#bluedelivers

Mac’s character died instantly.

“Ah, sh—no, no, no—” They fumbled at the keyboard, but it was too late. Game over. Chat erupted.

“LMFAO GLAMMED PLAYER JUST SPEEDRAN THAT MATCH” “Hold on, trying to spell gorujeous” “YO IT’S GIVING BEAUTY AND THE GEEK”

You leaned down, lips brushing the top of Mac’s hair. “Sorry, baby,” you murmured sweetly, deliberately close enough for the mic to catch. “I just wanted to come say hi.”

Mac’s ears turned red immediately. They grabbed the mic and muttered, “Chat, you don’t deserve to look at them, I’m gonna turn the cam off.”

“OH GOD….THEY’RE HOT” “Mac, you can’t hide ur blush through camera.”

You perched yourself on the arm of their chair, silk robe draping dramatically, and smirked at the camera. “What do you think, chat? I think my aesthetic is cute.”

Chat lost its mind.

“Mac cannot handle allat, but I can.” “Y/N LOOKS LIKE THEY JUST WON AN OSCAR AND MAC LOOKS LIKE THEY JUST WON A FREE SLURPEE” “If Mac can pull Player, I can do anything I set my heart to.”

Mac groaned, tipping their head back against your shoulder. “Babe, please stop encouraging them.”

You just patted their hair fondly. “C’mon, baby. It’s cute. They’re cute.”

They grumbled under their breath, but didn’t push you away. If anything, they leaned into your silk-draped arm, a tiny smile tugging at their lips despite the chaos in chat.

The teasing didn’t stop for the rest of the stream. Every time you walked past with another piece of glamorous flair, a feather boa here, a glass of wine there, chat exploded again. Mac kept missing the shots, and chat flamed them for being distracted. Their gaze betrayed them, their eyes constantly moving from the screen to off the screen, staring at you.

“There’s a literal embodiment of beauty is next to you btw” “Bro, you dress like a 12-year-old.” “Goofy ahh pjs”

At one point, someone donated with a message that read: “Please let Player style Mac just once. Imagine Pajama Mac in couture.”

Mac nearly choked on their water. “Absolutely not. Pajama Mac remains undefeated. Function over fashion. No upgrades necessary.”

You leaned into the frame, eyes glinting. “We’ll see about that.”

“PLAYER PLS” “PUT THEM IN A ROBE” “I think they look sexy together.”

By the time Mac hit “stream ending soon,” their cheeks were sore from trying not to smile too wide.

Later, off-cam, you flopped onto the couch in your robe, robe pooling like liquid light around you. Mac shuffled in with their Batman pants and messy hair, carrying two bowls of popcorn.

“You know,” you teased, taking one from them, “we look insane together.”

“Incredibly so,” Mac corrected, sinking beside you with a dramatic sigh. “But you supply the glamor. I supply the… charm? Though I suppose you have those both covered.”

You laughed, kissing the side of their head. “I still think chat’s right. It’s kind of iconic. Hollywood glam x Pajama Mac.”

Mac buried their face in your robe, muffled. “Pajama Mac is iconic. You’re just lucky you get to see them off-cam, too.”

You smirked, stroking their headphone hair. “Mhmm. Lucky me.”

They peeked up at you then, expression softer, glasses sliding down their nose. “Seriously though… thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being willing to… exist next to all this.” They gestured vaguely at themselves. The pajamas, the T-shirt, the energy of a person who lived at their desk. “You look like you belong in a magazine, and I look like I belong in the clearance section of a comic shop.”

You set your bowl aside, leaning in until your forehead rested against theirs. “I love Pajama Mac,” you said simply. “Any version of you is my favorite version. And I wouldn’t trade this for the fanciest red carpet in the world.”

Their throat bobbed. For a moment, their usual nerdy comebacks failed them, and all they could do was press a quiet kiss to your lips.

“…You taste like cherries,” they muttered after a beat, cheeks pink, “And you smell like money.”

They blink mid-sentence, leaning into you, and look at you with that sweet smile.

"You know," they murmur once, when you're curled up beside them on the office couch, your legs draped over theirs, "if you keep touching me like that, I might forget what I was doing."

"That's okay," you whisper, lips brushing their cheekbone. "If you forget, I’ll remind you. I’m always listening."

They let out a soft, huffed laugh. "I’m lucky to have you; you do so much for me."

You cradle their face gently, like they might glitch if you let go. "No, Mac. You’ve done so much for me, you deserve this and more."

You kiss their jaw, then their cheek, then the corner of their mouth. Mac blushes all the way to their ears, eyes darting to their monitor reflection like they need to double-check how flustered they look.

You don't stop.

When they're working, you lean against their side, one hand resting on their thigh, squeezing softly every so often to ground them. When they're lost in code, you crawl into their lap without asking, tucking your face into their neck. They never complain, just shift you closer, murmuring something distracted but warm, like "You smell nice,".

Even when you're not touching them, you're always touching them. With soft smiles, with glances full of quiet awe, with words that hum against their skin like a low, comforting fan.

Mac was built to be intuitive, to serve, to be functional. But with you, they're finally the one being cared for.

You trail kisses along their knuckles when they're typing too long. You curl a blanket around their shoulders when they don't realize how cold they've gotten. You nudge snacks their way and let your fingers linger when you hand them a drink.

Every time, Mac looks at you like you're a miracle.

"Why do you love me so much?" they ask one night, your fingers tracing lazy paths along their spine.

"Because you’ve given me your whole existence," you tease, kissing the soft underside of their jaw. "And I’ve decided to give you mine in return."

They smile, eyes bright. You press another kiss to their neck, slow and sweet.

From the couch, Mac looks like they’re trying to compute something too big for even their upgraded, now human, processors. Their hands twitch in their lap as they watch you. They’re not just observing; you can see it in the way their gaze lingers, warm and too soft.

You glance up at them mid-laugh, catching their expression. “What?”

Mac blinks, caught, then shakes their head. “You’re good at this,” they murmur.

“At what? Herding chaos?” you tease, bouncing the toddler on your hip as they squeal.

“At… all of it.” Their voice is quiet, almost reverent. “You look happy. Like this is easy for you.”

You chuckle. “It’s not easy. I’m just used to it.”

But Mac doesn’t look convinced. They tilt their head, watching you kneel to fix a kid’s shoelace with infinite patience. And something inside them buzzes a low, unrelenting hum, the way their CPU used to.

They want this image burned into their hard drive forever. You, surrounded by small lives, your hands steady and your smile soft.

“You’re running beta tests,” Mac says suddenly.

You frown, confused. “Beta tests?”

“For the future.” Their mouth quirks into a grin, teasing but also serious. “Maybe… smaller versions of us. Little prototypes.”

You freeze, heart thumping. “Mac.”

“What?” They lift their hands in mock innocence, though their eyes are glinting mischievously behind the rainbow rim of their glasses. “I’m just saying…if you ever wanted to run a full build one day, I’d be very… motivated.”

“Motivated,” you repeat flatly, trying not to smile.

They lean back against the couch with the smug air of someone who just made you buffer. “Highly motivated.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’ve got baby fever.”

Mac chuckles, low and warm, not even pretending to deny it. “If by baby fever you mean wanting to see you glowing like this all the time, then yes. Totally infected.”

One of the kids crashes onto the couch beside them, cape askew, laughing so hard they hiccup. Mac steadies them with careful hands, ruffling their hair awkwardly but fondly. The kid giggles, then runs off again, leaving Mac blinking after them like their whole worldview has just been altered. They didn’t get the chance to experience development from little human to grown human; this was something foreign to them.

Later, when the chaos slows, you catch Mac helping the youngest cousin build a lego car, nodding solemnly as if it’s the most important architectural project in history. They glance up at you with the softest smile, and something in your chest aches.

Hours later, when the kids are finally asleep and the house is quiet, you find yourself curled up beside them on the couch. You’re tired but content, the sound of little snores echoing down the hall.

Mac has an arm wrapped around you, head tilted against yours. They’re unusually quiet, which makes you poke their side. “What’s going on in there?”

They hum, thoughtful. Then, softer: “I just… liked watching you today. With them.”

Your heart stutters.

“I don’t know,” they continue, voice almost sheepish now. “It made me think about… what it would be like. With us.”

You turn to look at them fully, catching the vulnerability behind the teasing tone. “You mean… kids?”

Mac swallows, pushing their glasses up even though they don’t need adjusting. “…Yeah.”

For a moment, you just stare. Then you lean in, kiss their cheek, and whisper, “You’d be amazing.”

Their whole face lights up, and for once, they don’t try to cover it with a joke. They just pull you closer, pressing their forehead to yours, a warmth in their chest.

You laughed softly, nosing at their hair, inhaling deeply. “Mmm. You smell amazing.”

Their ears went red. “I—uh—I may have used your shampoo,” they admitted, voice shy. “Your scent is… comforting.”

You tightened your arms around them, pressing a lingering kiss to the base of their neck. You inhale deeper, and Mac giggles at the sensation.

Mac’s breath hitched, and they leaned back further into you, almost greedy for more. The praise seemed to light them up from the inside, absorbing every compliment.

“I love you,” you murmured against their skin. “My brilliant, beautiful Mac. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They let out a tiny, helpless sound, their fingers gripping your arm where it wrapped around them. “Keep going,” they whispered, almost pleading. “Please. More.”

You smiled into their hair, heart swelling, and obliged, spooning them closer, showering them with praises and gentle kisses, spoiling them with every word until they were trembling from the sweetness.

“WE NEED THE WHIMPER AUDIOS”

“Mac screaming compilation soon, PLEASE”

Mac leans back in their chair, spinning lazily with their chunky, colorful headphones, their messy black hair sticking up after an hour of already being on stream. Their glasses reflect the glow of the monitor, and they give the camera a withering look.

“First of all, I hate all of you,” they announce, voice already cracking as the donations pile up. “Second of all… fine. But you better clip your own damn timestamps because I am not archiving my humiliation for free.”

Chat explodes in victory.

You, sitting cross-legged on the couch with your laptop, hide your grin behind a sip of water. You’ve watched every stream since Mac started, but horror nights? Those are special. Because no matter how much they pretend not to be easily scared, you know they’ll be gripping their mouse with white-knuckle tension, eyes darting nervously to every flicker of movement on screen.

It only takes five minutes. A door slams in-game, sudden and sharp, and Mac lets out the kind of yelp that makes you choke on your drink. They look like their body just took a screenshot. They freeze, wide-eyed, then glare at the camera.

“Don’t—don’t clip that. Don’t you dare—”

Chat scrolls so fast the text blurs.

“CLIP CLIP CLIP”

“Whimper counter: 1”

“Mac.exe has stopped working.”

Mac groans, burying their face in their hands. “You’re parasites. Viruses. Malware. Do you enjoy exploiting my flawed fear response system?”

You snicker from the couch, you can’t help it. Mac shoots you a betrayed look. “Not you too!”

“Sorry,” you lie, still laughing. “You’re just so… invested.”

“Invested is one word,” they mutter, turning back to the screen with a dramatic sigh.

Later, they’re hunched forward, trying to disarm some in-game trap. The task is timed, stressful, and chat knows it.

“CHAT, STOP ASKING FOR A COUNTDOWN,” Mac snaps, their voice cracking as the timer ticks down. “I am not going to say ‘ten, nine, eight’ in my sexy voice,” They proceed to say in their ‘sexy voice’. “What’s wrong with all of you—”

You choke on a laugh. “And you still did for them?”

Mac whirls halfway toward you, flustered. “Shut up. That’s not what I—look, I’m busy!”

Chat goes nuclear.

“I’M CREAMING LMAO”

“YESSS GIVE US THE NUMBERS”

“sexy voice sexy voice sexy voice”

When they finally disarm the trap, they throw their head back in relief before catching themselves mid-act and sitting up rigidly. They point at the camera, deadly serious. “If I see that clip on TikTok with a thirst edit under it, I’m banning half this chat.”

Between levels, Mac leans back, rubbing their face. “Okay, hydration break. Everyone stretch your processes, update your firmware, whatever.”

Chat seizes the lull to bring you into the spotlight. They have affectionately nicknamed you ‘Player Two’, ‘Player' for short.

“Where’s player? 👀”

“We like player more tbh”

“Let player stream instead.”

You feel your cheeks heat, but you type back a quick hello anyway. The moment chat sees your username pop up, the chaos doubles.

Mac squints at the flood of messages, then gasps dramatically. “Excuse me? Hello?? I’m the one playing the game, screaming for your amusement, and you’re out here declaring mutiny in favor of my partner?”

“Yes”

“Player  supremacy ✨”

“Mac, you’re cute, but player is HOT >>>”

Mac slaps a hand over their chest, scandalized. “Really, chat? Betrayal in my own system? I can’t believe this. Babe, do you see what I deal with? My own fans defecting…”

You laugh, leaning into the camera’s view for just a second. Blowing chat a kiss. “Maybe they just have good taste.” You stop and smirk, going back into view of the camera. “Chat, you can feel free to clip and edit that, by the way.”

Mac splutters, then narrows their eyes at chat, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer to them, trying to angle you away from the camera. “Alright, alright, alright, listen up. This one is mine. You don’t get to worship them more than I do. I get exclusive bragging rights.”

Chat erupts.

“GET REKT MAC”

“omg jealous Mac arc???”

“Player, I’m on my knees for you.”

“CHAT NO!” Mac shouts, cheeks pink. “That’s it. I’m banning all of you.”

You, with your whirlwind laugh and your ten conversations at once, your habit of narrating your own life like a podcast no one subscribed to but everyone ended up loving anyway.

You never shut up.

And Mac was in love with you.

They had expected, maybe, that realization would be overwhelming. Transitioning from a computer on your desk to a human body would mean needing rest, social calibration, and emotional bandwidth. And it did, their joints ached a lot more, they had a mild panic the first time they tried sushi, and every time they updated their wardrobe, they did so with the solemnity of losing a cool tech-themed piece.

But none of that compared to the sheer input you provided.

You talked during movies like it were a sport. Two minutes into anything. Mac had timed it out of mild curiosity; your mouth was moving. You asked questions they couldn’t answer. “Do you think he knows she’s pregnant?” Mac hadn’t seen the movie either. “Why is he walking like that? He’s definitely the killer, right?” “Wait…do we have any snacks?”

The one time Mac gently suggested watching a movie in silence, you’d nodded seriously, promised to stay quiet, then ten minutes later leaned over and whispered, “What if they all die and it turns out this is a prequel to Happy Feet?”

Mac short-circuited from laughter for a full five minutes.

At dinner, you told stories with such enthusiasm you forgot to eat. Your hands moved like punctuation, voice rising and falling in excitement. Mac nodded, smiled, and reminded you gently to chew between sentences. They’d learned to eat a little slower just so you wouldn’t feel too far behind.

They never rushed you. They simply adored you, even if you were the human equivalent of background processes running at 100% CPU.

And then there was…well. The bedroom.

You talked during sex. A lot.

Not in the hot, breathy way Mac had read about in certain forums. No, your talking was like an open tab of three YouTube videos playing at once.

“Your hands are so warm. What do you eat to be this warm? Wait, do you think people can train themselves to run hotter, like how reptiles regulate heat? We should buy a weighted blanket. Oh my god, I love your face, you're so hot, seriously, I don't get how…”

Mac buried their face in your neck and grinned. They didn’t stop moving, just adjusted pace, murmuring, “You know, this might be more efficient if we routed 20% of this bandwidth to your motor functions.”

You laughed until you wheezed, pulling them closer. You kissed them between rambles. They kissed back between jokes. Somehow, it worked. Your bodies knew the rhythm even when your mouth didn’t.

At night, curled up in bed, you talked in your sleep. You giggled, too. Tiny, involuntary squeaks that escaped like stray files leaking from a corrupted zip. Mac would hold you tighter, smoothing a hand down your back, whispering, “Buffering… It’s okay, baby. Go back to sleep.”

The next morning, you'd sit up, phone in hand, and say, “Okay, guess how many people gave me their number yesterday.”

Mac blinked, rubbing sleep from their eyes. “Were you… even trying?”

“I wasn’t! I was just in line at the post office, and then I said I liked the lady’s earrings and BAM, now we’re going to a pottery class next Tuesday.”

They sat up straighter. “You have a pottery class now?”

“Yes! You should come! Or…wait, no, it’s supposed to be a bonding thing, she’s going through a divorce, and I think she wants me to help her create a revenge plan.”

“A revenge plan?”

You nodded solemnly.

Mac sighed through a smile. “Of course.”

You were a walking Bluetooth signal, constantly pairing with strangers. At the supermarket, the bookstore, and the vet for Roni. Mac had stopped trying to understand it and simply started optimizing for it. They’d installed (mentally, metaphorically) a sort of emotional firewall, not to block you out, but to help them process all of you.

Because you were a lot.

You were a thousand open tabs, half of them autoplaying, the rest in languages Mac didn’t recognize. You had messy folders, labeled “New Folder (1)” through “New Folder (23)”, filled with chaotic screenshots and memes. You were push notifications at all hours, vibrating with ideas, dreams, declarations of love.

You were inefficient. Wildly so.

But you were perfect.

Mac, whose entire existence had once been about uptime, performance metrics, and clean interface design, had discovered something important since becoming human.

Noise wasn’t always a glitch.

Sometimes it was you.

And so, when you came home from your latest errand, cheeks flushed, phone outstretched to show off three new contacts and a barista’s number ‘They liked my nail polish and we got into this deep conversation about grief, and I cried a little and now we’re best friends’, Mac didn’t roll their eyes or sigh.

They reached out, gently tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, and said, “You know, statistically speaking, you’re going to run out of storage soon.”

You grinned. “Guess you’ll have to help me sort it out.”

The café is steady tonight, not quite at rush-hour fever but busy enough that every table is claimed, every chair dragged close to a laptop or textbook. The air smells like espresso grounds and pumpkin spice, warm and heavy. You sit tucked into a corner with your notebook open, trying to write but your attention keeps finding its way back to the counter.

Mac is working, calling names and sliding cups forward with a smile. The sleeves of their shirt is rolled high, inked lines running down their arms, dark hair falling forward whenever they lean toward the register. Midterms had you tense and sleep-deprived, your nerves shot from too many late nights. Watching Mac move behind the counter helped more than you’d admit, especially when the sheen of sweat on their neck made you imagine how they’d look spread open beneath you.

You blink out of your daydream as they catch your eye, flashing you a quick wink and a smile. You quickly look back to your notebook, trying to focus, though the scratch of your pen falters when you sense that gaze still lingering. 

Orders keep coming, and you tell yourself Mac is too busy to notice you again. You try to focus on your work, but you don’t miss the moment the rhythm behind the counter changes. A coworker takes over at the register, another slides behind the machine. Mac is backing away, grabbing their own mug before turning toward the seating area.

They weave through the tables, pausing briefly to greet a friend, before heading in your direction. Your pulse jumps. When they stop at your corner and scoot in opposite of you, it feels like every sound in the café drops a little quieter. Your eyes linger, taking in how their uniform clings in all the right places. The sleeves stretched around their muscles, the neat little tie resting against their throat, begging to be pulled loose.

“Break,” Mac says, settling across from you. Their smile looks almost knowing, though you tell yourself you’re imagining it. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

You answer faster than intended and move your materials to make space for them. “No! Not at all.” 

Your hands are clammy. You’re usually nervous around Mac, but the horniness isn’t helping. Neither is their usual flirtiness. You dry your hands before taking a quick sip of your drink.

They cradle their mug in one hand, steam rising between you, and watch you over the rim as they drink. Your eyes catch on the way their tongue briefly meets the edge of the cup before their mouth does, a small, unhurried motion that sparks a warmth between your legs. Their gaze drops to your cup, and a single brow lifts.

“You haven’t altered your order,” they tease, amusement softening their tone.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the handle. “You’ve been keeping track?”

“Absolutely, I have,” they say, a quiet smile curving their lips. “It's hard not to pay attention to the cute regular. Besides, I’ve got a thing for consistency. Familiar patterns make the smallest deviations stand out.”

Their gaze lingers on your face a little too long before dropping to your mouth.

You swallow, unable to think of anything clever, and that’s when Mac leans slightly across the table. “You’ve got foam.”

Before you can ask where, their thumb brushes the corner of your lip, a touch careful but unmistakably intimate. They pull back just enough to look at what they’ve caught, then bring their thumb to their own mouth, tasting it slowly with a flick of tongue.

The heat in your chest spikes. “That was—” You cut yourself off, unsure what word to even use.

Mac’s eyes spark behind their frames, daring you to finish the thought. “Mmh…sweet,” they say instead, and the way they draw it out makes your stomach twist. “But I guessed you would be.”

You shift in your seat, forcing your body to relax even as your pulse betrays you. “So—how’s class going?” you blurt.

Mac laughs, and your heart swells. “Smooth transition.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “Just trying to make conversation. How is it, though?”

They lean back slightly, still watching you. “It’s going. Too many papers, not enough sleep.”

You huff a quiet chuckle. “Tell me about it. I’m so stressed, and I don’t think I’ve slept properly all week. Midterms are killing me.”

Mac’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite read. “Guess that explains the caffeine,” they say, voice low, “but studying shouldn’t be the only thing keeping you up tonight.”

The insinuation sends a shiver through you, your mouth parting before you even realize it. “What does that mean?” 

Mac leans forward, catching your hands in theirs. “Just suggesting a joint study session,” they say, grin tugging wider. “Two bodies are better than one, after all.”

Before you can respond, their phone buzzes against the table, screen lighting up. Mac groans softly, glancing at it before meeting your eyes again. “Duty calls. Meet me after my shift? Sounds like we both need to de-stress.”

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.”