#pool hustle

[afrotumble]

Fresh Prince of Bel-Air - Uncle Phil Hustles the Hustler

[fighting-naturalist]

-let it go. -no. not this time.

Or: three different attitudes to starting a bar fight

[wisteria-lodge]

A pool hustling dean winchester

[cookietastic]

Daniel "Gee Golly Whiz, I sure don't know how to play pool-Maybe you can teach me! I hope I don't lose"- LaRusso

[andhumanslovedstories]

I’ve been on the same floor for three nights in a row—already something that basically never happens—and I’ve had the exact same patients the whole time. It’s wild. I didn’t have to start the shift learning who the fuck they are and what’s their deal. I’m just like “oh yeah day three with Dave who has Bad Brain Syndrome. I know Dave. I know Bad Brain Syndrome.” Like the ability to see a patient’s progress is really remarkable. And the comfort I have working with the patients because I have an established baseline for them???? Is this what floor nurses feel all the time???

[telomirage]

janine made what chat said might be the worst character in f@tt history and then sylvi brought out tammy two hats, the cow billiards hustler

[the-badger-mole]

Let me be perfectly clear. As a forever and ever Zutara shipper, my self-insert character isn't Katara. It's Jun.

[lakemichigans]

whenever someone needs to give dean a job in an AU they always go with mechanic but let's make some noise for street racer dean

[nymphantasia]

Fucking floored to learn that Northernlion is only 35. I thought he was as old as the trees

[innytoes]

So @hawkguyhasstarbucks prompted me 27+Carrie/Flynn for the A/B/O prompts and this went way angsty. Special thanks to the Rulie Canoe Crew for answering my very weird hypotheticals aboutTaylor Swift.

Being the daughter of Trevor Wilson, it felt like Carrie had to work twice as hard to get acknowledged for her own talents. Being an Omega on top of that, and sometimes it felt like she was climbing a mountain through an avalanche while other people looked down at her from their heated gondola ski lifts and told her maybe she just wasn’t cut out for it.

But she was making headway. She finally found a label that actually spoke to her, the leader of the group, and not Kayla, the only Alpha, when they had in person meetings. That didn’t want to play up the ‘sweet demure helpless Omega’ angle, but instead kept it about what Carrie wrote her songs about: strong, powerful women who could be whatever they wanted to be.

Even if what they wanted to be was pink and sparkly, because femininity wasn’t something to look down on.

Of course, with all that work and the extra fame and being Trevor Wilson’s Daughter, that didn’t leave much room for finding a heat partner. If she picked someone up at the clubs, she was painted as a whore. If she went on the apps, it would be all over the internet. Kayla had offered, and while she loved Kayla, she loved her like a sister, not a heat partner.

The other two Omegas in the group both had long-term partners, and Heather, who was a Beta, had offered to set her up with some of her Alpha friends from her D&D group, but Carrie didn’t want a pity date. She could handle things on her own. She did, sometimes.

And sometimes, when she could tell it was going to be a really bad one, she called a Heat Agency. Because sometimes, being Trevor Wilson’s Daughter had its perks, and when Taylor Swift had taken one look at fourteen-year-old Carrie at one of Dad’s ridiculous parties, she’d slipped her a card for a heat agency and told her not to trust just any Alpha.

The heat agency had been very discrete and very accommodating. Hell, the nice lady on the phone had even talked her through her first heat at fifteen, after Dad smelled one whiff of pheromones and booked it to the helicopter, shouting something about a week long meditation retreat. They hadn’t even sent a person that time, but a box with everything she’d needed had been magically delivered to her doorstep within an hour, along with a cooler full of food and drinks.

The box had been cute and pink and she still had it, though these days it was used to store her nail polish.

After Carrie broke up with Nick her senior year (who she thankfully had been able to trust, because deep down Nick was just a golden retriever), she’d used the service a few times. By then they’d had an app, and she could click on her basic preferences, and then scroll through profiles with little blurbs and reviews (anonymous, of course, all from vetted users). She’d never had a bad experience, and everyone the agency had sent had been professional, discrete, and very good to her.  

So when she knew her heat was going to be bad, she opened the app. The pre-heat syndrome had been so bad she’d actually sent all the Candis apology chocolates for being such bitch during their last dance rehearsal. She flicked through the little questionnaire, filling in her preferences. Age, sex, secondary sex. The app already knew how long her heats averaged and only showed her people available for that time.

She finally picked someone who could be there in two hours, which gave Carrie enough time to take a shower, put on some comfortable sweats, and nest a little, letting down her walls. It was always hard for her to allow herself to be vulnerable, but the nesting did help with that. It made her feel more secure.

So she got out her favourite blankets, making her bed cozy and pink and perfect, changing her mood lighting to a soft pink as well. She was pretty satisfied when the doorbell rang. Just in time, because she could feel her cheeks starting to flush, her unsexy but incredibly comfortable panties (the ones with little lolly pops on them) starting to dampen.

Only when she opened the door with a smile, it wasn’t a beautiful woman there to take care of her, it was Flynn Taylor.

Or more accurately, it was a beautiful woman sent to take care of her (she was holding up her Heat Agency ID and was carrying a cooler with all Carrie’s favourite heat snacks), but that beautiful woman was Flynn Taylor.

Her high school nemesis.

“Carrie,” she said, startled.

“Flynn,” she said, feeling faint, and embarrassed, and flustered. Immediately, she pulled her walls back up. “There must have been some kind of mistake.”

“Don’t think so, Princess,” Flynn said. “I got this address, and you know the Agency doesn’t mess up. I should have known, who else in the world would ask for chocolate covered Doritos?”

Flynn had been there, that time her dad had ordered a chocolate fountain on a whim for one of their sleepovers with Julie, and they spent the evening dunking all kinds of things under the spray.

“Are you going to let me in and put this stuff in the fridge?” Flynn asked, and she couldn’t, could she? After the way Carrie had treated her? The thought of allowing herself to be vulnerable with someone who would want revenge on her for any number of reasons just didn’t sit right, even though she knew everyone at the Agency had signed an NDA.

“Only if it will make you leave faster,” she said, and then winced. She sounded just like her fifteen-year-old self.

Flynn just rolled her eyes at her, and when she walked by Carrie to put away the snacks and drinks, she almost whimpered. Flynn smelled so good.

“I can call the Agency and have them send an emergency replacement,” Flynn said as she Tetris’ed food and drinks into Carrie’s fridge, finding a bowl in her cupboards and plopping the chocolate Doritos in them, and pushing them over. “Willie drives like a maniac, he could pick someone else up and have them here in forty-five minutes.”

But Carrie didn’t want anyone else, she realised, munching on her favourite heat snack, watching Flynn be all cool and competent. Still, she knew what she had to do, and was about to agree, but what came out of her mouth instead was: “I’m sorry I was such a bitch in high school.”

Flynn stopped, looking over her shoulder. Whatever she saw in Carrie’s face, it softened her posture considerably. “Ditto. Teen girls can be vicious,” she agreed. “We probably all had stuff going on back then.”

Which was the nicest spin anyone had ever put on why her relationship with Flynn and Julie fell apart so rapidly after Rose got sick. Between Carrie’s heartbreak at losing what was basically the only female role model in her life, her jealousy at the way Julie was treated like glass, while her own grief at her dead mom and absent dad was always something that had generally been shrugged off as ‘you never even knew her and your daddy’s rich, get over it’. The way Carrie learned to lash out and project this mean girl persona, while Julie put her pain into her music, once she finally started singing again, allowed herself to be vulnerable, and how that was just fuel to the fire of Carrie’s jealousy and rage when it got her everything, a record deal and an album before she even finished high school…

When she looked up from her trip down memory lane – heats always made her spacey, she hated it – the Doritos were gone and Flynn was standing in front of her. “Have you picked someone else in the app yet?” she asked.

She was so close, and she smelled so good, and Carrie just wanted to cry, to keen, to have someone treat her like glass, like she was precious, just once…

“Please don’t go,” she said, hiding her face in Flynn’s shoulder, inhaling the smell of Alpha, of safety, or memories of sleepovers and hiding under the covers together after they all thought they were mature enough to watch IT despite Mr Molina warning them it was a bad idea, of the life she could have had if she hadn’t been so singularly focussed on making it, on being the best.

“Are you sure?” Flynn asked, even as her hand came up to cradle the back of Carrie’s head, fingers soft and gentle in her head.

“Please, I’m sorry, please…” Carrie blinked away the tears, because she hated this part as well, the emotions, the vulnerability.

“Okay,” Flynn said, a hint of Alpha steel in her voice that made Carrie’s knees go all weak. “I forgive you, Carrie. We were both assholes in high school. Let’s get you more comfortable, okay?”

“You’ll take care of me?” she asked, hopeful and pitiful and she hated this, she hated it…

Except when Flynn smiled and wiped her tears away, something inside her just melted, and everything went hazy when Flynn promised: “I’ll take care of you.”

[biofreak659]

Bro the supernatural car gets 11 miles per gallon

In 2008, during season 4, gas hit a then all time high of 4.11, which meant it would cost 98.64 to fill the Impala from empty (24 gal gas tank). That's 139.08 in 2023 dollars

In episode 1 of season 4, dean and Bobby drive at least from Pontiac, Illinois (where dean sug himself out of his grave and where Sam is hanging out) to Bobby's house in Sioux Falls, SD, to summon Castiel, which is a journey of 578 miles. They'd have to stop at least three times on the 8 hour and 46 minute trip to get gas.

At an mpg of 11, the Impala would use 52.5 gallons of gas to make the trip, which would cost 215.96 dollars, or 304.50 dollars, adjusted for 2023 inflation.

[movies-tv-more]

Home Video Releases for August 29, 2023

[17yearslatewithlattes]

Very funny how. Sam judges Dean so hard for the ways he acquires money. But that won’t stop him from using the money! No alternate suggestions either. He’s certainly not gonna try making any himself

[furby-organist]

> "Alright, here's the real reason I became a serial killer! To level the playing field! Equality! Communism! I was 'woke!'"

> "Too many of my peers, if I'll dignify them enough to call them that, like to play on easy mode! Freaks who go after children, women, convalescent home residents, escorts, the homeless, NICU babies, anyone on the fringes of society -- people who are easy to kill, or people whose murders are easy to get away with! And I don't respect any of their killers! Some of us had to step up and diversity-equity-include some of the more underrepresented demographics into our victim pool!"

[pucksandpower]

So Good to Me

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc is the perfect man for you … getting stopped on the street for a random TikTok challenge just serves to prove that even further

The warm Monaco sun beats down on you as you stroll leisurely along the bustling sidewalk, a canvas tote bag filled with fresh produce and flowers from the local farmer’s market hanging from your shoulder. The salty sea breeze wafts across your face, carrying with it the excited chatter and laughter of tourists admiring the luxurious yachts bobbing in Port Hercules.

You smile to yourself, relishing this perfect Mediterranean afternoon. Just a quick stop at home to drop off your purchases, and then maybe you’ll take a dip in the infinity pool on the terrace to cool off before Charles is done with-

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle!” A young man’s voice breaks through your daydreaming. You glance over to see a twenty-something guy with a neatly trimmed beard, expensive-looking sunglasses, and a black t-shirt emblazoned with HUSTLE in white block letters. He’s holding a mini microphone and has his iPhone pointed at you, clearly filming.

A TikToker.

You sigh internally but force a polite smile.

“Oui, puis-je vous aider?” You reply in French.

“Ah sorry, I don’t speak much French! Do you speak English?” The TikToker asks eagerly in a British accent.

“Yes, I do. Can I help you with something?” You say, switching to English yourself. You just want to get home but you know these influencer types can be annoyingly persistent.

The TikToker grins. “Brilliant! I’m doing a social experiment for my followers. I was wondering — do you have a significant other? A boyfriend or husband perhaps?”

You raise an eyebrow questioningly but decide to humor him. “Um, yes, I have a boyfriend,” you answer simply.

His eyes light up. “Fantastic! And would you say your boyfriend loves you very much?”

You can’t help but chuckle at the boldness of this stranger’s line of questioning. “Yes, I would definitely say that. He loves me a lot,” you confirm, a soft smile playing on your lips as you think of Charles.

“Perfect! Okay, here’s the challenge,” the TikToker announces dramatically, staring intensely into his camera. “I want you to call up your boyfriend right now and ask him to send you some money. Doesn’t matter how much. But for every €100 he sends, I’ll give you €20 to keep for yourself. Let’s see how much he really loves you, shall we?”

You stare at this guy incredulously for a moment before bursting out laughing. Is he serious? He clearly has no idea who your boyfriend is. An amused smirk spreads across your face as you fish your iPhone out of your designer purse.

“Alright, you’re on,” you say confidently, already unlocking your phone and tapping on Charles’ contact. The TikToker looks surprised but excited that you actually agreed to his silly challenge.

“Put it on speaker phone,” he instructs, zooming his camera in on your phone screen which is now dialing Charles.

After a few rings, the warm, honey-smooth voice you adore comes through. “Allô mon amour, what’s up?” Charles greets you sweetly. “I’m just finishing up some simulator runs but I should be done soon to help with dinner.”

“Hey baby,” you reply, your voice automatically softening. “Sorry to bother you, I know you’re busy. But I’m out right now and I just passed by that little boutique near the casino, you know the one? And I saw the most incredible pair of shoes in the window. I swear they were calling my name.”

Charles laughs affectionately, the sound like music to your ears even through the cell phone speaker. “Oh yeah? The ones that were calling your name last week turned out to be, what was it, €900?” He teases.

You roll your eyes playfully even though he can’t see. “Okay, fair, but you know I hardly ever splurge on myself. I’m usually so frugal!”

“Mmhmm, whatever you need to tell yourself, chérie,” Charles says wryly and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Let me guess, you need to go get these dream shoes right now? Or else they’ll haunt you forever?”

“You know me so well,” you gush dramatically. “I promise I’ll pay you back though! I get paid next week and-”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Charles cuts you off gently. “Mon cœur, you never have to pay me back, you know that. I love being able to treat you and spoil you. You deserve the world. Never forget that.”

You feel yourself melt at his earnest words, momentarily forgetting you have an audience. “I love you so much,” you murmur. “Thank you for always being so good to me.”

“Right back at you, ma belle. Je t’aime,” Charles says tenderly. “There, check your banking app. Let me know if you need any more. And have fun shopping! I’ll see you at home in a bit, okay? À bientôt!”

You glance down at your phone as a notification from your bank pops up on the screen. Your eyes widen slightly when you see the amount Charles sent over, but you recover quickly.

“Thank you, baby. See you soon!” You reply before hanging up. You turn back to the TikToker who is gaping at you in disbelief. Casually, you turn your phone screen towards him and his camera so he can clearly see the notification that €10,000 has just been deposited into your account.

The poor guy looks like he’s about to pass out from shock. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, rendered speechless. You just laugh good-naturedly.

“Well, guess I won your little challenge, huh?” You remark, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Tell you what, why don’t you donate whatever money you were going to give me to a local animal shelter instead? I think it’ll be put to much better use there.”

The TikToker finally manages to pick his jaw up off the floor. He laughs shakily and nods. “Yeah ... yeah I can do that. Wow. Um, thanks for being such a good sport about this. And congrats on, uh, winning, I guess?”

You give him a friendly wink. “Anytime. Have a nice rest of your day!” With that, you turn gracefully on your heel and continue on your way back home, feeling rather smug and deeply appreciative of your wonderfully generous boyfriend.

“Wait!” The TikToker calls out after you. You glance back over your shoulder curiously. He hesitates before asking in an awed voice, “If you don’t mind me asking ... who the hell is your boyfriend?”

An enigmatic smile plays on your lips. “No one special really,” you reply breezily. “Just a guy who loves driving fast cars.”

You leave the gaping TikToker in your wake as you saunter off, already daydreaming about showing your appreciation to Charles later for being the most incredible boyfriend imaginable.

Maybe you really will splurge on those designer shoes after all … and pick up a little something special from the lingerie boutique next door while you’re at it.

Your smile widens. Just as a little thank you to your man, of course. Life is good when you’re in love with Charles Leclerc.

[acid-ixx]

a loving family, an unpalatable desire

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.

imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.

you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruce— even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their care— your vows are real.

you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.

really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.

yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.

the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.

but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.

you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.

yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.

you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.

you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumble— but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.

maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.

and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.

''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.

and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.

you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.

your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clark— even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand—

it's everything a parent wants, needs even.

and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.

so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error still— one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.

a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.