#old poolhall conversion

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Before: Anthony bought an old pool hall in Chatfield, Manitoba, Canada and turned it into his maximalist home and art gallery.

After: Isn't this amaze balls?

via moody maximalism FB group

[zillanewt]

What’s In Your Head?

Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three  // Chapter Four // Chapter Five

summary: So, the year is 1999. Eddie is 23 years old, telepathic, and lives with his childhood best friend, Bill, in Portland, Maine. He meets a young musician with a knack for speed named Richie at a bar. More details at 11.

pairing: reddie

words: 1.9k

warnings: mild violence with the Bowers Gang

A/N: this is based off of @trashmouthloser‘s mutant headcanons, so thank you for letting me write this! i hope it’s not too terrible!

EDIT: PLEASE MESSAGE ME IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST

Growing up with mind-reading powers was pretty cool. Eddie always knew what smartass comeback to make when his peers would say something dumb. He always knew exactly what to say to get on adults’ good sides. When he was about 11, he figured out he could easily cheat on most tests, only fueling his classmates dislike for him. As a child, he made his best attempts to use his mutation responsibly, but children are, by nature, prone to mistakes.

While he used it for good in regards to his best friend, Bill, he tended to use it more selfishly with his classmates, earning him the nickname “Nosy Eddie” by middle school. Occasionally, he would attempt to alter people’s emotions towards him. But, what else was a small, asthmatic germaphobic boy with a desperate need to be at least somewhat liked to do?

Disliked throughout most of middle school and high school, Eddie vowed to restrain his powers and only use them to help Bill. Besides, he had been lectured by plenty of people, such as his mother and teachers, about invading others (especially adults’) privacies. He didn’t like reading adults’ thoughts, anyway. They thought vulgar, violent, and scary things, which young Eddie didn’t even want to comprehend the meaning of, like Mr. Keene repeatedly thinking his wife his a “dumb, lying whore” with the same viciousness of a rabid dog.

But, his mother particularly drilled it into his head ever since he began to develop his power that he was never to read her thoughts. Maybe he should’ve questioned it more, but Mrs. Kaspbrak’s word was law. It just was.

In his opinion, Bill’s mutation was ten times cooler than his. Sure, Eddie could know everybody’s deepest, darkest secrets, but Bill could move things with his mind. Well, it seemed way cooler when they were kids.

When they were 13, Eddie remembers an irritated Bill accidentally using his powers to throw a large rock through Henry Bower’s car window. They ran like hell, while Eddie cursed Bill for not being able to keep his “dumb mind powers” under control. He instantly regretted it after he saw the hurt in Bill’s eyes, because Bill, just like Eddie, was prone to misusing his power. Since then, Eddie has done his best to help Bill keep his powers under control. In return, Bill always lets him know when he’s being too invasive.

Anyhow, Bill thinks his and Eddie’s mutations are the coolest in Derry.

“How can they not be cool?!” Bill had once exclaimed when they were wandering through the barrens and talking about their most recent beating from the Bowers Gang “Mental mutations makeup only one percent of the entire mutation population! Who cares if Belch Huggins has super strength? You can literally read people’s minds, Eddie!”

Eddie never liked this conversation. He’s had it a million times with Bill. Like everything else about him, the Bowers Gang had taken a liking to making fun of Eddie for his mutation, dubbing it a “useless power” and proclaiming that “of course you can only read feelings like a girl.” He understood Bill was only trying to make him feel better, but his friend could do some real lasting damage with his mutation. During junior year of high school, Eddie was receiving one of the worst beatings the Bowers Gang had ever given him, when Bill stumbled on to the scene. Seeing Eddie curled up in a ball desperately trying to protect himself from the blows while his blood spilled onto the gravel, really set something off in Bill. In an instant without moving a muscle, he had broken one of Victor Criss’ hands, flew Patrick Hockstetter backward into a nearby guardrail, knocked Belch Huggins over the head with a piece of debris on the road, and pinned Henry Bowers to the ground.

The smaller boy couldn’t do anything but watch as Bill truly became a force to be reckoned with. Bill became somebody who could defend themselves and didn’t have to fear those stronger than him. Eddie just knew how to get inside people’s heads, and there was still plenty to fear, even more so after knowing the sort of things people thought.

Now, they were adults. They had left Derry behind soon after graduation, moving to Portland as roommates. Though it’s customary for students to leave behind their childhood friends after high school, Eddie knew he couldn’t do it. Bill needed him to keep his powers in balance, just as Eddie felt he needed Bill to “fight his bullies.”

So, the year is 1999. Eddie is 23 years old and lives with his childhood best friend in Portland, Maine. He has discovered the metropolis magic that is gay bars and being gay without fear in general. So far, he’s managed to remain pretty selective about who he uses his powers on.

Being a mind-reader wasn’t half bad when you used in on the right people.

************

Despite it being 7 o’clock in the morning and Eddie not needing to be at work until 10, he still felt pieces of fabric pelting him in the face. Groggily, he groaned and willed whatever it was to stop, but it didn’t. When he opened his eyes, Bill was propped at his door, dressed in a hoodie and sweats, flinging Eddie’s own dirty clothes at him with his mind.

This is definitely not how Eddie wanted to wake up this morning.

“Billiam,” Eddie said in a sleepy haze, glaring at the ceiling, “you better have a good reason for this.”

“Don’t forget you promised to come to the bar with Mike and me tonight,” he replied with enthusiasm, something Eddie was truly lacking this morning. “You need to get out of the house.”

Mike was a co-worker of Bill’s at a local newspaper. They were both just intern’s, but they had writing skills which looked promising. Eddie quite liked Mike, because he was polite and did not patronize Eddie about his germaphobia or hypochondria. In fact, Mike was pretty popular among certain circles in Portland, and Eddie didn’t know why he hung around Bill and him.

*****************

The bar was some hole in the wall downtown, but Mike somehow knew everyone in there. While looking for a table to sit at, he would stop to chat with someone every five seconds. Eventually, they made their way to a semi-dirty table, much to Eddie’s chagrin, near the stage. The place was dimly lit with poolhall overheads, and the red vinyl tables and chairs have definitely seen better days. Around the time the waitress brought out their drinks, a band was preparing to set up on stage. Mike prattled on about how they’ve been gaining popularity rapidly in Portland and how talented they were. Eddie secretly loved rock and roll when he was growing up, but his mom rarely let him listen to it in the house because it was “demonic” and would “corrupt his young mind.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a tall thin man with dark grey hair plugging his guitar into the large amp. He was instantly less annoyed about how Bill woke him up this morning and praised whatever god was listening for bringing him to this bar tonight. Without realizing, he had stared for too long, and eventually, the man turned around to make eye contact with him from the corner of his eye. From the smirk on the man’s face, Eddie concluded he must’ve looked like a lovestruck teenager.

Then after looking around the bar, he realized how out of place he must’ve looked. He was wearing an oversized baby blue sweater that made him look like a kid who was trying on their dad’s clothes for the first time. Picking at the label on his beer, he considered reading this stranger’s mind to know what he thought of Eddie. But, he thought better of it when Bill nudged him in the side.

“Making heart-eyes at the lead singer, are we?” Bill snickered, trying to contain himself at the rampant blush on Eddie’s face.

“No!” Eddie insisted, burying his head in his arms.

Mike giggled, “I think he’s looking at you too, Eddie.”

Despite his friends teasing, he didn’t lift his head from the table until the band’s set began and, boy, Eddie wasn’t disappointed. His head instantly shot up and the gray-haired man was strumming the opening for Zombie by The Cranberries on neon pink guitar. Eddie couldn’t get a good look at him before with everybody’s shuffling about on stage, but he could see him very clearly now. He was wearing a bright pink tank top, a grey leather jacket, tight black jeans with rips along the legs, and silver engineer boots. Everything about him seemed so interesting, and Eddie felt himself quickly sinking in.

His dark curls bobbed back and forth while he sang the lyrics in a raspy voice. Every once and awhile, he’d sneak his attention back to Eddie to make sure he still had his eyes – which, of course, he did, he always did.

The song ended too quickly for Eddie’s liking, but it was followed by another, an original, and yet another one. Eddie knocked back drink after drink, not taking his eyes away from the man. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Around midnight the set ended and the band began to dismantle their equipment. Mike and Bill’s teasing be damned! Eddie had just enough of the hooch in his system to have the courage to go onstage and talk to the mystery man, and damn it! He was going to!

Nervously, he approached the edge where the lead singer was working on untangling cords and packing his guitar away. The man instantly noticed Eddie approaching him and broke out into a wide grin.

“I was wondering if you’d get the balls to talk to me,” he says bluntly, still grinning at Eddie.

Normally, Eddie would be offended, but the amount of beer in his system said fuck it.

“I mean with those looks you were giving me, I’d be stupid not to talk to you,” Eddie said with the most confidence he has ever mustered in his entire life.

The man raised one eyebrow and bit his lip, looking entirely amused. “You mean my eye-fucking looks? Yeah. Those were most definitely intentional.”

Eddie felt a hot blush spread from his cheeks to his back at the man’s vulgarity, but the light’s were so dim it would have been difficult to notice if you weren’t paying close attention.

The man was definitely paying close attention.

“I’m Richie,” he said, moving his legs to swing over the edge of the stage.

“Eddie,” the other hiccuped quietly, gravitating closer to Richie and the space between his legs.

Eddie swears he can hear his friends hooting in the distance, but he really doesn’t give a fuck because he never gets hit on.

He and Richie are barely inches from each other’s lips, before there is a voice calling Richie from offstage.

“Shit,” he says, glancing from Eddie’s eyes to his lips, “I gotta go. Will you give me your number?”

Eddie fumbled through his pockets, praying for a pen for a hot minute, until Mike swooped in to save Eddie’s love life with a Sharpie.

Sloppily, he wrote his number on Richie’s hand and then watched Richie disappear with his guitar case in a literally actual flash.

[alleiradayne]

Poolhall Hustlers

Read it on AO3

For: Cullen Appreciation Week Day 6 - Alternate Universe and Crossover Rating: SFW (language) Word Count: 2,387

Hunters in the Supernatural Universe, Amallia and Cullen Rutherford try to hustle a guy at pool for some cash and a hot meal. But Cullen doesn't recognize her mark until it's nearly too late.

Author’s Note: I took the prompt to this day far too literal. There may not be any Krogan, but there’s definitely hunters.

“Find a mark yet?” Cullen asked as he took a seat on a stool beside his partner.

A coy smirk crooked Amallia’s lips as she spoke. “Pool table, six o’clock. Looks like he’s been running the table for a few hours.”

With a casual turn, Cullen glanced over his shoulder. New patrons crowded the bar, surrounding them in a bid to reach the server, forcing him to lean. The single pool table sat beneath an overhead light, one bulb burnt out, and the other too dim by half. Ragged resin pool balls littered the table, a fresh match starting. And then he spotted Amallia’s mark; attractive, with light brown hair and a cocky smile, Cullen guessed the man to be in his late 30s. Behind him at the high top sat another man, darker brown hair worn long and his face buried in his laptop screen.

After his opponent missed his shot, the target took up a stance behind the cue ball, sinking the next three shots, and Cullen questioned his wife’s sanity.

“He’s good,” Cullen started, watching the other man bank a particularly clever shot. “Really good.”

“Yeah, but I’m better,” Amallia replied with a wink over her glass of whiskey as she hopped from her bar stool and sauntered over to the rack of cues, examining them with a trained eye.

All three men at the pool table cast long gazes after her, the target pausing at his next shot too long. A sharp shake of his head failed to refocus him, and he struck the cue ball too sharp, sending it sailing down the table to smack into a solid that missed the corner pocket by a mile. The man behind him at the high top scoffed with a roll of his eyes, at which the target shrugged with a sly smile.

Shit. She was better. He owed her, later, after she lined their pockets with cash for the next month and packed their stomachs full of a meal more nutritious than gas station snacks. She might even work an extra week or two out of the poor fool.

The younger man at the computer waved the target over as Amallia selected a cue and approached the table. She spoke to the opponent first, offering her roll of twenties and placed it on the overhead light to keep her spot in line. The man shrugged, indifferent to the next challenger as he lined up his shot.

When the target returned, Cullen stood and repositioned himself at the bar to watch without suspicion. At the end of the bar, he sat as the target greeted Amallia with his best smile, a firm handshake, and a hug she returned with eager warmth.  Words exchanged between them, and with a gesture to the man sitting at the high top, he introduced her. The other man waved, half-hearted and smile short, enraptured by the content of his laptop. Her target offered her a seat, and she took it with a quick smile and a sweet thank you as he returned to the current match.

At the table, Amallia picked up casual conversation, and the man with the long brown hair diverted his attention without hesitation. From his seat, smiling and laughing with her, and Cullen read a few words here and there, “brother” among them. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end, rising with the subtle discomfort of warning, of something dangerously close to wrong. That nagging, gnawing worry at the base of his skull creeped ever higher, tingling through his scalp and numbing his fingers.

When the match ended, the target clapped his challenger on the back with another cocky grin as he handed him a large roll of twenties. Stomping away, he slammed the cue home on the rack, snatched his leather jacket from a stool, and marched through the front door. Back at the pool table, the two men were chatting with Amallia, the target leaning on his cue as he stood next to whom Cullen assumed was his brother.

Brother.

Shit.

Amallia wasted no time starting her hustle. A nominal shooter, Amallia backed up decent talk. But her ability to flirt with anybody drew in the suckers, leaving them scratching their heads when she walked away with their night’s bankroll. Playful shoves at the target’s shoulder contrasted with her lilting laughter heard above the din of the dingy tavern, and his toothy smile mirrored hers. Engaged so, Cullen lacked the opportunity to interrupt, to signal for an abort-mission before she regretted that night, regretted hustling and taking money from fellow hunters, and not just any hunters, but the god damn fucking Winchesters.

Son of a bitch.

Dean shuffled closer to Amallia, a hand slipping to the small of her back as they continued to chat, and Cullen caught Amallia’s favorite phrase to hustle.

“You wanna get out of here?”

God, how lazy? Did Dean Winchester think he’d take home any woman with a lame pickup line? Even if he did, how had he judged Amallia so wrong? Ever sweet, Amallia smiled her sparkling smile and smoothed a hand over his shoulder. With a few suggestive looks, a bite of her bottom lip, and words drenched in honey, she convinced Dean to play her in a round of pool.

Time ran thin, speeding out of his control as he watched Dean setting the rack. And then he offered the break to Amallia, who thanked him with a scrunch of her nose and an adorable hitch of her shoulder. To the end of the table she stalked, placing her shot left of center with the cue ball. Blue chalk wafted from the tip of her cue, and then Dean committed his first mistake.

He turned his back on her.

The crack of the stick on the white cue ball settled a hush over the bar, stories stopping short and heads turning. The thunderous crash of resin on resin followed in the blink of an eye, sending the billiards racing across the table. Two pocketed, a stripe and a solid, leaving her to choose on her next shot.

Behind Amallia, Sam appraised his brother’s gaping face with wide eyes, pursed lips, and a shake of his head. How often did this sort of thing happen?

Out of time, he needed to act now. If he let them go on too long, he might not find the chance to interrupt. As Amallia surveyed the field from the near side of the table, he slipped from his stool and approached her with a casual saunter.

“Mal, I have to tell you something,” he muttered under his breath.

Her spine stiffened, straight as a rail at the sound of his voice, but she retained her study of the pool table, chalking the tip of her cue again.

“I’m. Busy,” she spat through gritted teeth as she leaned over the table to take the next shot.

Dean’s glare found his as Cullen chanced a nervous glance his way, regret sinking in his stomach. With a twitching smile and a quick wave, he hoped to fend him off for another second. “Do you know who you’re hustling?”

The cue spun away as Amallia banked a solid into the corner pocket in front of her. “Yeah, the guy right there. I pointed him out to you already,” she hissed through a sultry smile and a rub of his arm. “I just need an hour.”

Dean read their act in a hot second, rounding the table in a rush like a bull ready to charge.

“Seriously, Mal, look at them!” Cullen insisted as he shifted closer to her.

“Do you know him? Is he bothering you?” Dean demanded.

“No, I don’t, but he’s not bothering me,” Amallia declared, her fierce blue eyes locked on Cullen’s.

“What’s the deal, pal?” Dean asked. “Can’t you see the lady’s busy?”

God dammit. “I was just asking here where she learned to shoot. I thought I recognized her from the local pool hall,” he excused. “I was wrong, but I still thought maybe I could learn a thing or two if I watched your match. I was just asking if I could watch.”

Dean eyed them both, shifting between himself and Amallia, who did her best to appear annoyed with the interruption. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. Doesn’t bother me none if he watches. Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t creepin’ on you.”

Wrong move, buddy.

Amallia’s darkened scowl echoed a memory long forgotten, over a decade old. Cullen once received that dour glare when he, too, had behaved liked Dean.

“Hey!” she barked as she stepped toe to toe with Dean, her back straight and shoulders square. “Don’t you ever assume I need your help. Ever. Got it?”

And where Cullen took that warning to heart all those years ago, Dean might as well have ignored her. Smarm thicker than honey dripped from his charming smile as he said, “No problem, darlin’, I know you can take care of yourself.”

Then Dean Winchester committed his second and final mistake of the night. Amallia didn’t believe in three strikes. And when Dean pressed his hand to the small of her back, squeezing their bodies flush, she marked strike two.

In a flurry of limbs, the pool cue crashed to the floor, and Amallia pinned Dean to the table. With his arm wrenched behind his back and wrist torqued in a painful submission hold, he froze, unable to move.

Sam flew from his barstool and shouted, but skidded to halt when Cullen leapt between him and the table. Jesus Christ, what a cluster fuck. Diffusing the tension required tact, but Cullen’s head spun with such confusion, not a single explanation breached the fog. And no excuse sufficed, nothing short of the truth at least, and so, he tossed his chances to fate.

“Mal, it’s the fucking Winchesters!”

Time froze. Frozen, Sam remained by the pool table, stunned by Cullen’s shout. Both looked to Amallia to find her fury fading, replaced by apoplectic shock as she too stood still as stone, seized by the revelation.

“I kinda like my arm not being broken, sweetheart,” Dean muttered from the pool table.

She snatched her hands back, shaking fingers covering her mouth as Dean stood and righted his shirt. Picking up the pool cue, he handed it back to Amallia, but she made no move to take it from him.

“You want to finish your hustle or what? ‘Cause, I can tell you, you’re gonna kick my ass, I’m terrible at pool,” Dean insisted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked, one hand running through her hair and the other finding her hip. “How’d you know I was hustling you?”

Dean regarded Cullen and Sam before explaining. “Something seemed weird when he showed up,” he started with a thumb jabbing at Cullen. “I figured then you were in it together. But I didn’t think you recognized us.”

When Amallia still refused to take the cue, Dean set it on the pool table and smiled. “Look, no hard feelings, okay?” he said as he held out his hand. “We’ll start over. I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam.”

A slow, tentative hand reached for his, but grasp it she did, firm and steady. “Amallia Rutherford.”

Released, Dean turned to him, his hand waiting for his and an easy smile on his face. Heart racing and mind yet clouded in confusion, Cullen glanced to Sam before taking Dean’s hand. “Cullen Rutherford.”

Confused glares passed between the two men before Dean asked, “You’re married?”

Digging in his pocket, Cullen withdrew their rings, holding hers out for Amallia to take. Passed Dean she stepped, grabbing her band from his outstretched hand and then made for her jacket.

“Ten years this October,” Cullen stated, pride welling in his chest. “She always has my six. Best hunter I’ve ever met. Well… until now.”

Sam shook his head. “She had us fooled until you showed up. I wouldn’t mind someone like that behind me,” he jested as he gave his brother a pat on the back.

“Except I always go in first,” Dean stated.

“Sure,” Cullen shot back with his own cocky grin. “I believe you.”

Sam chuckled as he grabbed up his coat and laptop. “Let’s get out of here, there’s a diner down the street, we’ll get you dinner.”

Cullen stuttered an excuse, awkward and fumbling his words. “No, we wouldn’t want to impose—”

The taller man clapped a hand to his shoulder and Cullen startled. “It’s nothing. Hunters gotta look out for each other. You wouldn’t be imposing.”

He looked to Amallia then, his wife, his partner in this crazy, insane, fucked up world that didn’t even know people like them existed. And for the first time in ages, they were amongst family. He smiled at that, marveling at the coincidence; of all the hunters to cross their path, they happened upon Sam and Dean Winchester

In a blur of purple hair, Amallia leaped to Dean, her arms wrapping behind his neck as she laughed, giddy with excitement. When he returned her hug, Cullen cleared his throat.

“Just remember what she can do to your arm.”

“Stop it, Cullen,” Amallia chided before Dean could respond. “It’s not like he was groping me,” she added as she parted from him.

Sam laughed again as he threw on his coat and headed for the door, Amallia on his heels. “I’m starving and we’ve got a long night ahead of us, so let’s get going.”

Cullen followed, grabbing his coat at the door and shrugging it over his shoulders. Through the door they passed, crisp fall air filling his lungs and clearing his head. Across the lot, Sam and Dean lead them to a black Chevy Impala, a ’67 he guessed, in pristine condition. There, Sam took the passenger seat in front, and Amallia climbed in behind him.

“We’ll bring you back to your car later,” Dean started as he hopped in the driver’s seat. “You’re gonna love this diner, they have amazing pie.”

Cullen hummed his indifference as he took the remaining spot behind Dean. “I dunno, I’ve always been more of a cake guy myself,” he stated.

Dean said nothing for fifteen whole minutes, for Sam Winchester cackled the entire drive to the diner.