#new spark plug

[montrealvictoire]

yall: rb and put in the tags what city you would put a new pwhl team in & what colours they would use (& team name if u wish)

[ineedhjalp]

Sometimes I don’t hyperfixate for a while. Then I see a billboard with

On it and I’m just like. Well, fuck.

[posevr]

Your spark plug should not look like this

[rosalind-hawkins]

Does anyone want to buy a truck?

I need to sell my truck.

It no longer suits our needs.

[ktmsportslove]

Myth vs fact spark plugs

A healthy spark plug ensures efficient combustion, leading to better fuel economy and engine performance. Regular inspections and timely replacements are key to keeping your vehicle running smoothly. And when you choose NGK spark plugs, you get superior ignition performance, durability, and optimal efficiency for a smoother drive.

[0littleblue0]

My car’s “check engine” and “trac off” lights have turned on and it’s shaking like a chihuahua 🙃

[becqthefailednuke]

Writing this down before I forget the details:

I went to go pick up pizza (my sibling had a coupon (rad)).

On way back, nearly hit a tiny chihuahua. However, I slowed down and was able to stop in time. It quite literally ran in front of my car.

Decided to think fast, put on my hazards, pulled over, and grabbed the dog.

Drove the rest of the way home since I didn't immediately see an owner.

Put the dog in my room. He appeared to be pretty old with cataracts. He was scared, but well behaved. He didn't have a collar.

Called the local 24 hour vet to ask if they were busy, and if they had a chip reader.

Made sure to drive by where I almost hit the dog on my way to the vet. Saw a guy on the side of the road looking for something, so I pulled into the nearest street.

I stepped out of the car and asked if he was looking for a dog. He was, and told me "I usually let him out to go to the bathroom, and he always comes back!" (I was annoyed at this. He didn't have a collar, and he was an old dog in the dark. I get not having the space and adapting, but he literally JUMPED IN FRONT OF MY CAR. It would not have taken a very negligent driver to hit him. Thankfully I was fast enough acting, but that really annoyed me. At least have a collar and leash for fucks sake.)

Return the dog to him, and make my way back home.

Eat more pizza.

[elfgremlin]

paid for overnight shipping for my car part that was ordered monday and it’s still not here. brother i just want my car fixed and hopefully this is the last thing it needs

[thebuttsmcgee]

so. um. 👉👈

hi guysies.

Ig I should just say like. Hi

I haven't been posting here as much cause. Idk. Might be depression? I keep thinking its cause I've been so busy, which also wouldn't be not untrue, but these past, like, 3 weeks I think so far? I've had some free time but I haven't cause. I dunno, then again, I haven't been doing too much in general? I gues, besides very mandatory things, hell I've even been lacking in my regular skyrim hours of playing.

That, and as said, I get super melancholic when I remember just how sad and bittersweet it is that t0h is. Actually legit over. The show and experience, that is.

Oh all that and also becuz my headphones broke! Fuck! That's like number 2 in my bare necessities for when I post, do almost anything really! It's seriously been painful this past month going without headphones holy shit. Dude I've been scratching at the bit for some relief for headphones, I NEED music legitimately. Even right now, as I'm typing this on my phone, my music is on low levels.

But yerp. Its been. Rough. Really rough. I really do appreciate yall, everyone of yall. Have a sweet week everyone, ✌️!

[hometowne-auto-repair-and-tire]

Spark plug replacement was performed on a Honda Odyssey this afternoon. The service was recommended due to mileage. The minivan has more than 155,000 miles on it.

A spark plug’s lifespan varies among vehicles and the manufacturer’s recommendations. They can also be impacted by other factors, such as carbon buildup.

The check engine light coming out, a car running rough at idle, and engine misfires can be symptoms of a bad spark plug.

[papayainsectorone]

Emotional Support Stranger

summary: stranded in a late-night airport hellscape with a dying phone and a delayed flight, you are one sarcastic comment away from a breakdown—until an unexpected laugh from the guy in front of her sparks an unlikely connection.

content: no real warnings

airport purgatory vibes™, emotional damage via sleep deprivation, crying in public (but make it sexy?), strangers-to-deliriously-flirty-to-???, phone battery anxiety, surprise first class reveal??, “wait... are you famous?” energy, terminal-based emotional intimacy, light angst, one shared headphone

word count: 3.3k

pairing: franco colapinto x fem!reader

You're standing in line at the rebooking desk, the strap of your carry-on digging into your shoulder like it’s punishing you for booking with this airline in the first place. Your phone's at 7%. Your charger is buried under everything you packed for what was supposed to be a nice trip, now turned emotional survival exercise. 

The clerk ahead of you looks like she'd rather be anywhere else on Earth. 

You're trying not to cry. 

Really, you are. 

You keep chewing the inside of your cheek, eyes burning as the guy in front of you hands back your passport and ticket with the words: 

“Thanks. Have a nice flight.” 

It breaks you. Not all the way, not loudly—but enough that the sarcasm slips out before you can stop it. 

“Yeah, hope it crashes.” 

Silence for a second. Then a laugh—quick and startled. 

You glance up, tense, expecting judgment. 

Instead, he’s smiling. 

And not in a mocking way. It’s this crooked little grin like he wasn’t expecting to laugh today, but you just made him. 

He’s... hot. You notice that, but not first. First, you notice how real he seems in a sea of people who are all pretending not to lose it. His hoodie’s a little wrinkled. His curls are a mess. He has dark circles under his eyes like you do. He’s leaning on the handle of his suitcase like he’s been here a while too. 

“Bit dark,” he says, voice light but low. 

You exhale—half a laugh, half frustration. “I’ve been in this line for hours, my flight’s delayed indefinitely, and the dude behind the other counter just told the guy two people ahead that the next flight out might be tomorrow.” 

You tilt your head toward the heavens—well, toward the buzzing lights—and add, “So, yeah. I'm in a bit of a mood.” 

“Fair.” He nudges your arm gently with his elbow. “You looked like you were about to leap over the desk. I was rooting for you.” 

Your laugh this time is more genuine, and your posture shifts just a little relieved not to feel entirely alone in your disaster. 

“Where are you headed?” he asks. 

You sigh. “San Fernando International. Supposed to be working.” 

He raises an eyebrow, then deadpans, “Maybe this is fate.” 

You scoff. “Or just hell with extra layovers.” 

That earns a grin. “That too.” 

You’re finally done with the rebooking desk. 

They couldn’t get you on another flight. Couldn’t even guarantee the one you’re already booked on will go at some point. They handed you a sorry-looking meal voucher like it was a prize for surviving airport purgatory. 

You spot him a few rows down—hood up now, slouched in one of those hard plastic seats by the gate, his suitcase serving as a footrest.

Without thinking much about it, you walk over and drop yourself into the seat beside him. 

It’s not graceful. More like a slow collapse. 

You lean your head back against the metal wall behind you, closing your eyes. 

“Bad news?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. “Worse. No news.” 

He exhales a laugh, not because it’s funny but because everything feels like a cosmic joke now. 

You crack your eyes open and glance at him sideways. “What time is it?” 

He checks his watch. “2:57.” 

“AM,” you clarify. 

“Yep.” 

You groan and rub your face. Your phone’s been dead for an hour, and the outlet near your seat refuses to cooperate, blinking out the second you plug in your charger. 

You try it again anyway, just in case the universe suddenly decided to cut you some slack. 

Nope. Still dead. 

He chuckles. 

You look at him. “Are you at least entertained? Or is your Spotify saving your life?” 

He holds up one earbud. “A bit of both.” 

You raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates... and then offers the other bud. 

You blink. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Better than both of us being miserable.” 

You take it. 

The bud is warm from his ear and weirdly, you don’t mind. There’s something oddly intimate about it, like sharing a hoodie or a private joke. 

The music is something soft. Guitar, a little lo-fi beat under it. 

“Okay,” you say, settling back, letting your arm rest between you, not quite touching his. “I expected, like... EDM.” 

He huffs. “And you seem like the type to listen to... what? Heartbreak ballads in a coffee shop?” 

You smile. “Only sometimes.” 

The next track fades in. You don’t know it, but it fits. Everything slows a little. 

You're both still for a while, music filling the space between you. 

Then, he clears his throat, quiet. “You know... I can deal with it if you need to rant. About the flight. Or the apocalypse-level service desk. Or life in general.” 

You laugh softly, your head turning toward him. “Are you offering yourself up as an emotional support stranger?” 

He grins. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

You let out a breath. “Okay. Here goes.” 

And once you start, you don’t stop. 

About the mess at the gate. The rude lady who snapped at you like your very presence was an inconvenience. About your power bank dying. About the overpriced water bottle. About how the vending machine ate your last coin and gave you nothing. 

You don’t think he’d laugh so hard at that, but he does genuinely, hand-over-mouth, eyes-creasing laugh. 

When you finally sigh again and slump further into your seat, he says, “Feel better?” 

You nod. “Weirdly, yeah.” 

He glances over, soft smile still lingering. “So… what work got you flying at ungodly hours?” 

You huff, eyes flicking up to the departure board like it might remind you where you’re even going. “Conference. I’m in engineering.” 

His brows raise. “Oh, cool. What kind?” 

That’s all it takes. 

You don’t even realize how fast your words come, about structures and materials and that one project you’re working on that somehow turned into your entire personality for the past three months. You don’t even register how animated you are, hands gesturing slightly, voice picking up momentum like a train rounding a bend. 

You don’t notice, because he never interrupts. Never glances away. Just watches you with this sort of quiet focus that makes it feel like everything you're saying matters. 

You only pause when your throat goes dry and you realize you're smiling a little too hard. 

“Oh my god. I’ve been talking for, like—what? Ten minutes straight?” 

He laughs softly. “More like fifteen.” 

Your face flushes. “Why didn’t you stop me?” 

He leans his head against the metal wall, smiling crookedly. “Didn’t want to. You look happy when you talk about it.” 

That stops you. In a gentle way. 

He shrugs like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you a little. “I like people who light up.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just smile and nudge his shoulder with yours. 

And then—quietly—you say, “What about you? Why’re you flying?” 

His mouth quirks a bit. “Work too.” 

“What kind?” 

He hesitates, eyes flicking away for the first time. “It’s a bit... niche.” 

You nod, not pressing. There’s a flicker of something behind his expression—not embarrassment exactly, just a desire to stay in this moment where things feel easy, where no names or titles are needed. 

So you don’t push. You just smile gently and shift the topic. 

The conversation meanders from there. One of you asks something small, and the other answers. Then it flips. Back and forth, for what feels like hours—but the good kind, the fast kind. You talk about favorite snacks, worst travel experiences, weirdest dreams. The kind of things only a half-lit terminal at 5 a.m. makes feel profound. 

Then it drifts again into music, and eventually, quiet. 

His playlist becomes the soundtrack to your shared waiting. 

You hadn’t noticed when your eyes slipped closed, but you must have drifted. The warmth from his side, the quiet static of airport announcements, the fading adrenaline of frustration—it all lulled you under. 

You don’t notice when he gets up. 

You don’t stir when he approaches the gate desk with a soft-voiced question and a charm that’s more polite than pushy. You don’t catch the way he angles your boarding pass across the counter with just enough casual confidence to make it all seem easy. 

When he comes back, there’s something in his step—a quiet buzz of victory. But he says nothing. 

He just sits again. 

And the subtle motion—the shift of weight next to you—is enough to nudge your head, gently, down onto his shoulder. 

His breath catches a little. 

Not enough to wake you. 

Then, gently, he tips his head—just enough for his cheek to graze your hair. 

He lets it stay there, barely touching, like any more might wake you. And maybe he wants to let you sleep a little longer. Maybe he wants to stay like this a little longer too. 

But the intercom crackles overhead, sharp and abrupt in the hush of the terminal. 

Flight 227 to San Fernando International now boarding. 

You shift beside him, blinking awake, your hand rubbing over your face as you sit up a little too fast. “Shit,” you mumble. “Did I—was I drooling on you?” 

He smiles, still a little sleep-warm. “Just a little. Adds to the charm.” 

You groan softly, dragging your hoodie sleeve over your mouth, cheeks burning. “God, kill me.” 

But he just chuckles and stands, brushing the wrinkles from his jeans. “Come on. Looks like our ride’s here.” 

Your boarding pass is wrinkled in your hand, thumb dragging over your seat number again and again, a nervous tic you don’t even realize you're doing. The gate agent takes it with a pleasant smile, scanning it with a soft beep. Then her eyes flicker to the screen, and she pauses. 

“Oh, Miss,” she says, reaching for a pen. “Looks like you’ve been upgraded.” She scribbles something quickly over your seat number before handing it back, like it’s routine. 

You blink. “I’ve been what?” 

But she’s already turning to the next passenger, smiling as if it’s nothing. And maybe it is. But your brain—still fogged from sleep and that strange, dreamy layover haze—doesn’t quite catch up. 

You go with it. What else is there to do? 

The jet bridge feels colder than you expected, your hoodie not quite enough against the sting of early morning air. You wrap your arms around yourself as the line creeps forward, every step oddly slow and too quiet. You rub the sleep from your eyes, phone clutched in your other hand, still dead. Everything feels like a dream—like you’re watching your own life through a half-fogged window. 

Then, as you step into the cabin, the flight attendant greets you with that practiced, polished smile. “Welcome aboard,” she says, checking your pass once more. “You’re to the left.” 

Left. 

You hesitate at the threshold, feet sticking to the floor like you missed a cue. “Sorry,” you ask, brow furrowed. “This is… first class?” 

The attendant nods without blinking. “Yes. Welcome aboard. You’re in 1A.” 

She gestures with an open palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and somehow your body moves before your brain can catch up. 

You walk in slow steps, the plush carpet soft beneath your feet, the lighting warm, impossibly golden. It smells like leather and something faintly floral. You pass other passengers already settled in—pressed shirts, neat hair, a man sipping champagne at 7 a.m. like it’s juice. 

And then you see it. Your seat. Spacious. Sleek. With a blanket folded neatly across it and a glass already waiting on a tray beside it, bubbles rising in perfect spirals. 

You’re still staring at it when he appears beside you. 

“Would you look at that?” he says, voice low and amused as he slides into the seat right next to yours. 

You stare at him. “This is first class.” 

He shrugs like he doesn’t quite know what you’re talking about, dropping into the seat beside you with casual ease. “Huh. That’s wild.” 

You scoff, sipping the champagne that’s already making your head feel a little floaty. You study him from the corner of your eye. “You didn’t… do something, did you?” 

He raises a brow, feigning offense. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Pull some secret-string or bribe someone with your—” You gesture vaguely at his whole face. “—unfair cheekbones or something.” 

He lets out a quiet laugh, reclines his seat just a bit, and fastens his belt like he’s done this a thousand times. “I think you might be overestimating the power of my cheekbones.” 

You turn more fully toward him, champagne resting lightly in your lap. “So this is just a cosmic coincidence? We both got upgraded to first class?” 

His mouth twitches. “Maybe the universe owed us something after a seven-hour gate delay.” 

You exhale a soft laugh, but there’s still something curling suspiciously warm in your chest. Gratitude. Disbelief. And something quieter. Something that makes you want to lean into the seat beside him and pretend you’ve always flown like this. 

As the cabin doors close and the safety video begins, you find yourself watching him instead of the screen. His eyes track the window lazily, fingers idly brushing the armrest, his whole posture relaxed in that way people are only when they’re somewhere familiar. You’re starting to realize he fits here. 

You don’t. But next to him, maybe it doesn’t matter. 

And when the plane begins to taxi, the low rumble beneath your feet swelling with momentum, you grip the armrest hard—knuckles whitening, body stiffening without meaning to. Your breath stalls somewhere in your throat, chest locked tight like the air’s already thinning. 

He notices. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches the way your fingers curl against the leather, the way your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Then, quietly, without turning his head fully, he murmurs, “I don´t know if i have to ask… but are you nervous flying?” 

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. It’s not pitying or amused—just there, open and real. 

You nod, small and sheepish, biting the inside of your cheek. “I think even more so being in first class,” you admit, the words slipping out with a faint, breathy laugh. “Feels too high up. Like I don’t belong here. Like if we fall, it’s further to the ground.” 

That makes him chuckle, quiet and low in his chest, the sound warm and steadying. “That’s a first,” he says, and then—without even looking down—he reaches over and takes your hand. 

It’s not a showy gesture. It’s easy. Effortless. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it just makes sense. His fingers curl over yours, firm but not tight, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. 

His eyes stay on the cabin wall ahead of him, but his voice drops just a bit more, close and sure. “It’ll be alright.” 

And for some strange reason, you believe him. 

The plane lifts from the runway with a low, drawn-out hum that vibrates through the cabin. Your fingers tighten instinctively in his, but he doesn’t flinch or tease—just holds steady, anchoring you through the ascent. His thumb keeps moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. It’s quiet up here—strangely soft, like the world below has muffled itself entirely. 

After a few minutes, your grip relaxes, breath coming easier. He shifts slightly in his seat, his body angled toward yours, and for a while you both just sit there in the low hum of first class silence, warm hand in warm hand. 

“You alright now?” he murmurs eventually, voice dipped low with fatigue. 

You nod, turning your face toward him on the plush headrest. “Yeah. You’re—really good at that, actually. The whole handholding thing.” 

A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Thanks. I charge per flight.” 

You smile sleepily, eyes heavy. “Put it on my tab.” 

A pause drapes between you. Not awkward—just easy. Shared. You both sink deeper into it, exhaustion softening your edges. Your legs stretch out a bit under the blanket the flight attendant tucked over you earlier. He shifts too, letting his head lean lightly against the headrest. 

You both speak again at the same time. 

“What do you do—” 

“Do you always fly nervous—” 

You both laugh, just a soft puff of air and amusement in the dim light. 

“Go ahead,” he says. 

You shake your head. “No, you.” 

He lets his eyes drift toward the window, a soft shrug rolling through his shoulder. “I was just gonna say… you look like you don’t sleep much.” 

That catches you off guard. Your brow creases slightly, but there’s no sting to his words. Just observation. Care, even. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “I guess I haven’t. Not really. Not in a while.” 

His gaze returns to you—warm, thoughtful. “You should.” 

You smile faintly. “So should you.” 

He smirks. “I will. Right here. Got everything I need.” 

The flight levels out and the lights dim further. One by one, the cabin falls into a hush of flickering screens and quiet breathing. His grip on your hand never slackens—not tight, just present, like a tether. 

Eventually, your eyes fall closed. 

His follow not long after. 

When the attendant comes by to check on passengers, she pauses—smiling faintly at the two of you, slouched toward each other, hands still clasped between the seats, asleep above the clouds. 

The plane’s descent is gentle, the soft hum of engines lowering as the city lights begin to twinkle beneath the clouds. Your hand still rests in his, fingers intertwined, and though you’re tired, the closeness keeps a quiet energy alive between you. You glance around the cabin, noticing how the few other passengers steal brief looks your way. Is it just the dim light, or do they seem to recognize him? You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but the feeling lingers—whispers, soft murmurs, and the faint clicking of a phone camera. 

When the wheels touch down with a smooth thud, he squeezes your hand lightly, a silent reassurance. As the plane taxis to the gate, you both stir, stretching out the sleep from your limbs. You gather your things slowly, the haze of tiredness still wrapped around you like a blanket. 

The moment you step into the terminal, the sensation of attention intensifies. People glance your way, some whispering just loud enough to catch your ear, others sneaking pictures when they think you’re not looking. You’re half-tempted to ask him if they know him, but he just smiles softly, not drawing attention. 

He steps in front of you, lifting your carry-on with an easy grace. “Let me,” he says, his voice low but steady. You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and intrigue. 

By the baggage claim, the noise picks up. A young boy, no older than ten, approaches, tugging at his mother’s sleeve before gathering courage to step forward. “Can I have a picture?” His wide eyes shine with admiration. 

He chuckles, nodding. “Of course, mate.” He crouches down, smiling warmly as the boy’s parents snap a quick photo. 

You watch, puzzled but smiling at the easy way he handles it, the humility that doesn’t demand attention but quietly commands it. 

As you head toward the exit, the crowd grows thicker, flashes bursting like fireflies from outside. You spot several cameras aimed your way before you even reach the doors. He notices your widening eyes and murmurs, “Sorry.” 

Then, without breaking stride, he grabs your hand again, shoving a small, crumpled piece of paper into your palm. “Text me sometime, stranger.” 

You blink, heart skipping. “Wait—what’s your name?” 

He grins when looking back. “Franco.” 

With that, he steps outside, and the air bursts with a chorus of screams and the relentless staccato of cameras. 

You stand frozen, the crumpled paper warm in your hand, a small smile tugging at your lips as the noise fades behind you. 

[syrecjh]

─ .🌷✧˚Everyone’s Extra, But You’re My Dollface

˚🎀༘⋆ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Bakugo’s world was full of noise—explosions, egos, too-loud classmates, and quirks that screamed for attention. Everyone was extra, in his words.

Too flashy. Too talkative. Too soft. Too annoying.

So he labeled them.

Names like badges of mockery. Nicknames that clung to them like soot after one of his blasts.

“Shitty Hair,” for Kirishima.

“Half-and-Half Bastard,” for Todoroki.

“Deku,” for Midoriya—his oldest rival.

“Pinky,” “Electric Dumbass,” “Four-Eyes,” and so on.

They were insults, sure—but they stuck. Like gravel in scraped knees. That was just Bakugo.

And yet… for you?

You weren’t “extra.”

You were the quiet in his chaos.

The still moment between his heartbeats.

And so, you got something no one else did.

“Dollface.”

The first time he called you that? It slipped out during a mission debrief. Everyone was talking over each other—Mina rehashing her hero pose, Kaminari laughing at nothing, Iida trying to restore order. Bakugo sat in the corner, arms crossed, brow twitching.

And you—calm, thoughtful you—were bandaging a scrape on his arm without saying a word. Like it was nothing. Like touching his scars didn’t scare you.

He didn’t thank you. Of course not.

But when you finished, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear:

“…Thanks, Dollface.”

You blinked.

“What did you call me?”

His ears turned red, but his glare dared you to challenge it. “Got a problem?”

“…No,” you whispered, cheeks warm. “Just... didn’t expect that.”

“Tch. Don’t get used to it.”

Spoiler: you did. He just didn’t stop.

One morning in class, you sat quietly, tracing the rim of your coffee mug while Aizawa droned on about combat strategy. Everyone else, naturally, couldn’t shut up.

Kirishima was cracking jokes, Denki was trying to get Todoroki to laugh, and Midoriya was mid-infodump when Bakugo’s pen snapped in half.

“Goddamn it—every single one of you is extra!”

The room went still.

“You—Shitty Hair. You—Spark Plug Idiot. Deku—don’t even get me started.”

He swung his eyes to you.

Then, without warning, his entire tone shifted.

“You good, Dollface? You need a new pen or what?”

The silence was deafening.

Everyone’s heads slowly turned to you like you were some kind of endangered species.

You blinked.

“I’m… I’m fine. Thanks.”

He grunted and looked away. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just sucker-punched the entire room with affection.

You cornered him later that day behind the gym, heartbeat jumping.

“Bakugo.”

“What?” he barked. “You gonna yell at me for calling you somethin’ now? Don’t start—”

“I’m not mad. I just… why ‘Dollface’?”

His eyes narrowed—not angry, just calculating. Then, like a fuse lighting slowly, he exhaled.

“Because you’re not like them.”

You frowned. “Like who?”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“Everyone. All those extras run their mouths, act like they know everything. But you…” He met your eyes, and this time, his voice dropped. Quiet. Honest.

“You’re calm. You don’t take up space like they do. You’re sharp. Real. Strong, even when you’re soft. Like a porcelain bomb that knows how to hold back.”

You didn’t say anything, unsure how to breathe with your heart pounding that hard.

He ran a hand through his hair, grumbling. “It’s not an insult. I call you that ‘cause you’re... somethin’ else. Got a face like a doll and a heart like a grenade.”

“…So I’m not extra?”

Bakugo snorted.

“Yup, you're extra, extra mine. ”

[liyue-harbour]

lighter's 6-step guide to ruining your kitchen (and winning your heart)

lighter lorenz x reader

summary: what starts as lighter trying to fix your broken coffee maker turns into an explosion of chaos, tools, and laughter. he's confident— too confident— but even as things spiral out of control, you can't help but enjoy the mess. (he's trying his best)

you eyed the old coffee maker like it had personally wronged you. in fairness, it kind of had— months of leaking water, leaking coffee, sputtering, and smelling vaguely like burnt plastic had left you at your wit's end. when lighter showed up for a visit and saw you glaring at it, he made the offer:

"i can fix that for you."

you raised a skeptical eyebrow. "can you?"

"please," he said, rolling up his sleeves with the bravado of someone who definitely had no idea what they were doing. "i've tackled bigger challenges."

step one: the toolbox gauntlet

it started innocently enough. you dug out the dusty old toolbox you hadn’t touched in years while lighter sets the coffee maker on your kitchen counter like it was a patient awaiting surgery.

"this is a mess," he said, holding up a screwdriver and spinning it in his fingers like he was auditioning for a hardware commercial.

"i know," you replied. "that's why i was going to buy a new one."

"where's the fun in that?" lighter grinned at you. "trust me, i've got this."

famous last words.

step two: controlled chaos (emphasis on chaos)

lighter pops open the back panel with alarming confidence, revealing a tangled mess of wires. "here's your problem," he said, pointing at the horrifying jumble like it was obvious.

"oh really?" you deadpanned. "i thought it was working perfectly."

he ignored your sarcasm and started tinkering, tools clinking against the counter as he muttered things like "that's weird" and "pretty sure this goes here". you leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold. at one point, a small spark shot out of the machine, and both of you jumped back.

"totally normal," lighter said, though his wide eyes behind his tinted glasses betrayed him.

"normal for what? a sci-fi action movie?"

"relax", he said waving you off. "i've got it under control."

you weren't sure what definition of "control" he was using, but it definitely wasn't yours.

step three: the great coffee maker escape

things escalated when lighter attempted to plug the machine back in for a test run. it hummed ominously, sputtered, and then released a small puff of smoke. you grabbed a kitchen towel, ready to smother it in case of fire.

"uh, that's... progress?" lighter offers weakly.

"progress toward a lawsuit," you muttered, fanning the smoke away.

he finally threw in the towel, setting the screwdriver down with an exaggerated sigh. "okay, maybe it's more stubborn that i thought."

"lighter, it's dead." you laughed, shaking your head. "you didn't fix it— you put it out of misery."

step four: damage control

despite the chaos, lighter didn't look defeated. in fact, he looked entirely too pleased with himself as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and smirked at you. "hey at least we tried," he said. "and by we, i mean me, because i did all the work."

“oh, yes, all your hard work ruining my kitchen,” you teased, gesturing to the tools and coffee maker debris scattered everywhere.

“ruined is a strong word,” he countered, nudging you with his elbow. “i prefer ‘temporarily restructured.’”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. “well, thank you for temporarily restructuring my coffee maker into a pile of junk.”

“anytime,” he said, his grin widening. “seriously, though, i’ll help you pick out a new one. one with fewer... deathtrap vibes.”

“appreciated,” you said, grabbing a damp cloth to start cleaning up.

step five: the clean-up crew

cleaning was just as chaotic as the diy attempt. lighter insisted on washing his hands in the tiniest sink possible, accidentally knocking over a glass in the process. you spent more time dodging his elbows than actually organising the tools.

“maybe stick to your day job,” you joked, shoving a wrench back into the toolbox.

“funny,” he replied, leaning over the counter to grab a towel. “i think i make an excellent handyman.”

“sure,” you said, smirking. “if the goal is to create more problems than you started with.”

he shot you a mock-offended look, but the glimmer in his eye gave him away. “you wound me.”

step six: the aftermath

by the time the kitchen was semi-clean and the coffee maker officially declared beyond repair, you were both leaning against the counter, exhausted but grinning.

“you know,” you said, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re banned from fixing anything in my apartment ever again.”

“fair enough,” he replied, straightening up. “but admit it—you had fun.”

“fun?” You gave him a look. “that’s what we’re calling this disaster?”

“a masterpiece of domestic chaos,” he corrected, his grin teasing.

you laughed, shaking your head. “alright, fine. it was... entertaining.”

“entertaining?” he leaned closer, raising an eyebrow. “try ‘the best time you’ve had all week.’”

“don’t push it,” you said, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

© liyue-harbour 2024 masterlist

[libraryofgage]

After checks calendar 84 years, I am once again offering Smart Steve content lmao

Listen the writer's block has been hitting recently if you couldn't tell, but I'm still happy with how this came out.

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't :P

----

So.

Steve Harrington is smart.

Like, smart smart.

Like, the kind of smart where he not only understands shit, he can explain complicated shit to Eddie without sending his brain into a coma.

It's been two weeks, and Eddie is still trying to come to terms with this discovery. He's four tutoring sessions in and a little spark of surprise still rocks him whenever Steve can easily explain a new topic using the stuff Eddie likes.

He explained velocity using D&D spells. He explained electrical circuits using the concept of plugging a guitar into an amp. After asking a few questions about Lord of the Rings, Steve Harrington managed to explain the in-depth concepts of magnetism using the fucking One Ring.

How the fuck is Eddie supposed to be normal about any of that? Ignoring the sheer fact that Steve is capable of it, how is Eddie supposed to feel about the...the willingness to learn what Eddie understands best and meet him on that level?

If the answer is awed and practically starstruck, he's ahead of the game.

"Hey, you doing okay? Kinda spacing out over there, man."

Eddie blinks, the textbook in front of him coming back into focus. Steve had been explaining the concept of momentum, but his words just floated in one ear and out the other because Eddie was once again consumed by the absurdity of the situation.

It's not like he can say that, though. So, instead, he settles for a grimace and pushes the textbook away. "I think I'm all fried out for physics," he says, looking up at Steve.

"Oh," Steve says, blinking a few times before nodding. "Yeah, sure, uh, sorry."

"Wait, what are you sorry about?"

Steve looks away, an awkward frown tugging at his lips. "I...probably wasn't explaining it too well, huh?"

"Woah, woah, no way," Eddie says, putting a stop to that train of thought before it can leave the station. He turns in his chair to face Steve directly, ignoring how the metal rod that attaches it to the desk digs painfully against his shin. "Listen, Stevie, I've never understood physics more than when you explain it. Like, I don't know, man, whatever you're doing works."

Steve must have been more worried than he let on, because Eddie can literally see the tension draining from his shoulders. "Great," he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances away. "Seriously, that's great. I'm glad nothing's been confusing."

"Yeah, so, nothing you did," Eddie says, feeling like he needs to reiterate that point to drive it home. "Honestly, you could probably even make me understand geometry. Not like our teacher is doing shit to help."

"Do you...not understand geometry?" Steve asks, looking a little unsure like he can't tell if that's a joke or Eddie's attempt at suggesting another class he needs help in. This one is a class they share, which means Steve will have seen Eddie's floundering attempts at answering questions, and he feels a whole new burn of embarrassment course through him.

"Do you?" Eddie asks in return.

"Yeah. It's just, like, angles and shit, man."

Eddie stares at him for a moment, eyes narrowing and trying to figure out if Steve is somehow, subtly, making fun of him. But of course he isn't. If Eddie has learned nothing else, it's that Steve doesn't ever think Eddie is actually stupid or deserving of ridicule. He just thinks Eddie hasn't been taught properly, which is more on the teacher than him.

After a moment, Eddie twists around to dig in his bag. He pulls out his geometry homework, slaps it on the desk, and gestures at the triangles and squares and other shapes with unidentified angles and side lengths. "I have literally no clue what the fuck is going on here," he says.

Steve moves closer, looking over the sheet with a slight frown. Eddie knows this face by now. It's the one Steve makes when he's searching for the relevant knowledge in his own brain, pulling it to the front so he can easily identify the gaps in Eddie's understanding. "So, how would you start?" Steve finally asks, offering his pencil.

Eddie takes it, twirls it between his fingers a few times, and looks over the questions. He eventually chooses one asking him to find the length of a side. "I know this one. It's the equation with the squares and shit," he says, carefully writing it out and plugging in numbers under the triangle.

"Right. Pythagorean theorem. A squared plus B squared equals C squared."

"Yeah. That," Eddie says, working through the math on a separate sheet of paper instead of in his head. He can do easy addition and subtraction, but one of the first things Steve did was get him used to using scratch paper. His brain doesn't feel quite as crowded by numbers anymore; now it's just crowded by the endless rotation of bites of knowledge and equations that have nothing to do with the work at hand. It's like his brain can recognize that it needs to remember something, but can't identify what exactly, so it just offers up everything.

When he's done, Eddie shows Steve his work, the answer circled at the bottom of the scratch paper. "Perfect," Steve says, flashing a smile that makes Eddie's heart lurch dangerously. "Okay, so that's solid. What about this one."

He points at a right triangle with only one angle listed and the other marked as unknown. "No fucking clue," Eddie says.

"This one is asking for the unknown angle. It'll just be some subtraction."

"It's only giving me one angle, Stevie," Eddie points out, gesturing to the angle marked as 53. "What the fuck do I do with that?"

"Well, the main thing is that a triangles angles will always add to 180. Also, this is a right triangle," Steve explains, taking the pencil from Eddie to circle the L-shaped corner of the triangle. "This angle will always be 90 degrees on right triangles. Should I keep going?"

"No," Eddie says slowly, drawing the word out as he takes the pencil back. "I'm starting to get it. Lemme try."

Steve waits patiently as Eddie hesitates before adding the angles together and subtracting that from 180. When he gets to a solution of 37, he gestures for Steve to check.

"That's right," Steve says, nodding as he points to another triangle on the sheet. "For this one, I'll teach you about the SOH CAH TOA trick."

Eddie nods, paying as much attention as he can, but he can't help feeling a little distracted by Steve's happy smile and relaxed posture. He's never seen Steve like this during class, and he's struck by the sudden notion that nobody else will see Steve like this, either.

------

When Steve gets home, he drops his bag in the hallway, grabs a soda from the kitchen, and collapses onto the couch.

A few National Geographic and Scientific American magazines are still spread out across the coffee table. A brief glance reminds Steve that none of the stories were particularly interesting in these editions.

He pops the tab on his soda, takes a sip, and glances at the phone on the end table next to him.

Steve had noticed something today. Eddie's shirt. Most of the band shirts Eddie wears are popular enough that Steve sort of knows them. Metallica, KISS, and AC/DC were recognizable since he's passed their albums on display in record stores.

Today's band, though. He didn't recognize that one. What the fuck was Manowar?

After a few seconds of thought, Steve reaches out and grabs the phone. He's just doing research. Wanting to understand the music Eddie likes is reasonable. That's how Eddie learns. There's no other reason for Steve dialing the number of an old classmate.

The phone rings a few times before picking up. "Amare residence," a girl says, sounding distracted.

"Hey, Dee. It's Steve."

"Hmm, Steve. Steve. ...Steeeeve. Oh, is this Steve Harrington, deserter of friends for the woes of public education?"

Despite everything, Steve can't help an amused smile. "Yeah, that Steve," he says. He doesn't apologize, since he knows that's not what she wants. If she was actually angry, she would've hung up.

"Well, how kind of you to grace me with your voice," Dee says, sounding distant like she's set the phone down. "I suppose I can give you until I finish braiding my hair."

"Great. You know about metal, right?"

"Like iron? Duh, Steve, I'm not thirteen."

"No, like, heavy metal."

"Iron is pretty heavy."

"Music, Dee. Heavy metal music."

"Oh! Aren't you a Tears for Fears kind of boy? What are you doing asking about heavy metal?"

Steve starts to answer but stops himself. He doesn't know why. Dee tutors kids all the time. Everyone in their private school group did. That's how they made money. She'd understand that he's trying to learn more about Eddie's interests for tutoring purposes.

So why can't he just say that?

"This long pause says you're thinking about lying to me," Dee says. "Don't bother, Steve."

"Well, I do want to know for the guy I'm tutoring. But not just because I'm tutoring him."

"Awww, are you trying to make a friend?" Dee teases.

Steve grimaces, wondering why his stomach twists slightly at the question. "Yeah, kind of. I want to know more about the stuff he likes. And he likes heavy metal. So, ya know, I thought of you."

"Well, you've come to the right place," Dee says. "And I love talking music, so I guess we can keep talking even after I'm done braiding."

A relieved smile tugs at Steve's lips. "Thanks, Dee, I appreciate it. So, first question, what's Manowar?"

-------

Tag List!

@estrellami-1, @ravenfrog,

[ktmsportslove]

NGK Spark Plug India is rebranding as Niterra India!   Catch the full story behind this exciting change & the company's new vision on Network 10 Live.

[muwapsturniolo]

Oxytocin ⛓ M. Sturniolo

"Go on Cherry, get to work."

⟢ NSFW AHEAD!! Blindfolds, butt plug, slapping, vibrators, dildos, nipple clamps, being tied up, overstimulation, sugar daddy Matt, asshole Matt, if I forgot something plz let me know.

This idea sparked from a post I saw on Twitter, but also this persona of Matt has some inspo from @luvs4matt dilf Matt! divider cred @bernardsbendystraws

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, her chest rising and falling in shaky patterns. She couldn’t see anything, the makeshift blindfold made out of one of his many ties preventing her from seeing what he was doing.

She knew he was staring at her, she could feel his hungry and angry eyes on her naked body, she just didn’t know where he was looking.

Was he looking at the drool running out of her mouth and down her chin from the ball gag? Was he looking at the weighted clamps dangling on her nipples? Maybe he was looking at the red rope binding her arms together behind her back and running across her body?

It should have been embarrassing, being naked, gagged, and tied up, on display for him and anyone else in his office building to see. However, for her it wasn’t embarrassing, it was liberating - It was exciting.

So exciting that her wetness was dripping down on to the carpeted floor, a thin and slimy string still connected to her folds.

“Do you know why you’re being punished?”

Her instincts tell her to follow his voice, to turn her head and try to locate him in the room - She knew better.

If she even moved an inch from fourth position, her punishment would be worse, and she was already in for a long night.

She doesn’t answer him, not that she could anyway, the ball gag preventing her from doing so. More shuffling is heard before she feels him looming over her, his energy radiating dominance.

She whimpers in pain, feeling his hand snake itself into her hair, gripping at her roots and yanking her head back. She blinks frivolously, the lights in the office temporarily blinding her as he rips the blindfold off.

Their eyes connected and she could see the pissed-off and hungry expression in his eyes. He says nothing, simply staring down at her as he allows one of his hands to caress her face.

A shocked noise escapes behind the ball gag, her eyes clenching shut as a sharp sting is felt against her cheek. She breathes harshly as she looks up at him once more, “You embarrassed me Cherry, you know how I feel about that.”

She gives a muffled apology, hoping he would go easy on her. “I don’t care for your noises-" he lets go of her head and pushes her forward.

"Sixth position."

He watches as she does her best to move, the restraints preventing her from moving freely. He licks his lips before pulling a small black bag out of his pocket, the velvet material in his hand feeling soft. He reaches inside and pulls out a butt plug that has a ruby-red jewel on the end.

He kneels on one leg and swipes the metal along her folds, using her own juices as makeshift lube. She shudders at the cold feeling, closing her eyes as she waits for his next move.

He removes the butt plug from her cunt and starts prodding at her hole, gently pushing the plug in. He watches the way her body tenses, her hands making a fist at the semi-new feeling.

She relaxes once it's all the way in, Matt admiring the work of art in front of him before landing a firm slap to her ass. He grabs a handful of her hair and yanks on it as he stands up, moving in front of her.

He forces her to look up at him, soon forcing her face into his crotch, his hard bulge rubbing against her face.

Suddenly he yanks her back, forcing her to look down at the ground. Her eyes widen seeing the devices strapped to his left leg.

A dildo and a vibrator.

"Here's what's going to happen sweetheart-" she winces as he drags her restrained body towards his desk, her knees dragging along the carpet floor. He sits down in his chair, manspreading as he gets comfortable.

Her heart beats quickly as he pours himself a glass of whiskey, lighting a cigar in the process. He takes a puff of the cigar, blowing out a thin veil of smoke before looking down at her again.

"Since you want to be a whore and embarrass me in front of my colleagues, you're going to ride my shoe, and get yourself off until I tell you to stop."

He watches the way her body shakes. He knew it wasn't of fright, it was more so embarrassment and excitement. He takes a swig of his drink before leaning back in his chair, "Go on Cherry, get to work."

He makes no move to help her, watching as she struggles to hover over the dildo attached to his dress shoe due to her arms being tied up behind her back. She slowly sinks down, her eyelids fluttering at the sensation of being stretched out.

As soon as she bottoms out, Matt reaches down and presses the button on the vibrator, chuckling at the way her eyes fly open. She falls forward, her face resting against his knee as she moans out.

"Tsk tsk tsk, none of that sweetheart." He taps his foot slightly, the dildo beginning to move in and out of the girls weeping cunt. "I'm not going to do all of the work, you wanted to fuck so bad, get yourself off."

She breathes heavily, the vibrator already being too much for her to handle, but she does as told. Her hips begin to rut against his shoe, her body leaning against his leg for support.

He watches with looming eyes, taking the occasional sip of his whiskey and puff of his cigar.

This whole scene was degrading, something straight out of those fake pornos. But this wasn't fake, no - This was the true experience, the raw and real version of a dom and sub dynamic.

She whimpers as the nipple clamps brush along his dress pants, tugging at her sore nipples, drawing her closer and closer to her first orgasm of the night.

She's able to ride it out, her hips continuing to rock back and forth, but the pleasure doesn't stop. She lets out a broken moan feeling the vibrations grow stronger, Matt reaching down and turning it up once more.

She lets out a long groan, her whole body tensing as her clit remains stimulated. She shudders against him, sweat forming along her body from the heat in the office. Her body was on fire, every nerve in her body being overstimulated.

"Come on sweetheart, don't tell me you can't handle a second orgasm." He taunts, starting to tap his foot once again. He knew she was a bit more sensitive than usual, the multiple glasses of wine going straight to her core, causing them to be in this situation.

Her nails dig into her palms, the hot coil in her stomach forming once again and already set to snap. Her eyes roll back as another orgasm washes over her, a shaky groan being muffled by the ball gag.

She braces herself, waiting for him to turn the vibrator up once again, but it doesn't come. He keeps the vibrator on the same setting, the only difference is, he forces her to sit up straight.

He leans forward, his eyes set on the pair of nipple clamps attached to her breast. He tugs on one of the clamps, watching the way her body quivers at the pain.

He scoops both of her breasts up in his hand, watching the way her face relaxes the tiniest bit, only to drop them just as quick.

She groans at the feeling, the gravity of her breasts dropping causing the clamps to tug harshly at her sore nipples. He does this a few more times, occasionally slapping them as well as tugging, watching the way her tears of pain and pleasure stroll down her cheeks.

"Look at you, all fucked out and pathetic and I haven't even fucked you. You're getting off on my shoe like a whore in heat." He caresses her face gently before landing a harsh slap, enjoying her muffled noises.

He turns the vibrator up again and yanks the ball gag out of her mouth, her moans only getting louder.

"Are you sorry?"

"Y-ye-" She cuts herself off with another moan, her body falling against his leg once again. "Answer me Cherry, you know I don't like disobedience." He looks up at him through her tears, eyes glossy and lips parted. He coos gently before turning the vibrator up all the way.

"Answer me Cherry. Are you sorry?"

"Yes!" she sobs out, her whole body shaking against him. She looks possessed, the way her eyes continue to roll back and her eyelids flutter.

"Good. Give me two more and I might let your punishment be over." She sobs at his sadistic words, knowing she doesn't have a choice, she could only obey.

She does her best to breathe through it, letting out long and loud groans as her clit and gummy walls continue to be stimulated.

That coil begins to form again, but something was different this time. Her body began to feel hot, a nauseating hot that made her heave. Her arms begged to be free, a sense of panic washing over her as she tugged the restraints.

She had stopped her hip movement by now, sitting still and letting the vibrations run through her.

Matt feels his chest lurch as she lets out a scream, the sound of splashing being heard.

She squirted.

For the first time ever, she squirted.

He's quick to turn the vibrator off, scooping her up from under her arms and gently pulling her off the dildo. He holds her in his lap, whispering firm yet soft praises as he quickly unties the red rope pressing against her skin.

She shudders in his arms, her body twitching as she tries to catch her breath.

"Shhh, it's ok. You did so well, taking your punishment like a good girl," she whines in protest, managing to let out a slurred sentence.

"D-didn't cum tw-"

"Don't worry about that. You did good, so good squirting for me."

For the next half hour, he soothes her, massaging her thighs and back knowing she's tense and aching. Once her tears had stopped and her breathing was even, he looked down at her.

"I'm going to have my driver take you back to my place, ok? I'm going to go give my rounds of goodbyes, then meet you. We can lay in the bath as long as you want and I'll pamper you."

She hums lazily, still too fucked out to even comprehend what he was saying. He kisses her forehead before helping her stand up, grabbing her dress from the desk and slipping it on as well as her heels, purposely leaving the butt plug in.