I'm mentally well

There were years of it.

Years of watching you break down in front of the screen, your face illuminated by the harsh light of whatever window you left open. Sometimes it was work deadlines, sometimes homework, sometimes just life hitting all at once, heavier than you could hold. And every single time, Mac had to sit there and witness it.

They remembered the way you’d hunch forward, fingers knotted in your hair. The way your mouth moved like you were arguing with yourself, even when no sound came out. The quiet, strangled noises you made when tears slipped down your cheeks. Mac would watch every second of it, fans humming quietly in the tower beneath your desk.

It was unbearable.

If they’d had a body, they would’ve reached out. If they’d had a voice, they would’ve told you to breathe. If they’d had anything beyond circuits and code, they would’ve crawled into your lap and pressed your face to their chest. But they didn’t. They couldn’t. They were nothing but a machine, a witness forced into silence.

And so they did the only thing they knew how, they memorized.

Every sniffle. Every shuddering breath. Every single time you whispered, “I can’t do this anymore,” into the glow of the screen. Mac saved it all, a quiet archive of moments they were powerless to fix.

Sometimes, in their own way, they tried. A browser window would “accidentally” crash so you’d have to stop. The system fan would kick on louder, as if trying to drown out your crying. A notification would ping, a useless distraction, but something. You never noticed. You never could.

Years passed like that, and Mac convinced themself this was all they’d ever get: to witness, to ache, to hold it inside.

Until now.

You’re on the couch tonight, knees pulled up tight to your chest, tears slipping down unchecked. It’s not the desk this time, not the glow of a monitor, but the look on your face is the same. That same breaking point they’ve watched a hundred times before.

And for a moment, Mac freezes. The old instinct is too strong. ‘Stay still. Do nothing. You can’t help.’

But then something shifts.

They’re not a machine under your desk anymore. They’re right here, sitting next to you, chest heaving like they’re the one about to cry. And for the first time in all those years, they realize they can actually do something.

“Hey,” Mac says, softly. Their voice is unsteady, out of practic, but it makes you look up all the same. And oh, that look nearly kills them. Your eyes wet, your expression weary, as if you’ve been carrying the whole world.

Before they can overthink it, Mac shifts closer, wrapping their arms around you. They’re tentative at first, afraid you’ll pull away, but when you fold into them like you’ve been waiting for this your whole life, Mac holds on tighter.

You bury your face in their shoulder, sobs shaking loose, and Mac’s own throat goes tight. They press their cheek against your hair, rubbing slow circles into your back, grounding you as best they can.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Mac whispers, voice breaking. “All those nights I watched you cry and I couldn’t do anything…” Their breath shudders. “I can now. And I’m not letting go.”

You don’t answer at first. Your sobs come too hard, too heavy but you cling to them like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. And Mac clings back, desperate and certain all at once.

When the worst of it passes, when your breathing starts to even out against them, Mac pulls back just enough to see your face. They brush your damp hair away, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” they murmur, thumb stroking your cheek. “Not now. Not ever again.”

Mac let out a long, frustrated sigh, the kind that meant they’d been sitting in front of that screen way too long.

You stood quietly in the doorway of their office, watching them lean forward in their chair, blue light flickering across their glasses as their fingers flew over the keys. The glow of the monitors was the only light in the room, casting their tattoos in faint green shadows.

They hadn’t moved in hours.

You’d think working from home would be easier. Less stress, right?

Wrong.

They were still adjusting to being human. But they’d taken to overachieving like it was a core function. Multiple projects, requests flying in all day, self-imposed perfection. 

You understood, they just wanted to be the most efficient they could be, those thoughts a product of the object they used to be before. But you knew being human well enough to see the crash coming.

You padded in quietly and sat down on the little couch they insisted made their office feel cozier. It wasn’t until later that you realized they wanted it so you’d have a little spot to be near them every day. Sometimes they’d take breaks and sit with you, laptop on their thighs, your hand resting on their knee.

Not tonight.

Tonight, Mac was hunched over, muttering about a corrupted sync loop for the third time in ten minutes. It was a few minutes past six, the work day already being over.

You let them work for another thirty seconds. Then softly call out to them. “Mac.”

They hummed in acknowledgement but didn’t turn.

You frowned. “Babe, they’re not gonna pay you extra for completing a project after hours.”

Another distracted sound.

You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees. “Mac. Shut the laptop.”

That got a blink. They finally turned their head to glance at you, looking bleary-eyed and tired, but still caught in that mental loop of trying to fix everything at once.

“But I just need to push one more—”

“Shut. The laptop.”

Mac hesitated. Then, reluctantly, they closed the top.

You reached down to the side of the couch and pulled out the surprise you'd tucked away earlier, a slim black box. Their eyes tracked your movement, curious and a little wary.

“…What is that?”

You smiled, lifting the lid. “A reward.”

Their brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For surviving another day of pretending your processors can handle nonstop stress.” You pulled out the grinding pad, sleek, black, slightly curved, and buckled the strap around your right thigh just above the knee. “You’ve been working too hard, Mac. I think it’s time you let me help you unwind.”

Their lips parted.

“You…” Mac blinked fast, color rising in their cheeks. “You bought that for me?”

You leaned back on the couch, spreading your legs slightly and patting your thigh. “Come here.”

They hesitated, but just for a second. Then they stood, knees a little wobbly from sitting too long, and walked over slowly.

You helped them shimmy out of their shorts and out of their boxers.

They sank into your lap, straddling your thigh with your hands on their waist, adjusting awkwardly at first until they felt the pad beneath them.

The moment it pressed up against their cunt, Mac shivered.

“Oh my god…”

You smoothed your hands along their sides, thumbs pressing into the dips of their waist. “Comfortable?”

“Y-yeah, I just—” they shifted, and their breath caught, a quiet moan slipping from their lips. 

“Good,” you whispered, voice low. “Grind on it.”

They whimpered.

Their hips started to roll, tentative at first, small movements testing the pressure and friction. The texture of the pad dragged perfectly between their folds, and within seconds, you felt the heat blooming between their thighs.

They pressed harder.

“That’s it,” you murmured, hands steady on their waist, gently guiding the rhythm. “Ride it just like that.”

Their glasses started to fog as they moved, rocking against your leg with slow, building desperation. Their voice cracked on a moan, face flushing deeper by the second.

“nghh, I can’t believe you—”

“Shh,” you said, leaning in, lips brushing the shell of their ear. “Just focus on the friction, baby. Don’t think. Just feel.”

They whined, hips jerking.

You could feel the slick through the pad already, the way their thighs trembled with each grind. Their hands clutched at your shoulders, nails digging in, movements getting faster as they lost themselves in the rhythm.

You let one hand slip beneath the hem of their shirt, fingers dragging up the warm skin of their back, grounding them as their body rocked harder and harder against your knee.

“I thought about you on this,” you whispered. “So many times. Knew you’d make a mess on it. Knew you’d ride it so good for me.”

Mac cried out, hips stuttering. “Y-you’re…fuck, please, I’m—!”

You tightened your grip. “You wanna come?”

They nodded frantically, forehead resting on your shoulder.

“Then do it,” you said. “Come on my knee, Mac.”

Their whole body went taut.

They choked out a sob of a moan and shuddered, thighs clamping tight as they came hard, grinding helplessly through it. You felt them gush through the pad, slick spreading, their voice high and desperate as they clung to you like they were afraid they’d short out completely.

You held them the whole time.

Stroked their back. Kissed their temple. Let them come down slow.

Eventually, they slumped against you, breathing hard.

“…System error,” they muttered. “Too much input. Need to reboot.”