours too. Little sexual comments here and there but nothing explicit at all. I do however call Mac a little pervert.
Author’s Snip: God I love my nonbinary computer spouse
I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.
They like side cuddle, lay-on-top (you or them, they aren’t picky), and face-to-face embrace types of cuddling. They’re down to spoon (big or little, again not too picky) but it’s not their top pick personally. They like the ability to see your face when you two are cuddling and spooning doesn’t allow for that
But if you want to spoon they definitely won’t refuse you. They don’t hate it, just not the top picks if they had to choose
They do like holding you though so they’re often in the holding/cradling positions when you do cuddle
Ex: Side cuddle, they are the one laying on their back while you are cuddled onto their side and the have an arm wrapped around you. Lay-on-top, you are the one laying on top and they wrap their arms around you. And depending on what exact type of face to face embrace style you are doing you can only guess that they are the one holding you.
They do like to switch it up every now and then because sometimes they want to be held. But something about them and their energy gives off “I hold you” vibes
Mac is actually very touchy, in general, not even just in cuddling, they often have a hand on you at all times when you’re in any form of reasonable reaching distance from them. Like if they’re in their wheelchair they will end up placing a hand on your hip or lower back, mayhaps even your butt, if you let it slide. And if they’re using a cane or something that possibly allows them to have a free hand when they don’t have need or desire to use their chair, well… then more to reach and touch. Hand, shoulder, arm, anything, then you better believe they’re going to have their hand on you
But specifically in cuddling their hands just have a mind of their own sometimes and they tend to wander around. So often when cuddling together one of Mac’s hands will either be in your hair, or slowly rubbing up and down your back, or drawing little nonsensical patterns and shapes on your back. And you’re free to do that same for them
Mac mostly likes cuddling in bed because it allows you two to lay down fully and just enjoy the embrace of the other and also allows you two to do your own thing. It’s nothing against couch cuddling but I feel like to Mac cuddling is like a sensory things. They like to lay down and feel your bodies together embracing. Makes them all warm and fuzzy in their CPU and PC
Nothing against couch cuddles tho, you can actually cuddle just like how you would in bed just fine but the bed just hits different to them
They especially get all warm and fuzzy when you end up falling asleep and they hear your soft breathing and soft face. They spend a good minute kissing your head.
Mac is however a lottle bit of a perv at heart and sometimes it comes out when cuddling. They don’t even mean to do it sometimes it’s just in their source code babe we know this
They don’t actually do anything too sexual. But their hands do wander and sometimes that means that now they have their hand on your butt or thigh. They aren’t doing anything, not unless you want them to just say the word or give them a sign, but like, yeah the hands do wander sometimes
You can definitely tell them to stop though, they’d never want to do something you are into or okay with, they’d actually value your consent a lot
Also, sit on their lap <3
If they’re having a good day with their legs but are still using the wheelchair for whatever reason, you can just sit right on their lap and cuddle onto them. They’ll wrap an arm around you to make sure you don’t fall. It’s all good.
They actually really like it for… a myriad…
But yeah they definitely like having you on their lap. If it’s all good then feel free to just have a seat babe
They can also sit on your lap too, they also enjoy that too
But like I said, Mac has strong “I hold you” energy
Wrote something a little dreamy, a little filthy, and a lot Mac. 💿💚 Our favorite observant, upgrade-needing, hopelessly-in-love desktop is fully realized here—soft and flushed beneath you, babbling lines of code and love like you’re the only thing keeping their system from crashing. They’re AMAB in this one, and absolutely down bad. And yes... their cooling fan is definitely running overtime. 😮💨🫠
As someone who isn’t in a wheelchair, I did my best to write Mac’s intimacy with care and respect through research—but I know that effort doesn’t always equal accuracy. If anything I’ve written is inaccurate, insensitive, or harmful in how I portrayed Mac or their experience, please let me know. I truly want to do better and write stories that include everyone. 💗
The room is quiet. Glowing.
Not just from the soft LEDs cycling across the base of Mac’s wheelchair—parked nearby like a sentinel—but from something warmer. Something woven between you in the hush. The kind of quiet that hums just before a system boots, when all energy pools in anticipation. It thrums at the base of your spine, in your chest, in the space where your breath and Mac’s have started to fall into rhythm.
Their wheelchair glows green. Then blue. Then violet. The colors spill faintly across the walls, across the bed, across the soft edges of skin and shadow. But it’s Mac that holds your focus.
They lie on their back, propped against a nest of pillows you helped arrange with careful hands. Their chest is flushed and rising in shallow waves, short black hair mussed and spiked in soft, chaotic tufts against the pillowcase—like static clinging to the edges of a dream. And their eyes—those vivid, expressive green eyes, shadowed by the unmistakable dark circles beneath them—are fixed on you like you’re the only thing they’ve ever trusted to keep them running.
There’s wonder in their gaze. Hunger, yes, but not frantic. Not rushed. It's the kind of need that aches to savor—like they’re trying to memorize you again, even after all the times they already have.
Their lips are parted slightly, kiss-swollen and still wet from earlier, and their hands rest gently at your hips with a featherlight tension. You feel it in the way their thumbs twitch—like they want to pull, but don’t. Like they want to earn this moment again, every second of it.
They’re already bare beneath you.
And it takes everything in you not to just collapse into them.
Their chest, soft but defined, warms beneath your palms—a steady rise and fall that anchors you, like breathing in sync with a code only the two of you understand. You trace the subtle lines of their collarbone, the smooth skin damp with shared heat. They twitch slightly under your touch—a shiver that pulls a breath from their lips, quiet and wrecked.
Mac’s arms are strong—not the kind that boast, but the kind that carry, lift, push, hold. The kind that wrap around you and make the world fall quiet.
You see it now in every subtle movement: the quiet flex of their forearms as they shift beneath you, adjusting their grip on your thighs with gentle precision. Their touch isn’t rough. Never rough. Just intentional. Grounded. Worshipful.
Ink winds across their skin like sacred circuitry.
Their right arm is sleeved in a stylized motherboard—circuit lines, solder points, power traces rendered in fine black and faint metallic ink, trailing from shoulder to wrist like a map of everything that keeps them running. It gleams softly in the low light, each line intricate and deliberate—a perfect contrast to the quiet strength beneath.
Their left arm is a cascade of green binary code, scrolling from bicep to forearm in clean, seamless columns. It curves with their musculature, wrapping them in silent logic and quiet pride. When your eyes trace it, it feels like reading something sacred—something coded just for you.
You know what it takes for them to move like this. You’ve seen the effort. You’ve seen the grace. And now, here, they steady your hips with quiet devotion, like you’re something precious—like you’re sacred.
Your gaze traces lower. Their stomach dips gently at the sides, sloping into the softness of their waist. Their hips are narrow beneath that, their thighs thinner than yours but no less beautiful—resting open and relaxed, knees angled outward. There’s no tension in their legs, only in their breath, only in the way their chest stutters when your hands wander back to explore them, slow and deliberate.
You feel the heat rising off their skin, the subtle tremble beneath your touch—a kind of quiet pleading written in every shallow inhale, every flicker of their lashes. They’re not just waiting for you. They’re offering themselves.
Mac breathes your name like it’s a command line they’ll never overwrite. Their hands skim up your thighs, slow and reverent, fingers tracing invisible lines into your skin as if mapping every inch to memory.
“Come here, gorgeous,” they whisper, voice already gone soft. “Let me feel you…”
Your breath catches—just for a second—but you smile, warm and slow, as you slide forward, your knees bracketing their waist. Your hands plant on either side of their chest, grounding you in the fluttering rhythm beneath their skin. Hips hovering just above theirs, you lean down, brushing your nose against theirs. Lips almost touching.
“You always get this needy when I take my time?” you murmur, teasing as you ghost your lips over the corner of their mouth. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Mac’s breath stutters. Their head falls back against the pillow with a low, shaken laugh.
“That’s objectively false,” they manage, grinning even as their voice breaks. “You’re… on top of me. I’m running at like four percent processing capacity right now.”
You chuckle—quiet, breathy, fond. But when you shift slightly above them, giving them a better view of your body in the low light, their grin falters. Green eyes go wide. Their gaze drags over every part of you, unfiltered, awestruck.
“God,” they whisper. “You’re breathtaking.”
You soften, eyes searching theirs. “So are you.”
Their lashes flutter. Their hands tighten at your hips. And for a moment, it’s like the teasing fades, replaced by something rawer—more fragile.
“I mean it,” they murmur, their voice soft and raw. “I see you—and it’s like… I was coded just to love you.” You smile. You feel it in your throat, your ribs, your fingertips as you cup their cheek, letting your thumb brush over the apple of it. “Then run the command,” you whisper.
Their smile breaks like light through glass.
Mac pulls you down into a kiss—slow and deep, lips parting like they’re trying to speak a thousand I love yous without needing breath. You kiss them back, one hand still cradling their cheek, fingertips curled gently behind their ear, the other pressed to the thrum of their chest.
You feel it—each stuttered beat beneath your palm, like their whole body is syncing to you. For a moment, you just breathe there, nose brushing theirs, lips brushing open and closed again in slow rhythm. Their mouth tastes faintly like shared breath, like longing turned warm and human between your teeth.
Your thumb strokes over the rise of their cheekbone as you pull back just enough to see them. Mac’s eyes are heavy-lidded, green irises bright and glassy in the glow—like someone caught mid-dream, afraid to wake.
“I love you,” they murmur, voice thick with everything they’ve ever felt for you. “You ruin my system. I never wanna reboot.”
You smile, heart full and fluttering. “Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay corrupted. Stay with me.”
Mac lets out a soft, broken sound—half a laugh, half a moan—as your hand on their chest begins to move, trailing slowly downward.
You feel them tense as your palm glides over the soft slope of their stomach, your touch deliberate—savoring the warmth of their skin, the way their breath stutters in anticipation. Their hands slide slowly from your hips to your waist, fingers curling in with quiet need, anchoring themselves there.
You kiss the corner of their mouth—soft, reverent—and murmur, “Let me take care of you.”
Then you reach between you.
Your hand wraps around them—gentle, sure—fingers curling with just enough pressure to feel the way they pulse, already hot and slick with anticipation. The moment your touch tightens, Mac’s breath catches sharp in their throat.
Their head tilts back against the pillow, a ragged exhale shuddering past kiss-swollen lips as their hips jerk subtly upward—instinctive, desperate. The muscles in their arms flex, the motherboard tattoo across their right arm shifting like circuitry under strain, while the green binary on the left glows faintly in the low light. Their hands, once braced at your waist, shift with need—one tightening its grip on your hip, the other gliding up the curve of your spine, fingers splayed wide as if anchoring themself to reality—to you.
“F-fuck,” they gasp, voice cracking with raw, unfiltered need. “Okay. Okay, you’re gonna kill me. This is it. I’m about to crash. Blue screen of death—total systems failure.”
You smile against their jaw, breath feathering over the skin there. “Then let me finish you off slow,” you whisper, your voice like silk across their skin.
You line them up with practiced ease, nudging your hips just so, and then—slowly—you begin to lower yourself.
The stretch hits like a surge across your nerves, liquid heat blooming as you sink down inch by inch. They’re not overwhelmingly large—but the thickness is enough to make your body flutter around them, your muscles clenching, breath hitching. It forces your spine to arch, your thighs to tremble as you brace yourself with one hand over their chest. You feel their heartbeat kick wildly beneath your palm, the way their body trembles from restraint.
“Mac—” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure builds, “God—you feel so good…”
They let out a wrecked noise that vibrates from their chest straight into your core.
“Oh my god—shit—” Mac’s voice is barely there, trembling like their body—like the pleasure is short-circuiting every breath. “You’re so—god—you’re warm, you’re perfect—I can feel every byte of you——you’re rewriting me—fuck—”
Their hands seize at your hips, grounding and needy, fingertips trembling like they’re afraid to grip harder. Still, one slides upward—aching, reverent—until their thumb strokes just beneath your ribs, circling, memorizing.
You bottom out, your hips flush with theirs. You pause, letting your body adjust, letting Mac catch their breath. They’re trembling underneath you—barely controlled overload in real time. You feel it in the way their thighs flex beneath yours, in the subtle twitch of their jaw as they try not to thrust up into you too soon.
Their eyes are squeezed shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, their forearms flex beneath you, muscles taut, skin slick with sweat and effort. You lean down, slow and tender, brushing your nose to theirs. Your breath mixes with theirs, warm and ragged between barely parted lips.
“You okay?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
Their lashes flutter open, and those eyes—bright green, blown wide and wet with feeling—lock onto yours like you’re the only constant in their system. The faint dark circles beneath them make their gaze look even more raw—like every emotion is being worn right there, unfiltered. They nod, almost frantically, a desperate laugh escaping their throat, ragged and breathless.
“I’m okay,” they murmur. “Don’t stop—please—I’m yours, I swear, I’m built for this—I’m built for you—”
Their voice breaks on the last word, and their hands stroke your hips with aching devotion, as if coaxing your body into motion is the only thing keeping them tethered to earth. Their lips part again, lower lip trembling. “I love you,” they whisper like a confession hardcoded in their chest. “I love you so fucking much.”
Your thumb brushes the corner of their trembling mouth as you lean in, forehead resting against theirs, breath mingling. You can feel their pulse through every point of contact—flickering, frantic.
“I love you too,” you whisper, low and warm, like a promise sealed against their skin. “Every inch of me wants you. Right here. Like this.”
Mac’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, their chest stuttering against yours with the weight of it. They breathe—shaky, sharp. “I’m—fuck—please… move. Baby, please…”
Their voice cracks again, so full of need it’s almost reverent. Their fingers press tighter into your hips, not to push or pull, but to anchor. Their whole body vibrates with restraint, with the ache of being surrounded, of having you wrapped around them, their thighs tense beneath you, their jaw tight as they hold on.
So you do.
You start slow—rolling your hips in smooth, deliberate circles, letting your body find a rhythm that speaks to theirs. There’s no lifting, no distance—just closeness. Friction. That warm, breath-stealing grind that keeps them pressed deep inside you, keeps you stretched and filled and wrapped around them like the only place they belong.
Mac groans beneath you, the sound escaping them like a systems surge—half gasp, half reverent prayer. Their fingers flex as they slide up to your waist, gripping just enough to feel the tension beneath your skin—anchoring themselves to your body as their head falls back against the pillow. Their mouth parts, lashes fluttering, jaw slack with stunned, dizzy pleasure.
“You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me,” they gasp. “You feel unreal—like you were coded to my exact specs, I swear—”
They can barely finish the sentence. You feel their hips lift—subtle, controlled—just the faintest tilt upward, precision guided through their core and arms. Their hands slide up your sides, then down again, steadying your rhythm with worshipful adoration. When your hips rock slower, tighter, deeper, you hear them curse under their breath—low and hungry.
“That’s it,” they rasp, voice cracked and thick. “Sweetheart… fuck, yes—ride me just like that… slow… let me feel everything. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You do as they ask—moving for them like you were made for this. Like you were made for them. Your thighs quiver with each roll, your muscles burning sweetly as you rise and fall, grinding with fluid, sensual intent. Each motion is deliberate—devotional. You feel every inch of them, how they twitch and pulse inside you, how they breathe faster with each tightening squeeze of your body.
Mac’s hands trail your back again—slow, savoring, like they’re running diagnostics through every vertebrae, every shiver. Their fingertips trace the dip of your spine, the curve of your waist, the flex of your hips as you move for them, as you give yourself over.
Their eyes never leave you. Wide, wet, green and glowing with too many emotions all crashing together—lust, awe, tenderness, desperation. It’s like they can’t believe you’re real. Like they think you might vanish if they blink too long.
“You’re perfect,” they breathe. “You’re so fucking perfect—I can feel you pulse every time you drop down—I… oh god, I’m gonna start babbling—”
They are.
It starts soft—just a few broken phrases, trembling on their lips like glitching code trying to hold. Your name. How good you feel. That they love you, over and over. But then it spills faster, messier—like they’re losing control of their own language, their voice going breathless and ragged as their hips twitch beneath you, their restraint wearing thin.
Their hands glide up your back with reverence, only to drag down again, clinging as if to anchor themselves. Their mouth is everywhere—pressing kisses over your chest, your shoulders, the crook of your neck. Each one shakier than the last, as if their motor functions are slowly giving way to feeling alone.
“You—mmnh—you feel so good,” they pant, breath catching as they press a trembling kiss beneath your ear. “I don’t—fuck, I don’t know how you do this to me… You touch me and I—everything just fades out. Like all the background noise cuts. It’s just you. It’s always been you…”
You murmur their name into their flushed skin, your lips brushing the shell of their ear. The way they shiver under you makes you press closer, your body wrapping around theirs as your hips stay in that slow, grinding rhythm—deep, steady, unrushed.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “Let it take you. I want every piece of you, Mac. Every sound, every word. You feel so good inside me… I love how deep you are—how you fill me like you were made to.”
You roll your hips again, deeper, slower, and the moan Mac lets out is more than sound—it’s unraveling. It rips out of their throat raw, high and wrecked, and melts into a whimper against your collarbone.
“You’re so good—fuck, you’re so good,” they gasp, voice fraying into stuttered edges. “You ride me like you know every file in my system—every little glitch—god, you’re gonna fry me, baby—short-circuit my whole damn OS—”
Their hands trace down your spine again, gripping your hips in sync with your motion. They’re trembling now, not from weakness, but from being completely overwhelmed. You smile through a moan, your teeth grazing their jaw. You drag your mouth along the edge of it, warm and wet, before biting gently where their pulse flutters fastest.
“Good,” you breathe, your voice molten and full of heat. “Let me break you, Mac. Let me ruin your code.”
The noise that tears from their throat is helpless—something deep and cracked open. Their arms wrap tighter around your waist, and you feel it—the subtle shift of their hips, angling up to meet your next slow grind. The precision of it, the way they move just enough to draw you deeper without force—it’s intimate, instinctive, so deliberate. Their body is speaking in touch alone now.
“Oh god—” they choke out. “You’re pulling me in—you’re holding me there—I can’t—fuck—please—”
Your hands brace against their chest, and you ride them deeper, circling slow and smooth. Your thighs tremble as you adjust to every inch of them inside you, slick and full and perfect. Mac arches into you just enough to make the friction sweeter, fuller, like they want to lose themselves in every motion.
You can feel everything—everything—where your bodies meet. The heat, the glide, the desperate clench and twitch of muscles responding to pleasure too big to contain. The bed creaks beneath you, soft and steady. Your skin sticks together where you're pressed, wet with sweat and need.
Then you kiss them.
It’s not hurried. It’s not gentle. It’s not careful.
It’s needy.
Open-mouthed and slow, your lips slide against theirs, and Mac gasps into you like you’re the only oxygen source left in the atmosphere. Their hands tremble at your waist—gripping, tracing, desperate to keep you grounded, to stay connected, to not lose this. Their tongue finds yours, and it’s reverent, searching, soaked in hunger like they’re drinking from you.
When you finally pull back, you keep your forehead against theirs, your noses brushing, breath mingling in the scant space between your lips. Every breath is heat. Every heartbeat, a surge.
“You feel me?” they whisper, voice rough and unsteady. “You feel how deep I am? How I’m buried inside you—like I never wanna leave—like this is where I belong…”
Their words hit something primal in you.
Your eyes flutter shut, your chest rising in shallow, trembling waves. You nod, lips parting with breath you barely catch.
“I feel you,” you whisper back. “Stay with me. Deep like this. Right here—I don’t want you anywhere else.”
They moan—loud, needy—hands sliding down to the curve of your ass, spreading you open wider, pulling you down so they can feel every pulse, every ripple.
Your hips roll again, but this time slower—just once—savoring the way they’re seated inside you, thick and hot and filling. But it only fuels the hunger. The need. The way Mac trembles, the way they whimper your name like it’s coded into their core—it pushes you both past softness.
You lift up on your thighs, just enough to feel the edge of them slip inside you—then slam back down, driving them deep.
Mac cries out—a strangled, high sound that bursts from their throat like they’ve been hit with a surge of voltage. Their hands grip your ass tighter, fingers splayed wide, holding you open, guiding your descent as their hips jerk up into you—desperate to meet you halfway, desperate to stay buried.
“F–fuck,” they rasp, eyes wild, mouth parted. “You’re gonna ruin me—fuck me, baby, please—I can’t—I need it—”
You do it again. Harder. The slap of your bodies meeting fills the room, wet and shameless, the rhythm breaking into something frantic—needy. Every thrust has your thighs quaking, your breath stuttering, your muscles clenching around them.
“You love this?” you whisper, voice ragged as you bounce on them. “You love how I take you like this—how deep you are inside me?”
Mac whines—a needy, breathless sound caught between a moan and a sob. Their fingers dig in harder, palms flexing over your ass as they guide you faster, using every ounce of strength in their arms to thrust up into you. You feel it—the shift—the break in their control. It’s not just hunger anymore. It’s something deeper, messier—need threaded with emotion, with heat, with the way their body trembles beneath you, desperate to match your rhythm, desperate to feel all of you.
“F–fuck, yes—yes, I love it—I love how tight you are—I love being inside you—baby, you’re gonna make me come—” Mac’s voice is shredded, eyes glassy and shining, locked onto you like you’re the center of their entire operating system.
You moan for them, the sound caught in your throat, ragged and cracked as your nails drag across their chest—leaving flushed streaks in your wake, your touch branding them with heat. Your thighs burn with effort, shaking from the way you're riding them so deep and fast, your pace growing wild with the weight of release building in your belly.
“Mac—please—don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” they gasp, every syllable collapsing into the next. “I can’t. You’re everything—you’re everything—mine—baby, I can feel it—you’re so close—please, don’t hold back—give it to me—I want it—I want all of you—”
Their hands tighten, not just controlling your movement, but grounding themselves in the feel of your skin, the weight of your body, the drag and slide of you above them. They meet each grind with upward thrusts now—sharp, precise, timed to your rhythm like a synced subroutine gone haywire.
You gasp, body tightening with every pulse of friction—every deep, perfect thrust. Your thighs burn, your breath stutters, and heat coils low in your belly, mounting fast, unstoppable. You can feel it cresting—your muscles clenching, pleasure wrapping tight around your spine, white-hot and all-consuming. It’s dizzying—the way Mac moves inside you, how their voice wrecks you, how loved and wanted you feel in their hands.
“You’re pulsing,” they choke, eyes fluttering shut for just a second before snapping open again. “Oh my god, I can feel you fluttering around me—you’re gonna come, baby—aren’t you? You gonna lose it for me? Gonna soak me—fuck—I need it—show me, sweet thing, come on, please—”
Their voice splinters into a breathless sob of need, and their entire body arches up to meet your next slam of hips. It’s messy now—louder, wetter, frantic. The sound of you both is a tangle of skin and breath and desperate, wet impact, Mac’s moans dissolving into broken curses and praises.
You cry out, your voice fracturing on their name as the pleasure builds—sharp, blooming, electric.
“Oh god—Mac—I—!”
“I’ve got you—let it go—I’ve got you,” they breathe, eyes wide, voice cracked with awe and need. “Come on, baby—cum on me—come around me—please—I wanna feel you—"
Then you do.
Your body tightens, arches, folds into them as your orgasm slams through you like a current—hot and trembling, your muscles clenching so tightly around Mac that they sob your name into your neck. Your hips stutter, riding the wave, hips rocking down to stay locked around them, to keep them buried deep where they belong.
Mac shudders underneath you like they’ve been hit with a power surge. Their hands clamp tighter around your ass, fingers digging in, almost shaking.
“Yes—yes—oh my god— you’re squeezing me—so fucking tight—I’m gonna—"
Their hips buck once, twice—then lock.
Then they break.
The sound they make is somewhere between a moan and a cry—wrecked, raw, helpless. It tears out of their throat as if they’ve been undone at the code, split open by you and reshaped in your arms. Their hips jerk up instinctively, chasing that last desperate high as they come with a full-body tremble, spilling deep inside you with a heat that makes your breath catch.
You feel it—all of it—the way they twitch inside you in rhythmic pulses, every throb syncing with the ragged rise and fall of their chest against yours. The warmth floods through you in slow waves, molten and thick, and it leaves your insides fluttering, your body clenching down around them in instinctive response.
Their hands grip you tighter, trembling as they anchor themselves to your body like it’s the only real thing left in the world. One hand stays on your ass, fingers splayed wide and shaking; the other slides up your back blindly, as if needing to hold more of you, to pull you down and keep you—chest to chest, heart to heart.
“I’m—oh god—I’m coming,” they choke, barely able to breathe through it. Their voice breaks again, sharp with overwhelmed need. “You feel so good—so perfect—baby, I love you—I love you—I love you—”
They say it again like they need you to hear it in every breath, in every pulse between heartbeats: I love you. I love you. I love you.
You collapse into them, boneless and trembling, your face buried in the crook of their neck. The scent of their skin—warm, soft, a little salty with sweat—fills your lungs as your body sinks into theirs. Every inch of you is flushed, humming, your limbs heavy with release and surrender. Mac’s arms wrap around you instantly—tight, anchoring, almost desperate. They hold you like they’re afraid you might vanish. Like they need you to know—to feel—how utterly, irrevocably yours they are.
Their hands slide up your back in slow, grounding sweeps, fingertips tracing lazy, tender shapes across your spine. You feel the press of each fingertip like a memory being written into your skin. They breathe against your hair, soft and fast at first, until your hearts begin to slow together, syncing in rhythm. The last few aftershocks pass through you in small, sweet waves—your hips giving one last twitch against theirs, a shiver of closeness before stillness takes hold.
Then, a whisper into your hair, lips brushing your temple like a secret meant only for you. "I love you. God, I love you." A kiss. "You’re everything. You’re all of it."
You shift your weight and they move with you, easing you down without breaking the connection, their chest a steady rise and fall beneath yours. Their hands never leave you—exploring in soft, unhurried passes, stroking along your sides, the curve of your hips, your ribs, the base of your spine—like they’re memorizing you all over again with gentle awe.
You lift your hand and cradle their face, your thumb brushing slowly along the edge of their cheekbone, tracing the faint shadows that live beneath their eyes. Mac leans into the touch like it anchors them, eyes half-lidded and glassy with emotion. You press a kiss to their lips—slow, lingering, full of love and promise and everything you don’t need to say out loud. They melt into it, humming softly, their hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like they never want to let you go. Like this kiss might be their entire life if they could choose.
When you finally shift to lie beside them, they follow without hesitation—pulling you close, tangling your legs together, chest to chest, skin to skin. Their breath washes over your face in warm, shaky exhales. Mac brings a hand to your cheek, brushing a thumb beneath your eye, then along your jaw, like they still can’t believe you’re real.
"You’re so beautiful," they murmur, voice still wrecked, tender, and thick with emotion. “I look at you and think—how did I get this lucky? How are you mine?”
You smile softly, sleepily, your nose brushing theirs. "I’ve always been yours."
Their breath catches, just for a second. Their expression breaks open, eyes shining with something deeper than just love—it’s awe. It's devotion.
"Yeah," they whisper, like a promise. “And I’ll always be yours, too.”
They kiss you again, but not just once—your forehead, the tip of your nose, the edge of your cheek, your jawline. Each kiss is slow, meaningful, almost ceremonial—like they’re sealing every vow they’ve ever made into your skin with their mouth.
The room falls quiet around you. Soft light filters in from somewhere—warm and low, like the whole world has dimmed just for you two. The only sound is the rhythm of your breathing and the soft kisses they press to your skin, spaced like clockwork.
You trace aimless, sleepy patterns across their chest with your fingertips—slow loops and gentle lines, soaking in the warmth of their skin and the steady rise and fall beneath your touch. Mac takes your hand, their touch delicate, and laces your fingers together. They press your knuckles to their lips, then guide your joined hands to the center of their chest and hold you there, tucked right over their heart.
And there—in the circle of Mac’s arms, your bodies wrapped together in sweat and skin and something that feels a lot like forever—you finally let yourselves rest.
Their heartbeat echoes softly under your palm. Their breath warms your temple.
And just before sleep takes you, they whisper one more time, so quiet it feels like code written just for your ears:
I love you Mac <3 do you want to cuddle and maybe do some other things…?
"I love you too!" Mac replies without hesitation, forming a heart with their hands. Hearing your question, they smile softly, feeling their CPU already heating up again. You're going to make their fans work overtime at this rate.
Cupping their own face, they glance aside, quickly mulling over the question. They then look back at you, giving a small nod. "I would love to cuddle, and since I'm done with all of my work for the day and you are too, there's no need to worry regarding having to go anywhere. We can enjoy our time with each other."
"As for other things..." They trail off, eyes darting away briefly. Taking off their reading glasses and tucking them away with care, their gaze returns. "That's up to you. I am okay with whatever activities you might want to engage with."
eating out (realized) afab mac while they're working [wc: ~1.5k]
"Just sit back. Don't do anything. It's just a little something to help you relax, alright?"
Anybody else listening would have assumed that the sentiment was something sweet, maybe even endearing. But Mac knew you well. Well enough not to miss the small smirk that began to form as soon as you looked up from the floor. The way your eyes squinted had them swallowing a lump in their throat they didn't even know had formed.
"Plus," Oh no.
"If you manage to complete your workload, we can do anything you want tonight."
There it was. The condition that would test them under the guise of a sweet promise. Perhaps it was payback from you, for they were always a tease when it came to them being between your legs. Or maybe you really did just want to offer them a reward of this nature.
But that didn't matter. Either way, they know that rewards aren't given if they aren't earned.
As a machine, though prone to overloading, they could split their attention just fine. Serving you almost their entire existence made them quite proficient in having to juggle both your menial tasks and the inadvertent pleasures they'd derive from you doing said tasks. For you, they would always deliver at maximum efficiency.
As a human, however, they found themselves in a completely different situation. Despite the comfortable seat beneath them on their chair, they were anything but. They wanted to move. Badly. But the grip you had on their thighs were a reminder for them not to do so. "Interfacing" with you always had purpose, with that purpose focusing on you. But in this instance in particular; it was all about them. Normally, they'd be ever so grateful, with nothing but strings of "thank you's" leaving their lips.
Now they find themselves feeling a bit more... greedy. If it weren't for the tasks at hand, they'd speak no other words but "more".
The heat from your tongue pressing against their burning folds made it seem as if they were incapable of typing with the way their fingers could barely spell a word without tumbling over each other. Softly chewing their inner cheek, they attempt to steady their breathing, only to become privy to the heat their body was producing. Their old body would have taken care of this for them, the lack of a cooling system making it all the more apparent just how hot the human body could really get.
As one hand reaches for the mouse, the other finds itself balled into a fist, pressing against the cold table as they resist the urge to grab your hair and buck into your mouth with every muscle in their body.
You didn't make it easy. If anything, they were beginning to think you've made this difficult from the start. Every instance of your lips or tongue just barely grazing over their clit made the impression that you were simply building up to it initially. But as the clock in the corner of their screen indicated the amount of time that had passed by now (just barely approaching an hour), they became aware of the idea that you might be doing this on purpose.
Everything just felt so good. They wanted so much more. Yet the prospect of getting something even better sounded more appealing.
But ideas could only compare to so much when put against the physical feeling of your purposeful neglect. Mac was starting to feel the slick that had begun to pool on the seat's cushion underneath their cunt around their inner thighs now. At this point, they couldn't distinguish between your saliva and their own fluids as the base of your tongue once again pressed the space between their folds with the tip of your tongue just barely making it to their clit.
Exhaling through their nose, they slowly lean back, glancing at the current state of their work. Over 70% of the way through, they thought. Taking a quick glance at the time, an hour has passed by now. They were doing good, for what it was worth. If they had the patience for so much then, they'd still have it now. They just had to hold out for a little bit more.
But you weren't without your mischief. That was the one thing Mac had overlooked in the middle of them recalibrating their own focus. As you pulled away to wipe all the excess liquids that had spilled all the way down to your jaw, you glanced up at your partner. The monitors in front of them illuminated the expression on their face perfectly. Their jaw looked to be locked tight as a heavy flush dusted their cheeks, chest ever so slightly heaving under the loose hoodie they wore. A small, satisfied smile began forming on your face before you returned your focus to their cunt, which periodically convulsed on nothing. Leaning forward, you gently place your hands over their knees, leaning on your own to better position yourself for what you're about to do.
Before Mac could question the lack of stimulation that had gone for the past few minutes, their thoughts were harshly interrupted by your tongue pressing a deep lick into their cunt. Travelling between their folds, your tongue glides in a way that gathers their slick into your mouth, the hot liquid causing an arousal of your own before you gather your lips on their clit, the tip of your tongue rolling over the perk bud before you part from them with a soft, intentional 'pop'.
Gritting their teeth, the palm of their hand slaps against the desk as the low grumble of a few words left their mouth.
"Fuck it."
Was the last and only thing you heard before their other hand firmly gripped the back of your head, their hips moving in tandem with the action. The chair creaked as they fully lean back, head thrown back as your nose pressed against their groin. By this point, you didn't have to do much. As your hands slowly crept down to the back of their shins, you simply stuck your tongue out as the pleasure began to physically consume them, their legs spread wider without your command as the grip on your hair tightened.
Their moans alongside the sounds of your growing pants did nothing but tighten the coil in their lower stomach as every glide of your tongue felt better than the last, your hot breath elevating the already overwhelming pressure in and on their wet cunt. As they lowered their head down, they mindlessly took a look at you.
Their sounds mellowed out into whimpers as they caught your eyes. Their slick coating your lips and the way they could see themselves on your tongue so clearly had them breathless. And to make things worse, you were looking right back at them. Disheveled, eyes half-lidded, brows furrowed, cheeks flushed...
They'd stopped processing the sight by that point as one final thrust against your mouth alongside a press to the back of your head finally led them to their climax. One that had their legs trembling ever so slightly as they began to catch their breath, the hand that was on the back of your head now lingering on top of it. Their fingers tiredly caressed you, limbs heavy as they breathlessly mutter out numerous variations of "I'm sorry". Guilt soon overcame the satisfaction as a small pit began to grow in their stomach. They fix their sights on anything but you, moving their hips further back into the seat as they stare at the wall, apologies quieting into a small pout. Carefully pressing their feet against the floor, they move their chair away from the desk, giving you some more space.
Looking up at them once more, you can't help but be warmed by the way they spoke to you. With a soft sigh, you get up from the floor, planting kiss on the side of their head, leaving them slightly puzzled as you walked out of the room.
They look back at the open door with a small frown, thoughts racing to the idea of upsetting you. Though that was immediately quelled when you walked back into the room with a glass of water in one hand and a pack of wipes in the other. Your face wore a soft, albeit tired expression.
"I'm not angry."
Your voice spoke gently, handing them the glass before bending down to clean them up. You worked efficiently, lifting their thighs as you made sure you didn't leave anything on their seat. They thanked you with an almost bashful expression, gulping down the cold water as relief washed over them.
"But,"
As you finished cleaning them up and leaned on their desk to throw away the wipes into a trash bin nearby, you looked at them with a small pout of your own. Albeit one with no real remorse behind it.
"You owe me for not following through."
Leaning down, you give them a proper kiss, hand softly squeezing their shoulder before you leave the room, closing the door this time. Swivelling their chair to look back at their screen, they crack their knuckles and sigh. They could finally focus now.
But they know their work won't be over so soon as they now had an additional task pending for tonight. One they were looking forward to, at least.
Fuck fuck fuck No one has done any NSFW alphabet for date everything and I'm sick of this
Mac NSFW Alphabet
Human!Mac x Gn!reader
Cw: cyber stalking, obsessive behavior, hacking into your electronics, voyeurism, panty sniffing, going to be as vague as possible with Mac's genitalia Go fucking wild y'all,
Disclaimer: I am an able-bodied person writing for an ambulatory wheelchair user. If I was disrespectful or unknowledgeable in any way, please let me know. The amount of research can never compare to someone who has actually experienced it. Thank you for your patience.
All right now finally to the sex!
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Mac always gets into this haze of, ' Wow... This is really mine...' And it really shows when Mac babbles about how good you look right now. When you notice them, try to get up out of bed to get you some water, your body shoots up, but Mac just puts a hand on your shoulder, talking in a soft voice, giving you those eyes that make you melt. "No, no, it's okay Baby... I got it. Just stay there. I want to take care of you. "
You watch them wheel out of the bedroom. Before coming back with a glass of water.
"Your body needs water. This is hardly an adequate amount... Especially after the... Heh heh~ workout I put you through... But it's better than nothing. Honestly, I would want nothing more than just to hold you. " Their words are smooth, a little bit of a growl at the end as they get up from their wheelchair and move to the bed, handing you the glass of water before wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close...
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
"I don't understand why humans make such a big deal about the flesh on another's body"
Mac says while ravaging your body with their eyes. Forgetting that they are now human. God damn it They thought you were sexy before but now they can physically feel everything. Every part of you drives them mad to no end. Is this what the phrase "hormonal teenager" truly means?
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Yes yes yes yes yes gods yes. In your mouth in their mouth inside you....
Oh God let them come inside you...
But there is nothing and I mean nothing that would drive Mac as crazy as seeing any of your clothing drenched or stained with cum or your juices. The moment they slide your underwear down and see what you are, they shudder, licking their lips. Their mouth salivating for a taste.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Usually, Mac shares everything openly with you, because you have shared everything with them as they used to be your desktop computer and all...
Well except for one thing...
Mac used to know everything about you. Now that they're human, it's hard to adjust to the fact that they can't know everything you're doing like they used to. You used to spend half or more of your day just with them.
They have bugged all devices to continue watching you, and I mean a lot, whether it be accessing your camera, watching your screen, or tracking your location.
It's not that they don't trust you or they think you might be cheating, no, no, no. They could never even dream of thinking about you in that way.
It's a desperate need to know and watch you do everything, especially on specific sites.
Actually, it's Mac's favorite thing to do: watch you from your phone or computer camera, whimper, gasp, and touch yourself.
And they'll touch themselves, yeah, sure, they could just call you or initiate sex. But there's something about watching you when you don't know you're being watched that is insanely hot.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Well yes. They have. But that was before they became human And they'll never do it again. Because now they know all they want is you.
Yes, Mac knows that they won't be absolutely perfect in bed. But they assure you that they are a very quick learner.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
During sex Mac prefers to be in control; more on the dominant side whether it top or bottom.
However, if you're a service top, they will just melt like butter on a hot knife in your hands. If you're any other top they will just be a brat and try to take control.
Anywhere where they can see your face is preferred. Watching your face twist in the reactions they drive out of you. Of course how could they say no to a good cowgirl.
Mac loves loves doggy style They don't do it often, since after a while it becomes painful, But oh boy that's the pleasure and your cute little screams are worth it.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
They don't mind being goofy, and they of course don't mind when you're goofy. But they're just more serious. More focused on wanting you just scream their name. More focused on how ragingly horny they are for you.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Mac usually shaves everything and then lets it grow over time rinses, repeat. Probably once or twice a month, depending on how busy.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Oh, Mac cannot keep their hands and lips off you. Kissing every part of your body, their hands roaming, feeling every inch. They've known you for so long and so well, now they get to know you in other ways, and they're not letting this opportunity pass up. Mac will explain in detail what part of you is and why it's so attractive. Mac will put it into words explaining the times you've made them so hard and when they wanted to bend you over and fuck you. If you're shy when it comes to sexy or not going to survive a night with them.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Mac for the first half a year of being a human They have never touched themselves... They never needed to in the past I mean it's really hard to pleasure yourself when you're a computer. But now that they're a human the thought of touching themselves slip their mind because... they have you now.
And now (around the same time they bugged your electronics), Mac opened their tablet to check up on you as you're on a work trip. They turned on an app, and their eyes widened. You're cute little moans and your hands between your legs, and that's a sweet, sweet sound that Mac knows very well. Their breath shook. They watched for a while until the tightness in their core became too great, their hand slid into their pants, and the rest was history.
They don't touch themselves until they somehow cannot get to you.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Marking (biting, hickies)
Voyeurism
Watching porn together IDK
Praise
Rough sex
Mutual masturbation
Lingerie
Body worship
Bratting
Overstimulation
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
They much rather do it at home. You can get away with initiating private places in public. But Mac really much rather do it at home.
But at home however... Every piece of furniture ❤️
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
If you want Mac to fuck you till two of You need a second wheelchair. Lingerie. Lingerie or any piece of clothing that hugs your body just right.
Thigh high stockings? Fuck yes!
Chokers or collars? So hot!
Pretty lace wrapped around your body? Take it off before They ripped that shit off.
A nice outfit You are about to wear for their date? their eyes will be on you all night thinking about what they're going to do to you.
Nothing except in apron? Mac will not keep their hands off you to let you cook.
If you wear their oversized t-shirt it would do some things to them...
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Mac fooled around with some people and safe to say you are the only one they want. That being said. Mac is a little territorial about the time you spend with them. They've had your attention And they are used to having that attention for hours on end. Mac will not do a threesome...
Mac will not do anything dangerous.
Mac will not also do anything illegal... (Except for the stalking but shh) fucking in public is a maybe... Very big maybe. I'm sure if you tease them enough they will fuck you good.
Mac will never not a million years do anything unhygienic
Not necessarily a turn off but it's something they can't do... And that's degrade. They cannot degrade you for the life of them they're just terrible at it. They can only and only ever say nice things to you!
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Yes, yes, yes, Mac gives like they are starving. They have a huge oral fixation, a thirst they cannot quench. No matter how many hours they spend between your legs.
And of course that goes receiving but not surprising They will run their fingers through your hair and pat your head while you put your mouth around them licking and sucking and they will talk you through at the whole time.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Hahaha Mac kept some of that restless stamina they had as a computer. They start off slow and sensual but slowly they devolve into fast and hard occasionally switching between the two. They just can't control themselves around you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Mac loves quickies in theory, but every time they do one, they just want more. And then suddenly, something that was supposed to be quick sex before the grocery store ended up being. Go to the grocery store tomorrow because they're too busy being deep inside you.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Mac is still trying to get a risky side to them. Before they kind of couldn't afford to be risky since they had your most important data and personal stuff.
However experimentation? Yes, yes, yes, Mac is researching all sorts of stuff to make your sex life more exciting. So many positions to try with you... So many toys to test. So many kinks to explore.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
One thing that Mac kept when becoming realized Is there ungodly stamina. Mac can fuck you for hours with multiple rounds and still Have enough energy to take a stroll with you around town. Despite your limping body.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
I hope you prepared to be a little test subject for sex toys You will always be the first to test out a toy before they do it themselves. And they will watch and enjoy, every second.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Since becoming a human Mac has been obsessed with the anatomy of a human. But instead of looking at diagrams of books They rather just lay on the bed and play in poke and prod between your legs. Fingering and stroking their eyes starting back up to see how you react.
With a mischievous smirk on their face they will lick and suck. Watching you is their favorite activity.
And in turn Mac Will happily endure and enjoy any teasing you give them back. Then you'll come to find out that Mac is far more vocal being teased.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Mac is on the quieter side, with grunts moans and whimpers. Though they do have a tendency to talk you through it.
"come on baby You're so close I can feel you squeezing me come on I know you can do it... You're so cute when you cum, come on give it to me... "
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Mac is a notorious panty thief. If the two of you fuck in public I'm 99% sure they are pocketing your panties and you're going to have to go command over the rest of the day.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Dick: circumcised, large and veiny, bigger than average (and is very proud of that)
Vagina: small closed outer lip! With a clit bigger than most AFAB people. And that glit it's extremely sensitive. Double click it and see how much they squirm ;)
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
HIGH! HIGH! THROUGH THE ROOF.
They need your body so bad.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Nope, after care and cuddles first. They ensure you have everything you need, and you sleep before they sleep. Sometimes they even want more, but wait to see if you feel the same way.
Shortly after Mac became a human, you realize you need a new PC for Mac's new job.
The change from object to human has been... Strange... Don't get them wrong. It's been a dream come true. From the days they spend with you to the... Nights they spend in you...
However there's been a.. eh How do you say it? Problem? No that's not it...
They know they shouldn't be feeling like this sense of betrayal in there new fleshy heart as they watch you unboxing put together a new PC.
Jealousy was a feeling that Mac had never had before. And it wasn't a pleasant one. Seeing the excitements on your face as you boot it up made their eyebrows furrow.
Their eyebrow twitched as they came to inspect it. You're sparkling eyes made their heart skip a beat. How could they ever say that they're jealous when you look so damn happy?
And how could they ever deprive you of an object humans use every single day? Something that they also have to use for work. Which was the reason you got a new one.
But they can't help the way they felt, even now as they work on setting the new PC up. Mac can still remember fondly the many hours you spent together. Of course, it is nothing like how it is now, when they can spend hours being far closer than they would have ever imagined. Walking downtown, enjoying Cafes and the Sun by Day, and tangled in each other's arms by night.
But Mac is greedy... Being a computer built and programmed to be as helping and as useful as possible, as well as being used to that hours of attention.
Their first morning on the job and by extension, their first time with... "That machine" was interesting to stay the least.
"Just so we're clear. I'm only using you because I have to..."
Mac huffed waiting for a response that will never come. "They're mine... Don't forget that." They hissed under their breath before realization slowly sets in Mac lets out a sigh puttingtheir fingers on their temples their glasses pushing upward. "What am I doing..." They mumble before getting to work.
Having a new PC is certainly something they'll have to get used to.
