#girl what kind of macrodata refinement is this

[mcrlboro]

[mlmmetalhead]

PERFORMANCE REVIEW || Mark S. x male reader || NSFW minors DNI ||

I have been listening to “A straight faced science girl” on repeat you guys have no idea how much I love innuendos and longing and stuff

Mark isn’t supposed to think about his coworker like this.

He knows it’s not professional. He knows MDR isn’t the place for feelings, certainly not the inappropriate kind. Not the kind where you stare at the slope of a colleague’s shoulder and wonder what their skin feels like beneath a button-down. Not the kind where you memorize the pattern of their breathing from the next desk over.

But [—]’s hands move with such precision. His fingertips glide along data sheets like he’s coaxing secrets from the page. When he calibrates the data refiner, Mark stares shamelessly, heart thumping behind his pressed shirt. He can’t help it. [—] is so careful. So focused. So absurdly competent. It’s intoxicating.

He starts keeping notes in the back of his handbook. Not real notes. Just phrases. Thoughts he pretends are metaphors for team bonding, but really…

They’re things like:

Initiate handshake protocol. Grip firmly. Maintain eye contact. Feel heat transfer at the palms.

Or:

Insert quarter-inch macrodata cartridge. Twist. Push until internal alignment clicks into place.

Or:

Set burner beneath [—]’s beaker. Wait. Observe what overpressure does to him when he bites down on his sleeve.

Or:

Log proximity metrics. Update field entries. He smells like coffee and lemon soap and something warm I don’t have words for.

He writes one about using the filing system. It’s meant to be about sorting records, but it ends up something else entirely:

Color code his tabs. Run your finger along the edge. Push deep into the cabinet until you hear a moan of resistance. Withdraw slowly. Repeat for consistency. Confirm satisfaction with head of department.

And:

Apply coagulant. Watch his breath hitch. Press your mouth to his collarbone and test viscosity levels until he melts in your hands.

He has no idea if [—] knows.

Sometimes [—] glances over like he does. Like he can read through Mark’s too-straight spine, his overly calm tone. Like he sees right through the empty workplace phrases and into the part of Mark that wants to unzip [—]’s jumpsuit and—

God.

Mark hides in the supply closet after lunch sometimes and just breathes. He grips the shelving unit. Imagines [—] walking in and pushing him against the cold metal with some deadpan line like, “Did you want to merge our workflow streams today?” before unbuckling your belt.

He’s losing his mind.

He finds a slip of scrap paper one day in his locker. It just says:

“Insert long-form report into internal mailbox. Deliver orally. Await feedback.”

It’s [—]’s handwriting.

Mark nearly blacks out.