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[sadhours]

dirty laundry

billy hargrove x fem!reader

masterlist • requests open

cw: 18+ minors dni, established relationship, smut, public sex, swallowing c*m hehehe I missed billy

🧡🧡🧡🧡

it’s kind of fitting. after a weekend of partying, you had to do some laundry. so monday morning, 9 AM, you’re sitting in the laundromat beside your boyfriend. you’re hungover. billy smokes a Marlboro and the smell is making you nauseous. you’re nursing a sprite he’d bought you from the vending machine. he has a coke. you’re somewhat regretting not indulging in the breakfast beer billy offered you but the thought of the booze had made your stomach twist something wicked. the shitty speakers spill a tinny “dirty laundry” by don henley.

“this songs actually pretty badass,” billy mumbles around the butt of his smoke, tapping his scuffed motorcycle boots.

you frown, “i like don henley.”

your boyfriend laughs, it’s a loud bellow and you really wish you had that beer to dull the headache splitting your head. but you love his laugh.

“like him like you’d suck his dick or…?” he teases and you roll your eyes despite the way it pains you.

“no, not my type,” you grumble. “i like his music.”

there’s a liquor store two stores up. you keep rubbernecking out the window at it and your boyfriend picks up on it. he reaches over and squeezes your knee, “regretting not having a beer with me this morning?”

“a little,” you gripe, “the lights are too bright, your cigarette stinks and i’m so tired.”

billy leans close to you with a pout, eyebrows furrowed. he looks adorable, even though he’s condescending you. “want me to go get baby a shot and a beer?”

“would you?” you ask, all wide eyed in a silent beg you know gets him.

he smirks, leans forward and bites your nose. it pulls a giggle from you which is exactly what you need. “i’ll be back,” he grabs your face and squeezes it before pulling away and heading out the door, it chimes with his steps. you lean back and watch his ass saunter down the sidewalk in his too-tight Levi’s.

once he disappears into the liquor store, you bring your attention back to the washing machine. watching as your clothes spin in circles, which doesn’t do anything positive for the spinning happening in your gut so you look away quickly. billy’s hard to keep up with but you’ve never had so much fun in your life. and he’s so sweet, really, when he wants to be. you’d kind of saved him when you brought up him moving him after only a month of hooking up. you were shocked when he jumped at the opportunity but that was before you met neil. it makes sense now. your boyfriend is free to be himself, and you love every bit of him.

he’s quick in the liquor store, returning and hopping up on the row of unused washing machines opposite the chair you’re sitting in. he opens up the black plastic back and displays a little bottle of Jack Daniels.

“come get your hair of the dog, baby,” he says in a seductive voice, all low as he wiggles his eyebrows. you extend your hand and then his brows furrow, “I got you trained better than that. C’mere, girl.”

you exhale with a frustrated sigh but obey your sexy beyond belief boyfriend. standing up and taking the few short steps to situate yourself between his thighs.

“atta girl,” he purrs, opening the shooter and pressing it to your lips, “head back, foxy.”

you lean your head back, downing the shot in a quick three gulps. he hums, all satisfied as he watches. the whiskey isn’t sitting in your tummy the best but the way billy chases forward and licks a drip off your chin quells any sickness. he follows it with a filthy kiss, tongue dragging against yours as his right hand grabs the back of your head, knitting his fingers into the roots of your hair and tugs lightly. a helpless little whine escapes from your throat but billy swallows it, smiling into the dirty kiss. once he pulls away, he smirks, eyes darker than before.

“better?”

you nod, biting your lip as you look to him. billy retrieves the shooter he bought for himself and downs it easily, like it doesn’t make his stomach curl. then he hands you a tall can of beer, opens it for you before he does. you take an eager sip to get the bitterness of the whiskey off your tongue. billy chuckles, it’s deep and rattles his chest. he nudges his nose against yours, “i know that look.”

“s’your fault,” you mumble, cheeks hot as you admit, “‘cause you kissed me like that.”

billy hums, hooks his knuckle under your chin and tilts your head up a bit. “like this?” he whispers back before pressing his lips to yours hungrily. licks into your mouth like you’re not in public and has your spine tingling, thighs warm and cunt aching. you respond by kissing him back just as desperately, putting your beer down beside him before both your hands move to grip his white t-shirt. his mouth tastes like whiskey, cigarettes and Billy. You get lost in it, moaning pathetically as you make out like a couple of high school kids.

Then the dryer buzzes, loud and jarring. You pull away, groaning softly before strutting over to the machine. You open it, grabbing a cart and wheeling it over. You tug all the clothes into basket, reaching in deep and wiggling your ass because you can feel your boyfriends eyes on it. You don’t even realize he’s jumped off the washers and made his way behind you until he’s kicking the cart away and grabbing onto your hips.

“you missed something,” he tells you, all nonchalant.

“huh?” you peer inside the massive dryer but you don’t see anything. billy’s hips meet the fat of your ass, pushing your upper half deeper into the machine.

“it’s really in there,” he says, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your leggings. his other hand presses on the middle of your back, bending you over completely into the dryer. “almost there, you’re so close.”

you giggle, knowing exactly what you’re asshole of a boyfriend is doing. he pulls your leggings down to your thighs, moving his hand to rub your pussy through your underwear. you moan softly, still playing his game as you pretend to reach for the clothing he says in deep in there. billy’s impatient though, tugs your underwear down with your leggings. feels the slick collecting at your hole and hums, rubbing his fingers in circles at your entrance. his fingers are so thick, you can feel him stretching your hole just from the teasing. hangover suddenly forgotten, you’re spreading your legs and silently begging for him to slide inside you.

billy teases, “aw… keep reaching, baby… you’re almost there.”

his middle and ring finger slip inside your dripping cunt, the stretch delicious and intoxicating in their own right. he drags the pads of his fingers against your walls, pushing in and pulling out. your brains already fuzzy, eyes rolling back before your lids flutter shut. he laughs, soft and sultry as he fucks you with his fingers. out in the open. anyone can walk in here or hell, walk by and see your boyfriend bending you into the industrial dryer and fingering you senseless. the rush of it only make your cunt slicker.

he scissors his fingers, stretching your hole open wider as he smoothes his other hand over the expanse of your back.

“god, you’re so fucking wet,” billy exhales, his voice echoing slightly into the drum of the dryer. hits your ears something fierce. has you pushing your ass back at him. you moan out, nails dragging against the metal of the dryer as he finger fucks you open.

you don’t even hear the sound of his zipper or the shuffle of him pushing his jeans back. suddenly he’s pulling his fingers out and you feel the round, thick tip of his cock pushing at your pussy.

“fuck, billy,” you gasp, arching your back just slightly.

“atta girl,” he purrs, “so wet and desperate for my cock, yeah?”

“yeah— ah!” your response is hijacked by a moan, result of billy snapping his hips forward and completely sheathing his girthy cock in your fluttering hole.

he groans, a vibrating and sexy sound. let’s you know you feel so so so good for him. he doesn’t go slow, a hand on the small of your back and the other on your hip as he bullies his cock deep in your walls. billy always makes you feel like such a desperate slut. knows he can use and abuse your hole whenever and however. and how the fuck could you say no? the stretch is fucking unworldly. his cock is a goddamn masterpiece. crafted by the gods themselves to help please. if there ain’t nothing else to live for, billy’s cock is all you need.

once he’s inside you, you’re fucking gone. cockdrunk in a second. his hands move to knead at your ass as he pummels into you. rough and reckless. so billy. reality slips, you’re not even thinking about how the two of you are in a public place. fucking so filthy, so rough where there’s nowhere to hide. if you get caught, you get caught and you don’t fucking care. both so zoned in on getting off.

your hips slightly ache from where they bounce against the edge of the dryer but the sensation of Billy deep in your cunt dulls any pain. his cock pulsing as it drags in and out of your fluttering walls. you squeeze him, want him buried so deep and dirty.

“that’s it, slut,” he groans, voice deep as it bounces around the drum of the deeper, “taking my cock like a good girl.”

you whine back, not able to do much else. there’s no way you could form sensible thoughts. you ache to tell him how fucking good it feels but it’s useless, would fumble out of your mouth like word soup because billy fucks you stupid.

it’s a fucking joke when he moves his hand around your hip to rub at your clit. his goal is to get you to cum as quick as he can, because once those skilled fingers start strumming against your clit, your legs are shaking and your voice is uncontrollable in the moans bellowing from you.

“you gonna cum for me?” he chuckles, circles firm and quick against your clit, “so easy. such an easy slut for me, ain’t ya?”

“billy…” you cry in a plea, a whiny and pathetic sound. you’re on the edge, you can see it. each little stroke of his fingers and each drag of his cock against your tight walls threatens to toss you over it.

“ya wanna cum?” he spits, fingers working faster, “cream all over my cock, be a good slut for daddy.”

that sends you. a deep breath and sinking over the edge you go, crying out in absolute ecstasy as his cock works you overtime. drags your orgasm out with his fingers not letting up. you’re dead weight after, billy’s hands moving to your hips to hold you up as he barrels his cock faster and faster into your sensitive cunt. he pulls back rather quickly, grabbing your hair and pulling you out of the dryer.

“on your knees,” he instructs and you obey, hands on his thighs to steady you as you stick your tongue out flat. eyes wide and needy as you gaze up at your boyfriend. a curl has fallen into the center of his forehead, blue eyes dark with lust as he fingers move to grip his cock, jerking it in quick and firm strokes. “that’s it, good girl, yeah…”

he busts, spilling cum into your eager tongue. you love the taste of billy’s cum. abnormally sweet for a guy whose diet consists of booze and red meat. and when billy cums, he doesn’t close his eyes. he stares down at you, his lips part and you can see the swell of his tongue against his lower lip as he moans. you swallow, licking your lips so you don’t miss any.

he reaches for the back of your hand, scratching at the back of your scalp as he smiles warmly down at you. after a beat of lovingly looking at each other, you both get dressed. you plant a sloppy kiss on his lips before moving to transfer the load from the washer into the dryer. billy sits on the chairs and lights up another cigarette.

“you’re something else, foxy,” he grins, cheeks flushed all pretty.

[redbullgivesyouwingedkuriboh]

hi. if you’re reading this that means it’s my 21st birthday. I had this idea and had to write it down immediately (it���s may 29th. see y’all in just under 6 months) so. yeah. enjoy. happy 21st birthday to me!

The GX Cast In: What they would order for their first legal drink at a bar

DISCLAIMER: blair is excluded from this one cause I can’t fathom her being an adult rn. all characters are considered to be of legal drinking age for the purposes of this post. I do not condone underage drinking. drink responsibly and always call for help if you or a friend are displaying symptoms of alcohol poisoning.

Jaden Yuki: I have determined that Jaden doesn’t like whiskey, but if it’s mixed in something he might be okay with it. a rum and coke would be his go-to. on the rocks, he can’t drink warm liquor.

Chazz Princeton: straight vodka. i have a working theory that the more trauma someone has the better they take shots. (this is not a healthy theory, to be sure, but Chazz certainly qualifies as an observable subject.) he will spit out any food that contains the tiniest amount of carrot but pounds vodka like a champ. he’s definitely tried to do the whole lime and salt thing but found he prefers the burn. I just want him to be okay :(

Dr. Crowler: wayyyyyy back in the day, a very hot, very gay bartender gave him a shot of raspberry schnapps on the house because he “looks like a raspberry schnapps kinda guy”. keeps a bottle of it in his office for feeling nostalgic. atticus has gotten into it more than once, with zero evidence left behind.

Syrus Truesdale: the fruitiest goddamn cocktail you’ve ever seen. there’s a bendy straw and a paper umbrella. probably served out of a pineapple. he does not want to so much as SENSE the alcohol

Alexis Rhodes: whiskey sour. asks for the lemon on the side and squeezes the juice directly into her mouth.

Atticus Rhodes: margaritas, plural. unironically sings “gimme one margarita ima open my legs” the entire time and has to be physically restrained in order to stop him.

Zane Truesdale: he can’t drink, he has a heart condition. however: him and atticus buy cheap wine from the liquor store on oct 31 and sit somewhere outside as the clock ticks over to midnight, making the switch from atticus’s birthday to zane’s. they toast. life is good. zane has palpatations immediately and never drinks again.

Aster Phoenix: wine aunt energy. exclusively drinks wine, but alternates between white and red. his palate changes depending on what he ate. for his twenty first birthday, he probably had steak (s2 fishing incident had me rolling on the ground laughing), which pairs well with cabernet (I think that’s a red) so he’d get red wine.

Yubel: technically has always been legal drinking age? regardless, the strongest whiskey you can find. Jaden dislikes whiskey, though, so has only ever gotten him to take one shot of it. collects the little shooter bottles. it’s really cute to see them all lined up.

Jesse Anderson: fruity cocktail for a fruity bitch. he’d order a sex on the beach, but it would go something like, “I’d like a, ah… ha, alrighty then. A s-sex on the… you know what I mean!”, followed up by Chazz saying, “oh my god he’d like a sex on the beach. jesus.”

Jim Crocodile Cook: not much of a drinker, but he’d also love the fruity cocktails. he would order a strawberry daiquiri. frozen. he’d also do a shot for the hell of it, probably of cheap vodka, and spend the rest of the evening wondering how everyone else is handling that stuff so well.

Axel Brodie: straight fucking gin. no additives, no garnish, no nothing. just axel and a shot glass. somehow never shows signs of being tipsy.

Adrian Gecko: beer. he thinks it makes him look relatable. unironically a beer drinker. probably PBA.

Bastion Misawa: he orders a shot of “your finest whiskey, barkeep”. sniffs it first. takes a little sip. “oh, goodness. no thank you.”

[brynnterpretations]

Let Me Clip (Dirty Wings)

“Amma likes to take things that others haven't. Camille is an anomaly."

🔗 Read on AO3

⌗ canon-typical behavior ⌗ dysfunctional relationships ⌗ imprisonment ⌗ non-consensual drug use ⌗ underage drinking ⌗ underage drug use ⌗ mix of book/show ⌗ title from "polly" by nirvana

It was quiet when Amma returned from the liquor store on Page, the one that didn’t card. It had only been two days, yet Amma had grown used to Camille’s stillness — even expected it. She knew Camille, after all. She’d lived behind her ghost since she left, memorized the jagged lines etched into her door (one one double vertical three up top), traced the words on her skin while she slept, tasted the sweat on her skin when they were going in-and-out through the waves and splashes of LSD.

She knew Camille. She just wasn’t able to keep her, seemingly.

“Hey,” said Amma, plastering on a smile. She’d kept Camille pleasantly hazy, but sometimes she wondered if she really needed to — she was hollow, done, a shell, one that Amma could really do anything to. And, for the most part, she did. She braided her hair, talked to her, put foundation over her scars, and added new ones of her own.

“Imagine it,” Amma had whispered one night, fake acrylic nails tapping on Camille’s back, “imagine ‘Amma’, right here?” But Amma, of course, couldn’t cook, and though stealing Camille’s credit card was easy enough, she’d grown tired of DoorDashing overpriced salads and charcuterie boards. Camille had use of her own outside providing Amma entertainment. She comforted her. In some ways, she made her whole: isn’t it funny how we’re different sides of the same fucked up old-money Crellin coin…  

Amma liked taking things that weren’t hers, and, more, she liked keeping them. It was why Ann and Natalie were so good, she supposed; she hated them, sure, but through and through, they were hers, not Adora’s, not John’s. Hers. She didn’t see herself as a sentimental person, but she still remembered one of her first memories, where she had wandered down the street to one of the nearby houses — not as opulent as the Crellins’, therefore fair game — and taking one of their flowers. Camille was ruined goods. 

“What, Amma?” whispered Camille, voice broken. Bitch. Piece of shit. “What?”

Amma was never enough. She wasn’t for Adora, and she wasn’t for Camille, apparently, who whispered Marian’s name in her sleep, who tossed and turned even as Amma mocked doctor with her by placing her hand on her forehead. 

It was enough to kill her, she thought, but that wouldn’t be as fun.

“I just missed you,” said Amma. The alcohol, which was once making her feel light as a feather, was turning into a bone-deep ache of take the medicine, Amma, you don’t want to end up like—

“I want to sleep, Amma,” said Camille.

Amma waited for her to say more: I’m tired. I need it. I’m getting dopesick. I’m tired, I’m tired, Amma. She didn’t, though. Enough had happened for her to realize it was no good. 

Camille was claimed, sure — claimed by Adora, by Marian, by everyone who was stupid enough to sink their teeth in her before Amma had gotten to her. But that didn’t mean that, despite it all, Camille wasn't still under this undeniable pressure of Amma. Even if she got out, she wouldn’t leave without a part of Amma, firm as a tooth and rotting even worse.  

“O.K.,” said Amma, pressing a kiss to her temple, like sisters did. She’d looked through Camille’s abandoned room enough to always have wanted one. “‘Night, Camille.”

When Amma gets up to take a ‘99 shooter, Camille says nothing, only turning her head into the pillow. 

[kendallroysmethpipe]

I love u buying a fountain soda from the gas station and a shooter from the liquor store and mixing them 🩷

[kk095]

The Drive By

Adriana Torrez was a 22 year old Latina with a fiery, outgoing personality. She stood at 5’2 with a pleasantly plump build, had dark curly hair, brown eyes, a naturally tan complexion, and colorful tattoo sleeves up and down both arms. Adriana was always a little rebellious and had the tendency to hang out with a rougher crowd.

A few nights ago, Adriana was hanging out at a friend’s apartment with a few people. It was her, her friend Crystal, a guy Diego who was a drug dealer in the neighborhood, and a guy Jay who’s gang affiliated. The group was just hanging out in the living room of the first floor apartment drinking, smoking weed, and listening to music. Out the living room window, a black SUV pulls up, kind of idling in front of the apartment. “who the hell’s that?” crystal asks. Suddenly, the back passenger side window of the SUV lowers, and out is an Uzi sub machine gun. The gunman sprays a few quick bursts into the apartment through the living room window. Diego is struck twice in the head before he even has a chance to react, dropping dead to the floor. Adriana unfortunately gets caught up in the crossfire, being struck twice in the chest, and once in the left shoulder, collapsing to the floor bleeding profusely. Jay pulls his gun from a drawer in the living room table and heads outside attempting to confront the shooter, but the SUV had already sped off into the night. “oh my God, oh my God! Adriana?!” crystal shouted, on the verge of tears. Adriana laid on the floor, gurgling on her own blood while bleeding out. Adriana had a terrified look in her eyes, but couldn’t get the words out of her mouth. “jay! We gotta call 911!” crystal shouted in a panicked tone. “no no no, fuck that. I got weed and guns in here. I don’t want the cops coming!” Jay protested. “her and Diego got fuckin shot! Come on bro!” crystal cried out. “naw, fuck this shit. I’m outta here.” Jay said, grabbing his car keys and heading out the door, heading to God knows where. Crystal decided to call 911 on her cell phone once Jay left.

“911, what is your emergency?” a female dispatcher’s voice asked. “Help! Help! There’s been a shooting at my friend’s apartment! You gotta hurry!!!” crystal shouted into the phone, practically on the verge of tears. “what is the location of your emergency?” the dispatcher asks in response. “I don’t know! It’s the apartment complex off conway boulevard near the liquor store. You gotta hurry! My friend’s dying!” crystal yelled into the phone, sobbing at this point. “alright ma’am, I have police and EMS en route. Please remain on the line for me.” The 911 operator replied.

In a few minutes, officer Natalie was first on scene. She entered the residence with her gun drawn. “hey! Over here! Help!!!” crystal shouted. Natalie put her gun back in her holster and headed over. “I have 2 victims. One deceased male Hispanic, early 20s, one Hispanic female early 20s, multiple gsw’s. Requesting EMS and homicide on scene.” Natalie said into her radio. “10-4. EMS is already en route. We’ll reach out to homicide.” A male voice on the radio replied to officer Natalie. “hi sweetie, I’m officer Natalie. Can you tell me who did this?” Natalie asks Adriana. The terrified girl gurgles on her own blood, spitting some up, with tears rolling down her face. “I… I don’t know. There was a black truck outside…” Adriana replied to officer Natalie. “great job sweetie, that’s really helpful. Do you know whose truck it is? Have you seen it before?” Natalie replied, holding the mortally wounded young lady’s hand. “I don’t know… I’m so scared…” Adriana replied, squeezing the officer’s hand tightly. “it’s ok sweetie, I have help on the way. The ambulance is gonna be here soon.” Officer Natalie says, trying to keep the girl calm. “What’s your name hunny?” Natalie asks the girl, trying to keep her calm. “adriana…” she replies. “I’m Natalie. I wish we met under different circumstances sweetie.” Natalie says back to the young lady, still holding her hand.

Finally, medics Tracy and Stephanie show up. “whoa, what happened here?” Stephanie asks, looking at the hectic scene. “drive by shooting. Guy over there didn’t make it, coroner and homicide are coming. But this is Adriana. She got hit a couple times and needs some attention.” Officer Natalie tells the two medics. “pleaee… don’t go anywhere… I’m scared…” Adriana says to officer Natalie. “it’s gonna be ok, I’m not gonna go anywhere.” The cop tells Adriana. “is she gonna be ok?!” crystal shouts, standing in the background. “she’s in good hands. I’m sure they’ve seen worse before.” Officer Natalie replies.

Tracy and Stephanie snip off Adriana’s top and bra, examining the bullet trajectory. “all 3 rounds have entry and exit wounds. Went clean through her.” Medic Tracy says. “yeah, tons of blood loss. Let’s get an IV set up and get her going on fluids and pain meds.” Medic Stephanie replied. With that said, IVs were set up in both arms, with fluid resuscitation commencing immediately, along with a dose of pain meds. Tracy stuck some EKG electrodes onto Adriana’s bare, blood soaked chest and set up the heart monitor while Stephanie removed Adriana’s pants, socks, and pair of Jordans she was wearing. “vitals unstable. BP 60/palp, heart rate’s 140, O2 saturation 91%. We gotta get her to the ER ASAP.” Tracy said. Tracy and Stephanie got Adriana onto a gurney, and brought her out of the living room, wheeling her into the ambulance nearby. Officer Natalie was allowed to come into the ambulance with Adriana since homicide and the coroner’s office arrived on scene to begin their investigation, talk to crystal, and take Diego’s body.

The heart monitors beeped loud and fast during the ambulance ride, with no sign of improvement in Adriana’s vital signs. “natalie… am I gonna die?...” Adriana asked the cop, tears running down her face. “it’s all gonna be ok, I promise.” Natalie replied calmly, trying to reassure the girl. “it hurts so much…” Adriana replied, spitting up more blood. “I know sweetie. It’s all gonna be ok.” Natalie replies, holding the girls hand, while stroking her hair with the other hand.

Adriana remained conscious the entire way to the hospital, and was wheeled into the trauma bay where Dr Lindsay, Dr Jose, nurse Nancy, and nurse Heather waited. “22 year old female, multiple GSWs to the chest and shoulder. Hypotensive, tachy, started fluids on scene.” Medic Tracy summarized to the trauma team. “ok thank you, let’s transfer her on my count. 1..23!” Dr Lindsay ordered. Adriana was now on the trauma room table underneath the large, bright overhead light. Officer Natalie and the two medics were asked to wait behind the yellow line in the trauma room so the doctors and nurses could have space to work. “natalie?... You there?...” a terrified Adriana asked. “I’m just over here. They want me to wait here while they work, ok?” the cop replies.

“Diminished breath sounds left side.” Dr Jose calls out after listening to Adriana’s heart and lungs with his steth. “alright, she probably needs a chest tube. Let’s get that set up. And let’s get her started on the MTP. 4 units packed RBCs unmatched, 2 of platelets, 2 of plasma.” Dr Lindsay barked out, taking charge of the stressful situation. “doctor… am I gonna die?...” a terrified Adriana asks Dr Lindsay. “you’re in good hands, ok?” Lindsay replied, not exactly reassuring the young lady. Jose begins placing the chest tube on the left side. Adriana yelps at the top of her lungs, several octaves above her normal speaking voice, feeling the scalpel’s every move, and the large plastic tube being jammed into such a small space. Blood shot out of the chest tube and onto Dr Jose’s trauma gown. Her oxygen saturation improved, but her vitals did not. “please… I’m so scared… I don’t wanna die…” Adriana begged the trauma team after the brutal, painful procedure was finished up.

Not too long after the chest tube was placed, Adriana began to deteriorate rapidly. She spit up more blood, and her eyes started to roll back into her head. “adriana? Stay with us hun.” Nurse Nancy said, doing a sternal rub. Adriana groaned, her eyes opening slightly in response as she fought with everything she had left to remain conscious. Adriana’s eyes were open slightly, letting out a calm exhale followed by a bit of blood before fading away. “I lost a pulse.” Nurse Heather called out, her blue eyes trained on the heart monitor to confirm. “starting compressions.” Nurse Nancy stated to the team. The veteran nurse delivered deep, strong, forceful compressions while nurse Heather grabbed an intubation tray. Officer Natalie was still watching behind the yellow line in the trauma room, absolutely sick to her stomach watching the young lady receive cpr. With CPR ongoing, Heather begins sliding the ET tube into Adriana’s airway while her head bobbed and lolled a bit, making it a bit of a moving target. Heather had to really concentrate, which was easier said than done in the chaotic situation of monitors chirping, CPR ongoing, and people shouting. Finally, Heather gets the tube in, and secures it with a blue tube holder. “I’m in!” she says confidently, then starts ambu bagging. PEA was on the monitors, so epi and atropine were injected intravenously in an attempt to obtain a shockable rhythm. Adriana’s eyes remained half open, staring blankly off to the room as her bare, busty chest is rocked with harsh compressions.

Several minutes of unsuccessful resuscitation efforts and another dose of meds are pushed, but PEA persisted. “thoracotomy tray. I’m gonna open her up.” Dr Lindsay called out decisively. Betadine was squirted into Adriana’s bare chest, with an incision being made no more than a second after the brownish-orange liquid hit her skin. Dr Lindsay made a quick, crude incision in the 5th intercostal space starting just shy of the sternum. The cut was extended laterally across her chest, underneath her large, plump breast, and ending just shy of her left armpit. In the coming moments, Dr Lindsay did her thing and cracked Adriana’s chest wide open.

There was a large rush of blood that exited the incision area upon entry to the chest cavity. The area was suctioned out multiple times, and a vascular clamp was placed on the descending aorta near the girl’s diaphragm. Lindsay performed a quick pericardiotomy and relieved a massive cardiac tamponade with clots that were able to be suctioned out. At that point, Adriana’s heart began to fibrillate. The internal paddles were charged to 20, lowered into her chest, and a shock was delivered. A dull, wet thump was heard. From Natalie and the medics’ position, you could see Adriana’s toes curl, showing off the deep, thick, soft wrinkles throughout the soles of her size 7 feet. “Nothing. Charging to 30.” Dr Lindsay called out. The electric whining of the paddles charging could be heard, followed by a wet ka-thunk. “no change, charging again to 30.” Dr Lindsay called out, eyes trained on the heart monitor for a moment. The large, spoon shaped paddles were lowered back into Adriana’s chest around her twitching heart, and a shock was delivered. Her torso jolted a bit and her large, d cup breasts jiggled for a moment. “still nothing. Let’s hit her again at 40.” Dr Lindsay called out, shaking her head. The paddles were lowered back in, and a shock was delivered. Adriana’s torso twitched sharply in response to the dose of electricity, while her eyes remained half open, staring upwards in an expressionless gaze. Dr Lindsay reached her hands back into Adriana’s chest, firmly wrapped her hands around the dying girl’s heart, and began vigorously massaging it. Another dose of meds were injected intravenously, hoping to stimulate cardiac activity.

A few cycles of internal massage and meds failed to restore spontaneous circulation, so the internal paddles were recharged and called for once again. The blood soaked paddles were lowered back in, and another shock was delivered. “no change. Shocking again at 40.” Lindsay called out, lowering the paddles back in as the electric whining sound was heard. The same dull, wet thump was heard, but the high pitched droning of the monitors going flat was heard almost instantaneously after the shock. Lindsay looked down and saw the girls heart sitting completely motionless and still inside her chest. “pupils fixed and dilated.” Dr Jose added, shining a pen light into Adriana’s eyes. Lindsay sighed, “she’s gone. Time of death, 1:36am.”

The ambu bag was detached from the ET tube and the flatlined monitors were shut off. Nurse Nancy gently shut Adriana’s eyes for the final time. “no! She’s young! Come on, shock her again!” officer Natalie shouts at the team, on the verge of tears. “nat…come on…” medic Stephanie says discretely, putting her hand on the cop’s shoulder. “she can’t be gone! She was talking to me on the way over!” Natalie cried out, trying to plead with Lindsay. “I’m sorry Natalie, but she’s gone. We did the best we could, but she lost so much blood in such a short timespan.” Lindsay replied, trying to be sympathetic towards the upset cop. “then give her more blood! Do something!” Natalie yelled, tears rolling down her face. “nat, I’m sorry. We all did our best.” Lindsay replied. Natalie collapses to the ground and cries “no…”

The drive by shooting of Diego Ortega and Adriana Torrez is still under investigation. Detectives still don’t have any leads on the whereabouts of the black SUV, or the location of Jay. If you have any information critical to this case, please reach out to the authorities. We also would like to keep the family and friends of the victims in our thoughts and prayers in this difficult time.

[alivehouse]

some top stupid moments from the liquor store job off the top of my head

lady asking me if leaving a handle of vodka in her car overnight during winter would make the glass explode

multiple confrontations about us selling svedka after the russian invasion of ukraine (Its A Swedish Company. the second line of text on the front of the bottle says 'imported from sweden.')

guy asking me if we have any shooters of orange liqueur and when i suggested cointreau he grimaced and said 'orange liqueur' like i was stupid so then i suggested grand marnier and he made the same face and said 'forget it.' i assume he didnt think anything in a brown bottle could possibly be orange flavored.

woman who called me up to ask if she could return frozen ravioli she bought over three months ago (& expired 2 months ago) because they 'had gone bad and she didnt open it.' would not fucking let me get off the phone and i had to forward her to a manager to explain Why We Would Not Take Those Back

couple buying thousands of dollars worth of stuff literally just like the most random shit & they were fighting wiht each other The Whole Time & kept asking me what some ludicrously expensive bottle of something even was bc they didnt know and when i couldnt answer bc id never seen it before in my life they would get mad at me and then buy it anyway. and then at the end of the transaction *after they had paid* they asked if they could return everything they didnt open after their party and they got so mad when i said no that i had to call a manager

[godisafujoshi]

Giving the cashier at the liquor store a smug look before I blow my brains out in front of them cause they wouldn’t let me put a shooter of crown royal on a payment plan

[lakemichigans]

not my brown paper bag splitting open and littering my shooters all over the ground on my walk home from the liquor store as if i haven't suffered enough

[meatheadmutt]

The cute girl at the liquor store said "shhhhh" and gave me a free shooter and I said "yaaaay I will remember this forever"

Is this yuri? *inserts butterfly guy meme*

[valleygirlfag]

Okay so Im detailing this for myself but anyway I have to get up at a decent time tomorrow bc I have errands to run for Tfb tomorrow. First is target, I am getting conditioner and maybe hair dye. I can not spend more than $20 and the more I can ""aquire"" the better. Next is the dispo. I'm aiming for $60 with an emphasis on edibles. Finally is the liquor store. The goal is to sneak enough shooters into red rocks that I dont pay for alcohol there but I can get fucked up, as can Anna and Jillian. Okay break!

[rudegirl402]

Never a dull moment (pt 1.)

Happy Friday, my fellow degenerates! It's the weekend, time to ~~party hard~~ get blasted and not have to worry about losing your job.

This was supposed to be a 'mini' - mini for me anyway - post that I intended to put up *well* over a week ago, but with CAG coming around so frequently and spending all day here, me getting wasted almost immediately after she leaves, and something or other taking up my time, it was pushed further and further back with ever more shit heaped onto the flaming dumpster fire that is my life. Gather round, as I serve you up yet another rambling tale of misadventure and woe.

Picking up where I left off on my last post, I passed out relatively early on the Friday night, waking up with just enough time to make it down to the liquor store before closing. Some missed calls and messages from CAG on my phone. Didn't bother replying as I knew she'd already be asleep by then. I figured I'd just slam a few more drinks and hoped I passed out relatively soon. Got maybe a quarter of the way through the wine - with a little help from some mouthwash shooters - before I felt sleep finally beckon, and I shuffled off to the bedroom to hopefully get some shuteye.

Ended up waking up, though, what felt like only an hour or two later. Decided to finish off my last post and get it up before I (maybe) passed out again. But merciful oblivion never came. I hit my second wind. I think my tolerance level has reached the point where my normal, maintenance-level, drinking just isn't having the same soporific effect anymore, but paradoxically energizes me instead. My body is exhausted from a streak of sleepless nights, but Mistress Alcohol wants me to stay up and drink with her.

0700 rolls around and I'm still awake. CAG messages not long after. She's an early riser, and I normally don't see her morning messages until hours after she sends them, when I wake up. Perhaps I wasn't clear enough the day before; maybe I didn't want to come off as rude or mean, but I dropped some not-so-subtle hints I needed alone time, and I didn't want this - whatever *this* is - to be an everyday thing. I knew lack of sleep would eventually catch up with me and I was going to crash hard. Last thing I wanted was groggily waking up to her hammering at the door, or demolishing the anti-Jonesy barricade to climb through the window. I tell her straight up she can't come around that day, that I haven't gone to sleep yet, I'm fading, and I'm still drunk and don't want to trigger her with my drunkenness. Incoming call: CAG. I'm really not in the mood. She asks if she *really* can't come over, I confirm, yes, she *really* can't.

0-narcissistic temper tantrum in 60 microseconds. She moans we were supposed to be making vegan shepherd's pie together that day. I tell her we can do it the next day, that I'm really not in a fit state to entertain her. She immediately demands I gather up all the ingredients for the pie and leave them on the porch, so she can come and collect them and she'll do it herself at her halfway house. Gimme a break. She can't afford a Lyft here and back and she isn't coming *just* to get that stuff. "No, I can't do that," I not entirely fake-yawn, "I'm fading fast. Please just come around tomorrow instead." Her voice takes on a sinister tone. "Ya know, most of the pots and pans in there I bought. When I come around again I'm going to collect the things that are mine and I'm putting them into storage." Classic narcissistic carrot and stick: *do what I say or suffer the consequences*. I'm not having it though. "Ok," yawn again, "feel free to grab whatever you want *tomorrow*." She abruptly hangs up on me after demanding I call her a Lyft to get to her AA meeting.

Sleep continues to elude me and I'm left with an ongoing feeling of brain-fog. As the sun rises on a new day, I'm left with a few drinks' worth of mouthwash. I slam them in the hopes it does something, *anything*, to get me into bed and passed out. I'm just at the stage where I think I might be able to sleep, if even only for a little while when CAG chimes in again. She's back from AA and meekly apologizes for the way she spoke to me earlier, that she could have come around and wouldn't be triggered by me being drunk, but she's triggered because of what I told her the doctor said about my elevated white blood cell and liver enzyme count and still drinking. I try to reassure her that having elevated liver enzymes/white blood cells is standard for CAs but she's not having it, says she's upset her dad and I are drinking ourselves to death. I don't take the bait and tell her I'm feeling much better than I did when I went for that doctor's appointment. I can't help thinking how it's less about me (and her dad), and more about how it affects *her*. Never mind, not getting sucked into the same old games.

Still no word from Gun Girl. Last message sent from me Thursday evening/Friday morn, unread.

CAG messages again, when I thought she'd be doing...whatever...for a few hours and leaving me alone to get merry. Says she left a bag in the Lyft to her AA meeting and she desperately needs it back. Groan. Even sober she's so fucking scatterbrained. She can't call the driver or use the Lyft app because her broken phone is still only a Wi-Fi platform, so it's up to me to do the leg work for her, so to speak. I manage to contact the driver, who seemingly doesn't speak a word of English, and ask if he can drop off the bag CAG left in his car. He says he has it - via Google translate - and asks for an address. I tell CAG there's a $15 lost item fee and she points out she can't afford it. For a moment I consider paying it for her - the 'right' thing to do, no? - but I hold off while I ask her what's in the bag. Turns out it's just a couple of make up items, cheap and disposable. Awesome, just tossed away 2 hours communicating with Lyft and a driver who doesn't speak English, only to find it's not even worth $15 to get it returned. Well played, CAG. Another brilliant fucking waste of my time.

I contemplate heading to the store for more booze then. It's a Saturday, so busses are hourly. I can't be assed going to the local Walmart for 2 or 3 items and literally doing laps around the store, buying nothing else, until the return bus comes, so settle on trudging to the local gas station/liquor store for their more expensive - albeit conveniently available - wines. Not going just yet though, as it's still over 100°F and even just sitting on the shaded porch, wearing only shorts, for a cigarette, I'm dripping with sweat.

Gimpy leg has returned with furious vengeance. The last couple of weeks before CAG happened on back, I was feeling fine, good even. The pain, the limp, it had completely dissipated; I could walk normally again. But now I was back to shrieking electrical pain and shuffling with a pronounced limp. Under perfect conditions it should only take me literally 12 minutes to walk there and back, but with gimpy leg it's 20-25 minutes, and I don't fancy that trek under the burning Arizona sun, so nurse my mouthwash until it gets cooler. I wind up picking up two bottles of wine. I'm getting through one and a half to two bottles a night now. Seems like not long ago just one bottle would last me a night.

I woke up a little later than I intended on the Sunday, probably making up for the lack of sleep from the day before. As usual, bevy of messages from CAG. Still nothing from GG. Raging hangover. Good sign, I guess, in that I don't feel still drunk. CAG wants to come around again. I had assumed the ballache of getting two buses here on a weekend schedule would dissuade her from coming, but the inconvenience didn't seem to bother her. A new sensation flared up then: annoyance. I wanted to chill, I wanted to get drunk, I wanted to sponge out in front of the laptop, I wanted to get this posted, but instead I have to sit and watch tv with her for x hours of the day while WDs crept in and she rabbited on about people I didn't know and didn't care to know about. I considered telling her not to bother, that today wasn't a good day for me either, but I knew she'd have another meltdown. I wasn't in the mood for, nor was it any longer my responsibility to deal with, one of her temper tantrums so all I could do was grit my teeth and text "cool, see you in a bit."

She didn't stay very long. There seemed to be a mood in the air; she was acting different. Quiet, pensive, contemplative maybe. She suggested we watch the *Obi-Wan Kenobi* show, I suspect more to try and please me - or at least wanting to have the appearance of that - than any real desire on her part. I'd already seen it like thrice over, but I'm a Star Wars nut, so I didn't mind. Of the prequel trilogy she's only seen *The Phantom Menace* and while OWK does a fairly good job of summarizing *Attack of The Clones* and *Revenge of The Sith*, I have to pause quite frequently in the early episodes to explain some things she doesn't get. "Ugh, what's this 'Episode II', 'Episode III' stuff!? *Star Wars* was episode I, *The Empire Strikes Back* was episode II, *Return of The Jedi* was episode III, and then these stupid prequels came out and they changed the numbers for no reason! They're prequels, they shouldn't be I, II, III!" This isn't the first time we've had this discussion and I can only laugh, "CAG, the original trilogy - which you saw in the cinema when they originally came out - was already subtitled IV, V, VI *before I was even born*". Sober or drunk, she picks some weird fucking hills to die on.

We go out for a cigarette during a lull between episodes and I decide to set her straight. I tell her, as sensitively as I can, I need more time off from her, that I need to step up my job-search game because I can't afford rent & bills for the coming month. Because of CA time displacement I felt like it was still the first week of July, but it's not; I'd drunkenly pissed away almost two weeks fretting over her and GG. She doesn't get angry or upset, as I imagined she would, but nods in agreement, saying she'll just come around on Tuesday or Wednesday instead. She leaves after what feels like 2 or 3 hours, when she normally stays for 6 or 8. At least I can drink earlier.

She texts later in the night to say she got home safe, and she had fun at mine. Despite myself, I can't help but ask if she's ok, because she normally doesn't leave that early. She replied she was just tired and everything's fine, but "it's good to know you're not sick of me." Hmmm.

Monday. I really had intended to light a fire under my ass in terms of getting a job. There was only two weeks left until the next month and I thought maybe, maybe, *maybe* if the universe aligned just right and I got a decent-paying job sharpish, my first paycheck would hit before rent was due. But I put off contacting the agency who got me lined up with my last job. I've been lowkey worried that with the easing of Covid lockdowns - when they got me the job last year all communication was through webcam or phone - they would ask me to actually go into their office for a face to face chat or interview. Never mind the ballache of having to get multiple busses to their office, or the anxiety of interacting with people when I've got WDs, when I worked with them last time I had to do all these performance tests with various Microsoft Office programs, to ensure I was the "right fit for the job." Data entry proficiency I had absolutely no trouble with, as I've got a type speed and accuracy above that required for secretarial jobs, but I'm sure plenty here can relate with the fact that in all my office jobs over the years I've never had to use more than the most basic functions of Word or Excel. When I did their little tests at home last year, I just opened a new window and Googled "how to do x, y, z on Word/Excel" and passed with flying colors. I mean, if it's vital to whatever job I could get I'm sure they'd give me training on it anyway, so I didn't see the point of their daft tests, but I was worried if the agency wanted me to come in and do those tests again in-person, which I'd naturally fail.

I was stuck in something of a can't/must quandary then. I knew I needed to call the agency, with the slim hope they retained my personal details and I wouldn't have to do their stupid tests again, but I fucking hate phone calls and knew it would give me anxiety, which meant I'd have to drink just to talk on the phone. So I did what I always do and dithered instead. CAG popped up then, last fuckin' thing I need. "Hey, I think I might go to the Walmart near you. We could meet up if you want?" No, no I don't want. I thought I made it perfectly clear I need Monday 'off' from her. I gently deflect her by saying I don't plan on leaving the house because of the heat and because I need to contact the agency. "I could come around after I'm done at Walmart? I won't stay long." No! She knows from our time together I hate making phone calls and asks if I need a drink to steady my nerves. I'm wary of discussing boozing with her because I don't want to trigger her and go right back to dealing with an alcoholic psychopath, so I answer honestly: "I don't know." I'd been trying to put off drinking until later into the day, and with her coming around that meant I wasn't drinking until 6, 7, 8 at night for the most part, but here I was, early afternoon, eyeing the bottle and knowing I needed it just to make a fucking phone call. Fuck it. I caved a few hours before the agency closed. *Just a few for Dutch courage* became *this is fun* and I watched the clock steadily wind down to closing time as I slammed more drinks.

Sunset. CAG says she's going to bed early because she's tired. Cool. I'm out of sauce and throw my kicks on for a booze run. I see my big toe poking out of a hole in my shoe, I can't help but laugh. Despite CAG having done the laundry for me, I'm still not wearing socks. I guess maybe because I don't know when I'll be able to do, or afford, laundry again and I don't want to 'waste' them on something as trivial as trips to the liquor store. I make it halfway there before I absentmindedly pat my ass and realize I've left my wallet at home. FFS. I try not to sit on it when I can help it, on the off-chance it has something to do with my gimpy leg, so take it out whenever I can, but there have been a few occasions where I've been tipsy or blasted and not realized I've left the house without it.

When I finally shuffle to the liquor store I go to pick up my usual: two bottles of cab sav. Except they're out. Fuck. Their wine section (such as it is), is right next to the register, so I have to awkwardly tell a number of people doing their shopping, "you go ahead," and motion them past because they think I'm in line, while I'm examining the red wines they do have for alcohol content. It's all weak ass 8-9% shit, fuck if that's going to tide me over for the night. I settle for a couple of pinot grigios. 11%. Weaker than my 12.5% cab sav and I fucking hate the taste of white wine, but it will have to do.

Except it doesn't. Card declined. Shit. The bills must have hit already and I'm out of money. Shit, shit, shit, fuck. My drunk/lazy ass been hitting up the local liquor store far too often when Walmart is cheaper, but I haven't been functional (or mindful) enough to get the bus there and back. There's a line growing behind me and I suddenly feel *very* self-conscious as I try my card again. I've been wearing the same clothes for what feels like six weeks now, and I don't think I've showered in that time either. I must look - and smell - like a disheveled hobo, and here I am with two bottles of wine on a Monday night nervously, and desperately, swiping my card multiple times. *Eh eh eh eh*, the card reader squawks every time. The teller mumbles something about maybe it's just my card and I almost blurt out *but it worked last night*; the store only has 3 employees and the dude serving me then served me the night before. Instead I croak a nervous laugh, "uhh, think I need to go and get my other card haha," and bolt it out of the store with my tail between my legs, trying not to make eye-contact with anyone in the line behind me.

I am fuming on the ~~walk~~ shuffle back home. I'm completely and utterly broke. I still have mouthwash at home that I can drink, but I was nominally supposed to be tapering down with wine mixers, the whole "getting your life back on track" thing. I consider catching a late bus to the local Walmart to pick up some almond extract, or what have you, with my food stamps, but decide against it because I'm too fucking lazy. Fuck knows how much I even have left since I've been paying for CAG's food and drink. Weird, since she gets free food at her halfway house, vegetarian/vegan as well. Minty, antiseptic, breath and screaming shits are a small price to pay for getting wasted that night.

I get home and angrily crack open a new bottle of that sweet Equate mouthwash. I take my phone out of my pocket and place it, face-up, within my field of view, just in case GG messages and I don't want to miss that. It's been like 4 days since I've heard from her. I don't know what I've said to upset her; I thought we ended things on a good note when we last spoke, and we were headed towards full reconciliation. But how can you tell someone it makes you cry to admit you love them and if they're in danger of homelessness you have a spare room they can live in... and then just ghost them? Whatever. I don't care. I constantly feel like I'm begging for scraps of attention and affection anyway. As with 95% of my relationships I'm far more invested in them than they ar-

Tuesday. I wake up with a start. No recollection of going to bed. There's a bottle of mouthwash on the pillow next to me. My head is fucking pounding. It's that awful wire wool brain sensation of a hangover. I stagger out of the bedroom, fill up a cup of ice water and make to go out on to the porch for a breakfast cigarette. All the lights still on in the house paint a picture of me staggering straight from my computer chair to bed to pass out. My laptop is open and unlocked. I usually shut it down or at least put it on sleep mode. Messenger is open. Conversation: GG. *Fuuuuuckkkk*. My eyes focus on the last thing I sent. "Why are you doing this?" - 0328AM. I have absolutely no recollection of sending that, and I'm angry at myself for doing so. *We were trying to be brave and stoic, and you fucking cave like this?* Message unread, as are the previous ones I sent her, the last time we spoke. She'd normally be up now so she should have read my drunken mishap. Instead, silence. Again.

CAG messages, says she's on the way to mine and will be there in a couple of hours. I groan in frustration; her visits are coming earlier and earlier. I'm feeling far too ropey to deal with her. Maybe if I'd had more time to sober up and feel better I might have had more patience for her, but I knew I couldn't ask her to delay coming over or postpone it for the next day because she'd have another narcissistic meltdown. The way I felt then, I contemplated going for some hair of the dog. I'd considered it before, when she came to visit, but I put it off both because I was legit trying to push drinking as far back into the day as I could, and because she would instantly know I'd had some booze. But temptation gets the better of me and an hour or so before she comes I fold and start chugging the mouthwash. Even if she can smell it on my breath she can't say with complete certainty I wasn't using it for its intended purpose.

She arrives just as I shut off the oven, from cooking the vegan shepherd's pie. She'd insisted I cook it when she's not there because using the oven raises the ambient temperature of the apartment, and with only a couple of box fans for climate control we're usually sheened in sweat from just quietly watching tv. I can't help but think of how much a kick she gets out of the control factor though. I try to put GG, and drunk-messaging her the night before, from my mind and have a pretend-fun day with CAG. The pie turned out pretty good. It's only vegan because she is and I prefer the real deal, but I give myself a pat on the back for the quality of the finished product. It's the first meal I've made for CAG since she's been back that she's completely scoffed. Normally she always leaves bits and pieces which is a strange concept for me, having been raised in a "clean your plate" household.

I wind up staying up late, like stupid late, into the AM glugging the mouthwash. I can't sleep, for some reason, probably because of the tolerance again. I'm having my seventh or eighth "I'll go to bed after this" cigarette when something weird happens. A pair of lights flash on the wall across the street, from what looks like someone in the adjacent AirBnB unlocking their car. It's like 4 in the morning, what are you doing up at this time? I rarely see the guests who stay in the AirBnB and my interaction with them is limited to the odd smile, wave, or "hi". But the current occupants seem a little sketch. On more than a few occasions probably a dozen or so different vehicles came and went from the unit all day. "It's probably drugs," CAG had scoffed. I initially dismissed it as more of her conspiracy thinking, but that morning I considered she might have had a point. I'm not really paying attention to whatever the AirBnB guest is doing until, out of the side of my eye, I see two girls titter out onto the driveway. They're barefoot and the driveway is graveled. One of them - and I can't tell because of her dark skin tone and the sun not having quite risen - seems to be wearing only a bra. Just. A. Bra. The other appears to be in some fancy-looking lingerie with rather fuck-me fishnet stockings. They must be bloody prostitutes as I can't imagine anyone else sauntering around their home so scantily clad, especially since I thought the AirBnB guests were a dad and his to 'daughters'. They open the doors on a car in the driveway and appear to be taking things into the house from it. I know it's early hours but the property isn't walled and they're right on the street; anyone driving past is getting an eye-full of T & A. I exaggeratedly clear my throat, both because I'm choking on phlegm and I figure they could do with a warning the whole world isn't asleep. They both glance up from whatever they're doing in the car before getting back to it, seemingly without any concern of how exposed they are.

Wednesday, CAG returns to form when she says she wants to clean the bathroom. The whole rationale for her being here was supposed to be that she wanted to clean the apartment, to help me, before the annual inspection happened. After a week of doing so she seemed to lose interest in the idea though and I figured she got bored with her cover. She does a good of job of scrubbing the place out while I rustle us up some vegan chicken burgers. Should have taken a picture for scale, but these things are ridiculously oversized, like bigger than our hands. If there's one good thing about her coming around, it's that I'm eating somewhat regularly again, I guess. When I walk her to the bus stop later, so we can go food shopping and then she can go home, she expresses the sudden concern she's going to shit herself. I can't help but laugh and tell her while it might be an occupational hazard for CAs I'm surprised she's still got a leaky bum after having been sober for so long. "I never had a problem with diarrhea because of drinking," she tuts, as if I said something ridiculous. "That was because of food poisoning or I took too many laxatives." For fucks sake. I've written before about how terrible she is at acknowledging the realities of being a CA and here we had a shining example. I'm not in the mood to 'debate' her though and just nod an "mmmhmm".

When we get to the store she immediately rushes for the bathroom while I go around picking out things she asked me to buy, to take home or enjoy when she comes around mine. I head to the booze aisle and contemplate picking up a bottle of $2.50 wine with the spare change I have in my pocket. CAG finds me there, looking hagard from her power shit. To my surprise, she offers to give me the last of her remaining cash to buy more than one, and some more mouthwash. I half expect her to ask if we can go back to mine and drink together, but she looks away instead and says, "one isn't going to do you, and I don't want you going through withdrawals if you won't go to the hospital." Huh. I almost miss my bus home because she has the runs twice again while we're there, but we both make it to our own busses and back home in good time.

As I get deeper into the wine, GG's silence starts to gnaw at me. I can't think of any reason why she'd be deliberately ignoring me like this. We've gone a day or two without talking, maybe, but we've been pretty regular in our level of communication. I look at the message I sent her a couple of days earlier, when I drunk-messaged her, still unread. I try not to get angry but I can't help but feel like she's playing games. She's 9 years older than me, I would have expected her to be more mature. If she doesn't want to talk anymore she could have said so; if she's with someone else she could have said so. Would it really have cost her anything to say, "let's just be frien-"

Thursday. I awake, again, with no recollection of having put myself to bed. Looks like I demolished a bottle and a half of wine and more than a few glugs of mouthwash. I gingerly check Messenger to see if I messaged GG again, like the last time I blacked out. Thankfully, that's a no. Then a thought occurs to me. I remember her telling me, for some reason, there were times when I would message her and she could see what I said via notifications, without the message having a 'read' tag to it on my end. I check my text messages. I sent her one last night. Balls. "Are you ok? What's going on?" It's not bad in the grand scheme of drunk-texts but fuck I gotta stop doing that shit. No response from her. Surprise surprise.

I have a couple of quick wine mixers, to get rid of the hangover, before CAG comes around and we have a fairly uneventful day. I tell her about watching a video on Bhutanese cuisine the night before, neither of us really know much about the country but I randomly drop that from what I remember smoking is largely banned there. "Well we can cross that off the list of places we're going to visit." I don't say anything. *We*. At various times since she's been back she's made noises about wanting to leave the country and heavily implied I'd be going with her. She has her eyes set on Panama, and has been saying things like "you should look into it," but never has a retort when I tell her I don't really have the desire - or funds - to leave the country *alone*.

Saturday. Once more bolt up in bed from a blackout. I barely remember Friday. CAG was here, I felt annoyed at her being a drag on my time, we spent all day watching tv, I cracked open the mouthwash and then...nothing. CAG messages to announce her imminent arrival. Then my phone buzzes again. I expect it to be some demand I do something for her, maybe meet her at Walmart. But my heart jumps as I see *1 new message: GG*. I hesitantly open it up and see I'd drunkenly angry-messaged her the night before. Oh. Fuck. The last couple of times I had some vague sense of familiarity on reading the words I wrote the night before, but this time I'm struck dumb. I have absolutely zero memory of messaging her. Worse - a million times worse - while I'd tried to maintain a civil, neutral, tone in my prior messages I went fucking ballistic with this one. I asked her why she was being so cruel and sadistic, I asked her why she couldn't just say she didn't want to talk to me anymore or just be friends; I asked her why, if she was with someone else, she couldn't have just said so.

She says she's been silent because she didn't have phone or Internet service, that she's so broke she got cut off. A million thoughts run through my mind. I don't even have time to process a response as she immediately goes on the attack, telling me she's not with anyone else, and that I 'obviously' must love and care for her if I'm coming at her so. That "things" have happened to her since we last spoke that she doesn't want to get into, but I'm making it all about me because I wasn't concerned something might be going on with her. She calls me a "controlling, manipulative, self-righteous, narcissist." I might be a deadbeat CA, but I try to own my flaws, and this isn't the first time she's thrown this scripted shit at me, which really sounds like it's aimed at her ex-husband or some other guy she dated before or after. We get into a heated back and forth then. I'm taken aback by the ferocity of her attacks on me when I'd only expressed hurt and sorrow in my last message. I'm not a fucking mind-reader, so for her to get bent out of shape over me not intuiting her phone/Internet service (allegedly) being out or sussing out the other 'stuff' that happened to her makes me want to fight back. What was I supposed to fucking do, take a $100 Lyft I can't afford out to her place on the off-chance a plane had crashed into her house or something? I'd (semi-)joked about her explosive anger before and I'm getting a prime example of it now. She could have just said "hey, sorry, my Internet/phone got cut off! I'm not and haven't been with anyone else, dumbass," and things would have gone back to being good and normal. But instead she starts throwing out all these off-the-mark insults and accusations about how I made this all about me, and I don't care what's going on in her life. I'm instantly put in mind of the spat we had after the funeral she went to, how she dialed up the notch on righteous indignation and vindictiveness when I was constantly offering to bury the hatchet with her.

I am seething. Fuck, the timing is cosmically infuriating. I can't get sucked into an all-day battle with GG as CAG is due imminently and she'll flip if I'm spending time constantly on the phone. Grrr. I step out on to the porch for a breakfast cigarette. There's a large tree limb in the yard. I vaguely recall a storm from the night before. I don't know if it was a lightning strike or gale-force winds, but one of the larger branches from the tree in the front yard has been ripped off and is lying there on the ground. CAG comes through the gate and steps around it as I finish rolling my cigarette. She offers a tired "hey" as I light up. I'm already not in the mood and would rather be talking to GG. Restless leg all day as I drop some not-so-subtle hints CAG should go home sooner rather than later. I swallow my pride and message GG she could have told me her services were about to be cut off - if that's even really the issue - and maybe I could have helped her. Left on (un)read for the day.

Sunday I wake up to the sound of knocking at my door. I don't need to check the porch camera to know who it is. I can only groan "you gotta be fucking kidding me!?" before I roll out of bed and shuffle to the door. CAG's sat at the porch table, smoking a cigarette. "You weren't responding to my messages so I thought I'd just come over before it got too hot." She's a terrible communicator, in more ways than one, but I especially hate, then, how she never waits for confirmation through textual conversations. I'm the kind of mate who'll give you constant real-time updates if we're meeting up; "just getting in the shower now," "setting off in a bit," "10 minutes away," etc. because I'd expect someone to do the same for me. CAG will text "can we meet up at 12?" and if she doesn't hear anything back she'll just be there anyway.

I know most of my crankiness is centered around GG from the day before, and I try not to misdirect myself into taking it out on CAG, but I can't help feeling irritated she's woken me up. Going to bed later and later and poor-quality CA sleep is really kicking the shit out of me. Another wasted day of sponging out in front of the tv with her, watching stuff I've either seen before or I'm not interested in. I'm constantly checking my phone for word from GG but nothing. I tell CAG, with a little more of a growl than I'd intended, she is not to just show up again like that uninvited, that she should get confirmation from me in future so our plans line up. I get a message from her after she gets back to her halfway house later, saying she feels hurt that I open myself up to "Internet strangers" (as in, you lot) but I was a "closed book" with her. Never mind the fact she has no one but herself to blame for ignoring, talking over, and disregarding me during the years we were together, one of the hallmarks of pathological narcissism is to isolate the victim; I know she's jealous of the fact I have friends from/on here and she knows I won't use my laptop while she's here nor do I really use my phone either. I've lowkey suspected one of her motives for coming here all the time - when I seemingly have nothing to offer, even attention - is to prevent me from writing. Lol I remember back in 2020 when I could have Reddit up on my laptop and be writing about us while she was in the same room, oblivious and uninterested. Perhaps I should never have mentioned what I write about and how frequently. Hindsight is 20/20 etc. etc.

[snakes-sn-snails]

I feel like alcohol here is mostly referencing liquor and beer, so full disclosure is I hate most liquors but I do love the taste of beer (my favorite is Guinness).

There are a lot of ways to make alcohol palatable though.

Option one is mixed drinks, but I don't get many of those. The only one I've personally cared for is pouring a shooter into my kombucha, but then you can't taste any alcohol.

Option two is finding a type of alcohol that you like. I tend to go for sweet stuff (except for seltzers, gross). Ciders are my top choice, because there are so many flavors offered. Downeast is my favorite brand, but they are not sold where I live now. I like them enough that I am considering asking for a pack as a Christmas gift. Next I like Baily's, which just has a milky dessert like flavor. If you have never heard of a mudslide, it tastes like a milkshake. Plus, look at this:

Finally, mead is amazing. I've yet to find a store brand that I like, but I got to try some homemade stuff where the honey aspect was really emphasized.

tell me in the tags either the worse drink you've ever had or what you do to alcohol to make it palatable

[cksmart-world]

SMART BOMB

The Completely Unnecessary News Analysis

By Christopher Smart

Oct. 1, 2024

LIFE ELEVATED — TWENTY THOUSAND RUBBER CHICKENS

Utah and it's residents can be proud of a lot of things. True, the state legislature often acts like a bunch of circus monkeys, the state liquor store doesn't sell cold beer 'cause it would promote drinking and... well, the list goes on. But we have cool stuff, too. Wilson did you know that the first KFC was right here on Salt Lake City's State Street. True story. Think of it, Colonel Sanders is now worldwide — you can get drumsticks in Vietnam and India. Utah had the first department store — Zions Cooperative Mercantile Institution, aka ZCMI, and it's still here. A Utah native, Walter Fredrick Morrison, invented the Frisbee. But get this: Another native son, Philo T. Farnsworth, invented TV. You're right Wilson, that is big. Here's a shocker: Loftus International based in Salt Lake City sells some 20,000 rubber chickens each year. That's a lot of rubber chickens. Why don't we have that on our “Life Elevated” billboards. Utah, of course has many natural wonders but this is not one of them although it is notable. Lake Powell — it's actually a man-made reservoir — has more shoreline than the U.S. West Coast. (Put an asterisk here, it's drying up.) Imagine what might have been if when Brigham Young arrived at the Valley of the Great Salt Lake in 1847, a soothsayer had told him all this stuff would come true. Rather than saying, “This is the place,” he might have uttered something like, “Holy shit.” Then the edifice at the mouth of Emigration Canyon would be called the Holy Shit Monument. Just a thought.

RELAXED AND DEPRESSED? YOU MUST LIVE IN SALT LAKE CITY

If you're just checking in to see what condition you're condition is in you might be interested in a new study that finds Utah's capital is one of the most relaxed cities in America. Wilson and the guys in the band are just one example of how mellow and laid back we really are — unless driving or talking to missionaries. But there is a catch, according to a study by Ben's Natural Health that analyzed 31 U.S. cities. (We are not making this up.) It found that 22.7 percent of Salty City residents suffer from depression. Bummer. But Wilson does make a good point: How do you distinguish between “relaxed” and “depressed” — some depressed people look relaxed and vice versa. One metric might be the assumption that depressed people eat more ice cream and drink more Mountain Dew than other folks. By contrast, Salt Lakers who are simply relaxed but not depressed tend toward iced caramel macchiatos. Wilson would like to make another point about herbal self- medication, but we'll skip that for now. It's not all bad news: Salt Lake City is not in the top 10 for ice cream consumption. Some other places might be even more depressed. However, we are still Numero Uno when it comes to Bill Cosby's favorite desert — Jell-O! Leaving Jell-O vodka shooters aside, you've got to believe that's a good thing. It is our state snack, after all. And like Jell-O, we do jiggle a lot.

TRUMP E-BIKES — WORLD'S BEST — GET YOURS NOW!

Hey Wilson, do you need a new watch? You and the guys in the band might want to jump on this.The Trump Victory Tourbillion watch is only $100,000. It's a deal 'cause they're already historic. How many former presidents hawked watches? Just imagine how much they'll be worth later. On second thought, never mind. “Exciting” is the only way to describe the Trump World Catalogue: Bibles - $60; digital trading cards - $99 each; gold “Never Surrender” hightop sneakers $400; Trump coins - $100 each. But wait, there's more. Soon to be released, according to unnamed sources: Donald Trump E-Bikes! These Trumpozilla E-Bikes blow the competition away. All Trumpozilla bikes come standard with the heavy-duty Mar-A-Lago frame, Stormy-D disk brakes and unparalleled E. Jean Carroll drivetrain. It's a steal for only $7,999. And get this, they have Trump's signature in gold paint. And you'll be stylin' in your Trump Apparel spandex onesie. This beautiful unisex gold cycling outfit comes with Trump's name on the front, back and down the legs. And with the purchase of any Trumpozilla E-Bike you get the onesie for only $499. Be the envy of your red state neighborhood. Get 'em while supplies last. Next week look for Don's Cheater Championship golf clubs. You'll never shoot a bad round again.

Post script — That's a wrap for another beautiful week here at Smart Bomb where we keep track of LDS general authorities, so you don't have to. Here's an interesting headline from The Salt Lake Tribune: “He’s a Democrat and an environmentalist. How did he end up an LDS general authority?” Just shocking! Here in Zion, Democrats and environmentalists are thought to be in league with Beelzebub. The headline more than suggests a liberal tree-hugger. Of course, we're talking about Steven E. Snow, the former historian for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He once said climate change is real and he still has a Temple Recommend. This could be a breakthrough Wilson. Other Mormon environmentalist might think it's safe to come out of the closet. They might say stuff like, it's OK to save the Great Salt Lake. Well, maybe that's going a little too far. If God wanted to save the lake he'd tell legislators that it's time to stop using Bear River water to grow alfalfa that is shipped to China. Maybe start with something a little less in your face, like regulations aimed at reducing industrial pig-farm waste. It's a slippery slope (no pun intended). Here's a headline from the Deseret News: “Former GOP Sen. Jeff Flake ( a Mormon) explains his endorsement of Kamala Harris.” Next these rebels will be singing “This Land Is Your Land,” a known socialist anthem directly in conflict with free market capitalism. What's next, Social Security and Medicare? Oh wait...

Well Wilson, your pal Kris Kristofferson has ridden off into the sunset after 88 years on planet Earth. He was one helluva singer/songwriter and a good movie actor to boot. One of his many songs became a popular anthem that still resonates today, “Me and My Bobby McGee” — made famous by his friend and fellow Texan, Janis Joplin. So what do you say Wilson, get the band off their duffs and let's send old Kris off in style:

Busted flat in Baton Rouge, waiting for a train I was feeling near as faded as my jeans Bobby thumbed a diesel down just before it rained And rode us all the way to New Orleans I pulled my harpoon out of my dirty red bandana I was playing soft while Bobby sang the blues Windshield wipers slapping time, I was holding Bobby's hand in mine We sang every song that driver knew Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose Nothing don't mean nothing honey if it ain't free, now now And feeling good was easy Lord, when he sang the blues You know feeling good was good enough for me Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee From the Kentucky coal mines to the California sun Hey, Bobby shared the secrets of my soul Through all kinds of weather, through everything that we done Hey Bobby baby kept me from the cold One day up near Salinas, Lord, I let him slip away He's looking for that home and I hope he finds it But I'd trade all of my tomorrows for one single yesterday To be holding Bobby's body next to mine Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose Nothing, and that's all that Bobby left me, yeah And feeling good was easy Lord, when he sang the blues Hey, feeling good was good enough for me, hmm hmm Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee (Me and My Bobby McGee — Kris Kristofferson)

[fluentmoviequoter]

The Slayers

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: Vampires begin attacking people in Los Angeles, and as the chosen one, it's up to you and your partner to stop them.

Warnings: mentions of being shot, discussion/depiction of drugs, typical The Rookie warnings, spoilers/references from Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Word Count: 2.8k+ words

A/N: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and The Rookie 4x05 "A.C.H." mixed in my mind and this is the product. (This isn't set at Halloween though.)

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“I can’t believe I just witnessed Tim Bradford get shot,” you muse as you exit the liquor store, pushing the handcuffed shooter toward the shop.

“I didn’t mean to!” the man says.

“You have the right to remain silent, and I’d suggest you take it,” Tim snaps.

“I think he’s mad,” you whisper as you open the back door. “Watch your head.”

After the door closes, you press your lips together and look over the hood at Tim. He points at you, a silent warning to stay quiet.

“Are you okay?” you ask. “That bullet hit you right in the throat.”

“It was a NERF gun.”

“Right, sorry, that cartridge hit you pretty fast.”

“Drop it,” Tim warns.

“I’m just worried about your health, Tim. Getting shot isn’t easy.”

Tim rolls his eyes and waves you off as he enters the shop. You join him in the car, and when he looks over, you raise your hands as a promise won’t bring it up again... for now.

“7-Adam-15,” Nolan says over the radio. “Unknown… 11-2… bite!”

Tim furrows his brows as he watches the radio. Nolan sounded upset, but the audio cutting in and out worries you more.

“Nolan, repeat that?” Wade requests.

“One suspect in custody,” Nyla answers. “We need an RA. The suspect- he bit somebody.”

“That’s not weird,” Tim murmurs.

“Sergeant, he’s got fangs and there’s too much blood for one bite,” Nyla adds.

“Sending additional units now, Harper,” Wade radios. “RA’s en route.”

“Did she say fangs?” you repeat. Tim reaches for the radio, but you snatch it to ask, “Nyla, are you at Sunset and Highland?”

“Just north of it,” she replies.

“We can’t respond,” Tim points out. “This genius needs to get to booking.”

“The trigger was faulty!” the man behind you defends.

“The trigger was plastic.”

“No, Tim, this is just starting,” you state.

“What?”

“Fangs, blood, biting? Tim, that was a vampire.”

Tim narrows his eyes at you before he scoffs. The wannabe liquor store thief behind you whimpers, but you know better than to push the subject. Hooking your finger under your hidden necklace chain, you can only hope that a vampire sighting in the middle of the day isn’t a bad omen.

“Bradford!” Wade yells as you exit booking. “We’ve got over a thousand calls about sightings, attacks, and assaults. Whatever this is, it started somewhere.”

“Whatever what is?” Tim asks.

“Have you been listening to your radio?”

“More vampires,” you say. “Any leads?”

“Not a single one.”

“Were Nolan and Harper the first to make contact with the vampires?”

“Yes they were. Do you have an idea?”

“They were less than a block from Bar Sinister,” you begin.

Tim raises his hand and cuts you off to say, “Don’t start with this again. Location relative to a bar doesn’t give people fangs and make them bloodthirsty.”

“Tim, most of the people who frequent Bar Sinister have sharpened or enhanced canines to look like fangs,” you point out. Turning to Wade, you ask, “Are they actually biting people?”

“Yep,” Nyla answers from behind you. “Drinking the blood and everything.”

“It’s gross,” Nolan mumbles.

“The bar sounds like the best starting place we’ve got,” Wade decides. “You four go check it out.”

“And when we find that it’s just a bar and have no idea where the blood drinking is coming from?” Tim challenges.

“Hellmouth,” you remember.

“From Buffy the Vampire Slayer?” Nolan inquires. “I loved that show.”

“No, not the Hellmouth. It’s a newer drug, making its way to high-end buyers.”

“How do you know that?” Tim asks, his brows pinched.

“A friend of mine, Tan, he worked vice back when Hellmouth had just started. It’s a combination of oxy, anti-psychotics, and some unregulated hallucinogen,” you explain. “Those medications in combination, excess, even, might disrupt the brain enough to make someone thirsty for blood.”

“I’ll let narcotics know,” Wade responds. “For now, get to that bar and find out if it’s ground zero for Hellmouth.”

“How do you know all of this?” Tim asks as you return to the shop.

“I do my homework,” you answer lightly.

“Yeah, and you’re a vampire slayer,” Tim replies sarcastically.

“It seems like we’re both slayers now.”

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Tim complains as you return to the shop after the most recent dead-end lead. The sun has set, but your end of watch is nowhere in sight. Now, there are even more bloodthirsty civilians on the streets of Los Angeles.

“What do we do now?” you ask, looking into the dark alley.

“You tell me, slayer.”

You nod and pull the silver necklace chain under your uniform. “Which makes you Angel, my dark, mysterious helper.”

“Sure,” Tim answers, preparing to pull out and return to patrol.

“Who I shouldn’t kiss but really, really want to.”

Tim’s eyes widen, and his fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel. His triceps flex, popping beneath his sleeves, as he pushes against the wheel, unsure what to say or how serious you are.

“That’s not… we should,” Tim begins. “Actually, you, uh-“

“Tim,” you interrupt. You reach across the car and place your hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Okay,” Tim whispers. He nods to himself as he repeats, “Okay.”

You turn toward your window and hesitate before you say, “Uh, Tim?”

“What?” he asks, his arm tensing under your hand.

“There’s a vampire at the window.”

Tim looks over quickly, your hand sliding from his arm. The man nearing your door has sharpened canine teeth, and a thick red substance drips from his chin. When he raises a hand, prepared to break your window, Tim yanks the gear shift into reverse and presses the gas pedal to the floor.

“7-Adam-19,” you radio urgently.

“Additional units and RA en route,” Wade replies before you finish.

“Any word from narcotics on where this is coming from?” you inquire as Tim leans over the wheel to watch the man.

“Nothing. They’re not even sure what it is, but they’re tracking your Hellmouth lead.”

You return the radio to its place on the dash and raise your phone. “Screw this, if I’m the slayer, I’m getting our answers.”

“Do it quickly, because he’s not alone,” Tim says.

You look up, your finger hovering over your phone screen. There are at least half a dozen men now, and you have no idea how to stop them.

“Got any wooden stakes in your war bag?” you joke, but it comes out as a desperate last resort.

“They’re still people. We can keep them contained.”

“Until when? Sunrise? Tim, without knowing what they’re on, we’re blind in this.”

“Then be a slayer,” Tim answers. “But do it quickly!”

“C’mon, answer,” you plead softly. The call connects, and immediately, you say, “Does Narcan work on Hellmouth?”

“What?” Tan asks.

“Victor, we’re dealing with vampires, answer the question!”

“Hellmouth doesn’t always respond to Narcan, it depends on the chemical makeup. If there’s an opiate, yes, administer it.”

“And if I don’t know what’s in it?”

“What’s going on down there?”

“Right now, I’m trapped in a shop with six high vampires outside. How’s your day going?”

“Hellmouth wears off quickly, either the ingested blood dilutes it, or the body starts shutting down,” Tan explains. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Okay, thanks, Tan.” After you end the call, you tell Tim, “We can wait it out or try to get to all of them with Narcan.”

“We wait,” Tim decides quickly. “But we need to know where these drugs are coming from.”

“I have a bad idea.”

“Don’t get out of the car.”

“I’m going to get out of the car.”

Tim says your name, but you exit the shop and raise your hands. “You guys don’t want to meet my friend in there,” you call. “I’ve got a silver cross around my neck, but he’s a whole lot meaner than me.”

The men stop, and one collapses before he begins convulsing on the ground. It’s wearing off, you think. Within a minute, all of them have slowed or fallen. Tim exits the shop and radios for the ambulances to meet them on the scene.

“Where did you get the drugs?” Tim asks the last conscious vampire.

“Bar Sinister,” he groans. “It was initiation night.”

Tim’s jaw clenches, and you smile as you taunt, “Told you so.”

“LAPD!” Tim yells as he enters the bar.

“Hands up!” you instruct. “Everybody!”

“Officers,” the pink-haired bartender says with a tired sigh. “I can assure you that our liquor license is up to date.”

“And the illegal drugs turning people into vampires?” Tim asks. “Is that license up to date?”

“Initiation?” she asks. “That’s a placebo, it’s just a sugar pill.”

“What?” someone demands across the bar. His fangs make it sound like waff?

“How often do you do this initiation ceremony?” Nyla asks.

“Once a week, sometimes more depending on the crowd size. We did it two nights ago, had about two hundred people through that night.”

“Grey,” you radio. “How many people have we brought in on Hellmouth?”

“About 150,” he replies.

“That means there’s fifty more,” you realize. “We need to confiscate what’s left of the drug.”

“Oh, uh…” The bartender fumbles for words before she blurts out, “I gave them to my boyfriend, and he sold them.”

“How many?” Tim demands. “How many did he sell?”

“About a hundred pills to five or six people,” she answers quietly. “I swear I didn’t know what was in them.”

“What’s your boyfriend’s name?” you ask. When she shakes her head, you add, “You don’t want to get any more involved in this than you already are, what’s his name?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“I love Los Angeles,” Nolan murmurs to himself.

“What’s he go by?” Nyla asks.

“Spike,” she says. “Like-“

“Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” everyone in the bar finishes.

“You’re never riding in my shop again,” Tim tells you.

“Um, excuse me, officer?” a woman huddled in a booth by the door calls.

You nod to Tim before you approach her, and she gestures for you to come closer. With you squatted beside her seat, she leans forward to whisper in your ear.

“Spike didn’t sell them. He’s keeping them for himself,” she says.

“Why?” you ask softly.

“He saw what they did and thought, you know, that he could use them for something.”

“To make more vampires,” you guess. “Do you know where Spike is?”

“He’s in a house in the hills, I don’t know which one.”

“He can afford something in the Hollywood Hills?”

She shakes her head and mentions that he’s housesitting for a family member whose name she doesn’t know. “What I do know is that he owns this place. We don’t know his real name, but it must be on some kind of record or something, right?”

“Thank you…” you begin, hoping she’ll tell you her name.

“Buffy, and, yes, it’s my real name.”

“Thanks, Buffy.”

“Narcotics is here,” Tim alerts. “Folks, you’ll have to give a statement before you leave tonight. If you choose not to, there’s a nice holding cell where you can spend the night and enjoy your vampire daydreams.”

“Guys, I’ve got something,” you tell Tim, Nolan, and Nyla quietly. “Spike’s in the hills, and his real name is on the property records as owner.”

“A wooden stake would’ve been easier,” Tim grumbles.

“Spike, man, hey!” Nolan yells. “It’s been too long.”

“Do I know you, bub?” Spike replies.

“I thought he was Spike, not Wolverine,” Lucy murmurs at your side.

“He’s insane,” Nyla corrects.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Nolan continues, approaching Spike on the sidewalk. “But there’s so much filth inside your head, ain’t no room for the words of truth. Right? Listen, I’ll let you think about whatever you want, but I need some sunny in my dale, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“He’s laying it on a little thick,” Lucy says.

“It’s kind of creepy how much he sounds like Caleb,” you mumble. When Nyla looks at you, you ask, “Am I the only one that watched the show?”

“Yeah, I gotchu,” Spike replies. “We’re just down the hill from the Hellmouth if you want to see it?”

“Love to,” Nolan agrees, discreetly signaling you to follow him.

As he joins Spike on the sidewalk and walks up the hill toward Spike’s aunt’s house, you drive slowly in the dark SUV. Tim and a Metro team are waiting at the house, but if anything goes wrong before they cross the property line, it's your job to handle it.

“Grey said our two hundred vampires are accounted for and receiving treatment,” Nyla says, reading a message on her phone. “So, once we’ve got Spike and the rest of Hellmouth, we can finally go home.”

“And do it all again tomorrow,” you add cheerfully.

“Hey, what freaked Tim out so much earlier?” Lucy inquires. “When we got there to take in the six vamps, he was totally off his game.”

“Well, one of them snuck up on us. Plus, I implied I wanted to kiss him even though I shouldn’t,” you answer without looking away from Nolan and Spike.

“Implied?” Nyla repeats, barely concealing her smile.

“We’ve got to move.”

You exit the car to stay behind Nolan and Spike on foot. When they reach the top of the hill and see the officers waiting, Spike turns quickly.

“As much as I’d get a big laugh watching Bradford kick your skinny, white bum, and as much as I know I can give you a little bum-kicking myself right now, I’m here to tell you something: you’re not even worth it,” you quote, leveling your gun on Spike. “And you’re under arrest.”

He furrows his brows, and you sigh in the realization that he doesn’t understand the references either. Maybe I’m the chosen one in this generation, you think.

“Where’s the rest of the Hellmouth drug?” Nyla asks after reciting his Miranda rights. “They’re going to search the house anyway, so if you tell us now, you might save yourself some trouble.”

“In the urn above the fireplace,” Spike admits. “It opens clockwise.”

“Whose urn?” Lucy asks. “Wait, no, I don’t want to know.”

“Bradford,” you radio. “Spike’s in custody. Hellmouth is in the urn over the fireplace, which opens clockwise.”

“Nice work, Buffy,” Nolan tells you.

“Wait, you’re Buffy?” Spike asks.

“Not happening,” you and Nyla exclaim together.

“I want a lawyer,” Spike demands.

“How’d you know all of this stuff?” Lucy inquires.

“I’ve heard about Hellmouth before, it’s unique enough that it wasn’t hard to piece together. And Bar Sinister was on my beat when I was a rookie. They used to know me in there, I could just walk in and high five a few people to respond to noise disturbance calls.”

“And kissing Tim, your Angel?” Nyla teases.

“Is something that I probably need to apologize for. Again.”

“Tim, wait up!” you call, jogging through the station parking lot.

When he turns, you stop suddenly and blink in surprise. Two white fangs glint in the streetlight above you, and though you can tell they’re fake, it still catches you off guard.

“Cute,” you murmur. “Look, I’m sorry for all the teasing and the comment about kissing you. It just- I guess it was my way of dealing with a weird day.”

Tim shrugs, and you offer your hand to shake his. He takes your hand, holding it rather than shaking it.

“Do Buffy and Angel end up together?” he asks clumsily around the cheap mouthpiece.

“I’m not spoiling the show for you. You’ll have to watch it for yourself.”

Tim smiles before he pulls your hand. You try to catch yourself rather than run into his chest, but Tim’s arm wraps around your waist and keeps you close as he dips his chin and kisses you. The plastic fangs hit your bottom lip as you raise your hands to hold Tim’s jaw. Tim moves with you, both of you forgetting about the fangs as you get lost in one another. When you pull back, breathless, Tim removes his hand from your waist and removes the mouthpiece, sliding it into his pocket for another time, you’re sure.

“So,” you begin slowly. “How’s your throat?”

Tim shakes his head and tightens his arm around your waist.

“Sorry,” you apologize. “Want to go watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer? You’re going to love Giles.”

“I’ve been shot, attacked by vampires, and had to dig through an urn to find illegal street drugs today, and you’re going to suggest we watch that?”

“You said you wanted to know who Buffy chooses.”

“I want to know what you are choosing,” Tim says, his eyes dropping quickly to your lips.

“I think you know,” you answer, laying your palm against his cheek. “But let’s try this without the fangs and I’ll let you know for sure.”

“Getting shot in the throat hurt less.”

You roll your eyes and push yourself against Tim’s chest to kiss him again. He might be quiet and mysterious at times, but you and he both know, in this moment, that he’s all you’ll ever want.

[waywardcryptid]

Adding a couple of things here as a trans man that works in a liquor store:

I have found that my overall tolerance is higher on T, though not by a lot, and I find that it is much more affected by how frequently I've been drinking, and this goes for most people in general. If you've been drinking every night for a week, by Sunday you're not going to be feeling as buzzed after a single drink as you were on Monday. So if you take a break for a week and don't drink at all you will be, as they say, "a cheap date" the next time you hit the bottle XD

Also, those tiny 50ml bottles of liquor are generally referred to as shooters. 200ml is a half-pint and 375ml is a pint!

The proverbial 'good shit' is frequently referred to as top shelf in a bar, and even in a liquor store it's common practice to keep that stuff on the top shelf because it's easier to see if someone is trying to steal it.

Alcohol tips for newbie writers (or non drinkers!):

At bars, people who order “chasers” after their shots are ordering something to wash down the taste of their shot with. This can be juice, soda, more alcohol, or even pickle juice

Hard liquor is generally sold in stores as shots (tiny bottles), fifths, liters, and handles or in ml (50, 100, 200 etc)

Most people can’t finish an entire fifth of hard liquor (vodka, etc) on their own without being very ill

Conversely, many people can finish an entire bottle of wine on their own without being ill

Liquor can be “bottom shelf” or “rail” or “well” – all synonyms for the cheapest version of alcohol a bartender has. Bars generally keep several “levels” of alcohol stocked

You order a drink with the alcohol first, then the mix – e.g., a “vodka soda” or a “Tito’s and tonic”

When you “close out a tab”, you pay for all of the drinks you’ve had that night. Either the bartender already has your card (you “opened a tab” earlier) or it was quiet enough that they just kept an eye on you and tallied your bill up at the end

“Doubles” are drinks or shots with double the standard pour of alcohol

In the US, most shots (pours) are 1.5 oz by default. 

Mixed drinks (gin and tonic, vodka lemonade, cosmos, etc) are generally made up of 1-2 shots and a mixer 

If you don’t specify which type of alcohol you’d like in a mixed drink (vodka cranberry, for example) the bartender will put whatever the “house” liquor is – and this depends entirely on the establishment. A dive bar will pour rail by default, whereas a nicer tavern might make all vodka cranberries with Tito’s

PLEASE TIP YOUR BARTENDERS THEY WILL REMEMBER YOU I PROMISE