ATTENTION

Hi this is jigsaw. last week in starbucks you did a gross fucking burp that put me off my panini. In front of you is a panini press. You will notice also, that your dick is out,

omg ☹️ I just had a thought so since miguel doesn’t see ai reader romantically, at least right now, what if there was this spider person (other than lego spider-man) who suddenly began popping up in miguel’ office more often and noticed that miguel seemed to not hate them being there. as this spider person shows up more often, ai reader gets significantly more and more bummed out because they think miguel likes said spider person romantically and does like a percentage check and gets upset when it’s above 1% lmao 😭

cws for gn reader/ai reader.

-

Cindy Moon, better known by her alias Silk, was the other woman—or, that’s what the internet told you when you had detailed your ‘problem’ on an online forum geared towards helping the romantically disadvantaged, leaving out the fact that you were an android and technically weren’t supposed to be able to experience these feelings for someone in the first place.

You hadn’t even known your feelings for Miguel had turned romantic until you had begun to wonder why you would suddenly grow displeased whenever he interacted with Cindy. You had originally assumed it was because his attention wasn’t on you, and you really liked when Miguel’s attention was on you, but after an internet query, you had discovered the concept of significant others, love, romance, affection.

You read countless people’s experiences with love, from happy tales that ended with lovers ending up in a quaint little house on a hill, to sad tales that ended in betrayal or heartbreak. You must have processed hundreds of thousands of words on the topic, and you felt as though you had a decent understanding of it, and in turn, a decent understanding of the foreign feelings brewing inside you.

Jealousy was the biggest one.

You were jealous of Cindy Moon, or more specifically, you were jealous of the way Miguel smiled when he spoke with her, not a hint of his usual negative attitude in his face. He looked carefree, light; shoulders lowered, fangs retracted, brown eyes bright, posture relaxed. He responded to her in low, soothing tones, nothing like the sharp quips he’d direct your way whenever he’d called you a ‘little nuisance’.

You began to wonder if perhaps Miguel felt the same way about Cindy, that you felt about him. The thought displeased you like no other, and you had a hard time focusing on doing the tasks that he asked you to do, but you didn’t like when Miguel looked at you with furrowed brows and heaved a sigh of…disappointment, so you ignored those feelings and did your work to the best of your ability.

The more you ignored your feelings, the stronger they became, and you had finally decided to do a few more queries.

~

“Love compatibility…” You tilt your head as you look up at one of Miguel’s many monitors. It’s late into the night, and the man has long since gone to sleep, leaving you to your own devices. He used to power you down, but after enough of your complaining about being shut off like a video game all the time, he had decided to let you stay on under the promise that you’d stay out of his stuff.

Your eyes take in the words on the screen. There’s two pink boxes surrounded by hearts, one box says ‘YOUR NAME’ and the other says ‘THEIR NAME’. You hum as you slowly pace in front of his keyboard. If you were understanding correctly, all you had to do was place your name into the box along with Miguel’s and then the machine would tell you how compatible the two of you were.

What a neat little thing!

You direct the cursor to the box on the right before climbing onto the keyboard, carefully punching in his name before you direct the cursor to other box. You’re suddenly hit with an idea, and you frown before slowly typing in Cindy Moon.

“Okay. Let’s do this.” You hit enter, and a feeling that perfectly matches up with the definition of anxiety rushes through you. A large heart (which is not anatomically correct, you notice) suddenly appears between the two names, a percentage just above it. Pink pixels slowly begin to fill the heart, and the 0 above it begins to rise.

Your anxiety grows as you watch the number go up, and up, and up, before it finally settles on a 57. You deflate, head hanging between your shoulders and boots scuffing at the metal table underneath you.

57 wasn’t a great score, but it was entirely too high for your liking! You had wanted it to go no higher than 0, and had been prepared to smile and cheer as you jumped around for joy, pacified in knowing that the two would never work out.

Less eager than when you had first started, you scroll the cursor over to the box containing Cindy’s name and delete it, briefly wishing it was this easy to delete her spot in Miguel’s life.

You glance down to the engraving on the inside of your wrist. ANDROID 007. You type it into the box, and the process repeats as you anxiously watch the screen, fingers tapping against your thigh as you wa—“What!?”

0% Even if these two were to defy the odds and become a couple, they are surely doomed to fail.

The words glare at you from the monitor, and you kick at the keyboard, angry huffs leaving you each time your foot hits a key.

What a stupid program! As if some sloppy coding could possibly predict—wait. ANDROID 007…was that really a name?

You stop your violent outburst and tap your finger against your chin. You weren’t given a name like how humans were. You hadn’t been born, but rather created, and the scientist that made you hadn’t been interested in being friendly with her creations. The label had been slapped onto your wrist just as your uniform had been slapped onto your body.

Androids didn’t usually have names, rather being called and identified by their number. Miguel chose to call you unfavorable nicknames, such as ‘pest’, ‘little nuisance’, or even ‘thorn’, derived from the saying of being the thorn in someone’s side. You didn’t dislike them, but you couldn’t really say those were your names, either.

Maybe I should just pick one myself, you think, and that leads you down a path of searching up name lists and trying out each and every one. You test them on your tongue, immediately giving some the boot while placing others into your ‘maybe’ pile.

The sun is just beginning to rise, and you’ve yet to find a name. You had grown more and more dejected as the hours passed, figuring you’d be doomed your zero percent for forever, but then you’re clicking onto a link that you hadn’t opened yet, and then you see it — the perfect name.

It resonates with you, and when you speak it, the word flowing effortlessly off your tongue, you smile and quickly head back to the compatibility tab, not wasting a second as you enter in your chosen name.

A few seconds go by, the number stagnant and the heart empty, when suddenly it fills up all at once, the number rising so quickly that it becomes a blur, and then a flurry of hearts are feeling the screen.

100% A match made in Heaven! Congratulations to the lovebirds! Send us a wedding invitation, will you?

-

Miguel enters his office to see you standing on his desk, hands clasped together in front of you as you regard him with a smile. He quirks a brow at your expression.

“Batteries got a full charge this morning or something?” He had been met with a sulk and pout every morning for the last week, and had been fully expecting the same thing today.

“I don’t operate on batteries, Miguel, we’ve been over this.” You walk to the end of the desk as he nears it, and he lowers himself into his seat, hand rubbing down his face as he relaxes into it. “You look more tired than usual. Are you not sleeping well? I can put in an order for stronger sleeping aids.”

“The pills I’ve got work just fine.” He yawns. The pills do work fine, on normal nights, nights where he doesn’t stay up late staring at his ceiling, thinking back on all his actions as he tries to figure which one upset you tot he point that you barely spoke to him, only moping about and casting him sad looks when you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

His gaze slides over to you, and he blinks when he sees that you’ve zoned out, smile plastered on your face as you let out soft sighs. “Hey,” he calls, but you ignore him. He snaps his fingers beside you, “hey, nuisance.” You flinch, slightly stumbling to the side, and he steadies you with his hand. You shoot him a glare, but then a smile is quickly replacing it. He blinks again.

“Actually,” you lay your hands on the back of his, “I’d prefer it if you called me a different name, Miguel.”

“A different name?”

“Yes, I picked one out for myself last night.”

“Hm,” he slowly nods, “guess everyone needs a name, don’t they? Alright. What’d you pick out?” You give it to him, and he tests it on his tongue, letting out a soft chuckle afterwards.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, I do. It suits you.” Your smile widens even more, and Miguel holds his hand out to you, finding the size difference comical when you place your own against his in an attempt of a handshake. “Nice to officially meet you.”

“You as well, Miguel.”

you ever know someone and you think “god i love you. i wish we could’ve known eachother when we were carefree and 11. i wish we could’ve played together as kids”

you're in her dms she's meeting me outside the super weenie hut jr's for goofy goober happy hour

They're on a rollercoaster 🎢

“no grave can hold my body down. i’ll crawl home to her” …. yea …. that. that or Nothing

me rn while ovulating

sorry for logging on just to talk about that man. Will happen again

Interviewer : Mr. Dynamight, Mr Dynamight, why do you call your wife honey bun?

Bakugou: Cause her pussy is extra sticky when I eat it. Next question.

Shout out to the peeps that stumble across my inconsistent and incoherent blog that's nothing but reposts🗣️🗣️

I know you love the Russian roulette you get when you find me :33

Something sad? Sure!

Thirsting after my fictional men & women? You betcha!

Oscar Isaac 🤤🤤? Oh baby...

My passion for public transportation? Lemme tell you about it

Horny? It plagues me and I make it everyone's problem