#Texas DUI | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rqgnarok · 1 year ago

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dial drunk - tommy miller

fandom: the last of us (tv show and video game)

wc: 2,703

warnings: alcoholism and mentions of alcohol abuse, drunk character, maybe PTSD? pre-outbreak. no use of specific pronouns.

summary: tommy calls you in the middle of the night, hammered and asking for a favor.

inspired by noah kahan’s dial drunk. author’s note at the end.

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

Tommy knows the drill.

He’s been here enough times to recognize the officer pulling him over, asking after his wife and kids as he steps out of the truck on unsteady feet. He’s all Southern charm and pleasantries as he fails his breath test and is unable to walk in a straight line for the officer to see.

“Come on, man,” he says, aiming for placating and pretty much landing it. He’s not his mama’s favorite for nothing, getting out of trouble Joel would’ve been grounded over when he was his age with big cow eyes and flimsy excuses. “Paperwork’s shit, right? Lemme make a call and someone will take me off your hands for the night.”

The officer tightens his mouth into a grimace, unconvinced.

“Look, if this gets nowhere then I’ll ride with you nice and quiet,” he bargains with as much honesty as one can convey when being the youngest boy in a nice Catholic Texan family. There aren’t better credentials than those when pleading your innocence. “I’ll even play it up in front of your boss to make you look good, yeah? Just one call, promise.”

Hook, line, and sinker. The officer’s shoulders drop a little and he’s offering his cell phone for Tommy to call. “One call. Then you’re done.”

“Yessir.”

Tommy grins innocently as best as he can with double the legal limit of alcohol in his blood and a phone between his ear and shoulder. The man stands there with his arms crossed looking like he’d rather be anywhere but bringing his ass in for a DUI at two AM on a Wednesday.

“‘lo?” you call sleepily, finally picking up. Tommy doesn’t restrain his victorious grunt. “...Tommy?”

“Hey, sweets,” he slurs a little, clearing his throat. “Sorry for wakin’ you. I need a favor.”

“Tommy,” you say again, tired. If Tommy were any less drunk, he’d realize it’s not lack of sleep that has you sounding like that. He’s shitfaced and thinking about the monumental kick in the ass waiting for him at home when Joel realizes he hotwired and stole his truck to get a drink at the nearest bar.

“I know, I know, listen,” he cuts you off before you can say anything else, sneaking a look at the officer’s crossed arms and disappointed stance. “You remember the way to the precinct, right? From last time?”

Last time, when Tommy got into a brawl outside a bar he was not supposed to be in, and accepted your worried fussing with barely concealed annoyance, gripping your wrists and taking your hands off his bruised face. You’d driven him to your place because he’d promised Joel to steer clear of trouble for at least a few months, and his breath still reeked of alcohol by the time you came to pick him up.

You told him then you weren’t doing this again. But you always say that. And you always come when he calls.

Your moms had grown up together in Texas and were ecstatic about the fact that their two littlest ones would come into the world so close together. You and Tommy were inseparable because the universe had dictated it– and nothing could interfere between you. Not his dad dying when he and Joel were still too young, not Tommy having to repeat fifth grade and no longer sharing a classroom with you, not you going off to college and Tommy joining the army straight out of high school.

But then he came home. And he came home different.

The shit he’d seen overseas was nasty, but that’s not what drove him to drink himself stupid every night. At least that’s what he thinks. Soon his habits began seeing the light of day; vodka mixed in his morning coffee and hidden in a water bottle during lunch with the boys at the construction site. Life became a blur when he was drinking and an agonizingly slow nightmare when he wasn’t.

Joel wasn’t the first to notice but he’d been the first to say something about it. Next time you come to my home reeking of a cheap ass bar in front of my kid I’m kicking your ass out. I’m serious, Tommy. This shit has to stop.

And Tommy had believed him. So he turned to the next person he knew that would do anything for him. You came home from college despite your dreams to outrun this town, and soon it was your number he had memorized even when his brain called it quits and left him alone in his blackouts.

“I do,” you say, and Tommy’s already thinking about sleeping it off on your sorry excuse of a couch. It’s a slow night, only a couple of drunken bums sleeping off their hangovers in a quaint police station in fucking Arlington, Texas. But Tommy would take your couch any day, even if it means fucking up his back for the rest of the week. “But I’m not coming to get you, Tommy. Call Joel.”

“Sweetheart,” he croons into the phone, low and mellow like he’d talk to pretty girls at parties in high school. The same ones you’d go to only because he begged you to come with, acting like a jealous boyfriend when someone wouldn’t leave you alone. “Please. I’ll pay you back, you know I’m good for it.”

He’d put a possessive arm around your waist, standing behind you and smiling icily at whoever was pestering you. We got a problem here?

There’s silence at the other side of the line, sheets rustling. Tommy can picture you sitting up, phone to your ear, biting the inside of your cheek nervously.

More like Joel is, but hey. He took the big brother act to heart the second Tommy was born. He’s been bailing him out of shit as long as Tommy’s been alive, why would tonight be any different?

Joel, who’s always told him, first jokingly and then not so much, that you were too good for Tommy. Too smart, too kind, with too much integrity for someone like his little brother.

The older Miller had taken a liking to you pretty soon after Tommy did; wiping the dirt off scraped knees and your tears from chubby child cheeks after placing a bandaid with gentle, unsure fingers. Giving you a ride when you insisted on walking home, leaving the back door open for you whenever being home got too rough for you.

That man knew you’d be the best thing to ever happen to his brother in his entire life. Too bad the idiot didn’t realize it, pushing your limits until you couldn’t take it any longer.

“I’m not bailing you out of jail, Tommy,” you sigh, annoyance creeping over the hesitation in your tone. You were never good at saying no to him, even when you were both in diapers and Tommy wanted your dinosaur plushie so bad he threw a tantrum until his mom took him in her arms. “When I said last time was the last time, I meant it. I’m sick of this shit.”

“Come on,” he scoffs, saying your name in a way he knows you hate, like you’re the one being unreasonable. “I’ll give you a kiss and everything. You still like that, don’t you?”

“Fuck you,” you snap on the other side of the line. He knows you well enough to know what buttons to push. Reminding you of your first kiss is a trick he’s never, never pulled on you before, though. “Don’t fucking say that, don’t use that against me.”

You’d been seventeen and without a date to the prom. The guy you were thinking about asking had laughed in your face when you offhandedly mentioned going together and Tommy had refused to let you sulk alone. He’d climbed into your room through your window and wrapped his arm around you the second your lip wobbled, tears wetting your cheeks.

Tell me who I have to kill, he’d said before you ever told him what was wrong. He’s always been like that, hot-headed and protective, especially when it comes to you. Willing to fight anyone who’s ever slightly wronged you but not realizing when he’s done it himself.

You laughed into his shirt, snotty and miserable as he tightened his grip around you. Come on, sweets, fuck that guy. Like he’s even good enough for you.

You confessed with a burning embarrassment how you’d seen yourself kissing him– more out of the need to get your first kiss over with than actual want– and Tommy’s face had gone through a bunch of complicated emotions before settling on something sweet, shy, resolute. He’d thumbed at your chin thoughtfully, fingers just barely brushing over your bottom lip.

Tommy had his first kiss when he was thirteen with Amy Hill behind the church his mother dragged them to every Sunday morning, but you’d never seen him that nervous. He failed to look into your eyes as he stuttered out his suggestion. If you wanna get it out of the way then maybe– I don’t know. Why not do it with someone who actually cares about you?

You’d looked at him in scrutiny as if you’d never taken a good look at him before. He self-consciously thought about his fair skin and his freckles, if his hair was still a mess from football practice, and if his breath smelled somewhat okay after having that sandwich for lunch.

You offerin’, Miller?

Yeah, he’d said instead of something stupid like haven’t you heard? I’m a catch. He murmured bashfully, finally meeting your eyes. Yeah, sweets, I guess I am.

He’d licked his lips and drew a path with his fingers from your temple to behind your ear before cupping the side of your jaw, breath hot. Just– punch me in the face or something if you don’t want to.

You hadn’t. He’d closed the gap between you and you kissed him back slowly, hesitantly, diving back in again after he drew away. He was too short of breath for a chaste kiss that had lasted a couple of seconds, and the second time around his tongue flickered past his lips. Your hands on his shirt tightened in response, a helpless sound leaving your mouth that neither of you had been expecting.

He hadn’t known about your crush then. Maybe that’s when it first started, some Tuesday night with a kiss in your childhood bedroom, but Tommy doesn’t remember ever becoming aware of it. He just knew, suddenly, and enough things had happened in the in-between from then to now for him to consider using it against you.

His drunken brain thinks differently, though.

“Don’t be like that, sweets,” the nickname had never bothered you before, born out of Tommy watching too many old movies one night the babysitter failed to show up and Joel fell asleep on the couch. You’d never questioned him when he started calling you that, probably liking it a little too much for it to be a friendly thing between you. “You can act all high and mighty next time, alright? Just come pick me up before Joel realizes he ain’t got a ride for work tomorrow mornin’.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you curse vehemently. You haven’t been to church in the years you’ve been back from college, much to your mama’s dismay. “You know what? Whatever. That’s Joel’s problem now, not mine. Call him.”

“I’m asking you for a favor,” he says through gritted teeth, suddenly irritated. His characteristic charm is gone just like that. “Why are you being so fucking difficult?”

“I’m done watching you wreck your life, Tommy,” you say with finality. He scoffs pettily. “I’m not picking up again, tonight or ever. Call Joel.”

A click. Then nothing.

He says your name and the dial tone laughs back at him. And Tommy–

Tommy can’t actually believe it. He takes the phone off his ear and stares at it, dumbfounded, like looking at it long enough will get you back on the line.

He hears the officer blow air out his mouth and the evening suddenly comes into sharpening clearness; the cold November air biting at his face, the taste of whiskey in his mouth. His hands are sweating from where he’s gripping his phone, the tag of his jacket is rubbing uncomfortably against the back of his neck.

You’ve never hung up on him before.

“That it?” the officer asks with the lack of patience that’s characteristic of the night shift.

“I– what? No, no,” he shakes his head, already dialing again. “Just– just give me a second.”

“Night ain’t young, man,” he grumbles, already reaching for his cuffs. Tommy takes a step back, suddenly out of his depth. “One call. Time’s up.”

“I’ll– I’ll go okay? I’ll go, just let me– let me call again,” the trembling of his fingers has nothing to do with his current state– Tommy feels like every single drop of alcohol has vaporized from his blood and now he’s left cold and in trouble and alone.

Fuck. Fuck, you’d never hung up on him before.

He calls again, once, twice, before the officer finally loses his patience. “Alright, kid. Whoever you’re callin’ they don’t wanna answer. You can have your one phone call at the precinct. Get someone else, though, huh?”

Tommy doesn’t want to. Tommy shouldn’t have to, a sudden rush of self-righteous anger washing over him with enough force to gridlock his entire body with tension. His jaw tightens and teeth grind together, his shoulders straighten into a taunt, painful line, holding onto the phone so tightly it shakes, the shapes of it making indentations on his skin.

How dare you? How fucking dare you? Friends since fucking birth, does that mean nothing to you? Now you’re throwing him away like a fucking dirty rag?

Call Joel, you had said, and Joel is enough of an asshole to keep Tommy in the can overnight to teach him a lesson, but you? You two have always looked out for each other, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go–

“I don’t have all night, buddy,” the officer gets his hands on him to take back his phone and beckon him to the car. Tommy flails as an automatic response, fighting back against the unwanted touch. But whether he feels like it or not he’s still drunk and in the blink of an eye he’s got his face against the hood of a police car, red and blue lights hurting his eyes, and a tight hand around the back of his neck keeping him somewhat still.

The officer mumbles something about Tommy causing more trouble than he’s worth and ain’t that a popular opinion tonight? “You’re gonna cause yourself any more trouble, son?”

Tommy snorts. Son, like the guy’s not just a couple of years older than him. He’s pretty sure they crossed paths once or a hundred times back in high school.

The ride to the precinct is as uncomfortable as it gets. The heat in the car isn’t working so Tommy’s freezing his ass off in the back of the car, handcuffs digging into his wrists. His nose is bleeding all over his clothes, and hurting like a bitch where the officer had to punch him when Tommy’s fight response wouldn’t quit.

And you, in the back of his mind. He pictures you asleep after his little interruption and his anger is enough of a fire inside of him to drown out the disbelief, the blatant hurt that threatens to kill him more than his broken nose does.

He’ll pop the thing back into place later in the cell but this? You? As the hours pass by and clarity regains its home in his awareness, he doesn’t see a way around this. A scenario in which he calls again and you listen, where you talk to him and he doesn’t feel like you kicked him to the curb over fucking nothing. A few drinks. A favor. Best friends, his ass.

He’ll keep calling, though. Even if he has to spend the night in jail because you don’t pick up. He’ll dial drunk until he dies, just for you.

______

tommy u silly little goose

since noah’s album came out last week i’ve had this song on repeat and i desperately wanted to write a fic about it. idk why my mind instantly went to tommy. i’m thinking of a post-outbreak sequel but i won’t confirm anything until it’s actually in the works.

thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it! the lack of tommy fics is astounding to me, especially since gabriel luna is one of the most beautiful and talented men i’ve ever seen.

reminder that commissions are open and support is always appreciated!

#tommy miller #gabriel luna #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #reader insert #leo writes #tommy x reader #tommy miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal

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hotchfiles · 8 months ago

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the anger thing was mostly because he was very strict about his schedule @ anon because he flew to texas to be with his kids

apparently he had a lot of issues with shemar mostly about him being late and messing up the schedule

and only tg was so uptight with it so producers thought it was a bit selfish of him

he also had a dui and got his license suspended and had to be driven from and to set and the producers considered that a strike as well

#lari talks a lot

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rajeevsunkara123 · 4 months ago

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Rajeev SUNKARA

Rajeev Sunkara is a seasoned criminal defense lawyer based in Fort Worth, Texas. With years of experience and a deep understanding of the legal system, Rajeev has built a reputation for providing top-notch legal representation to clients facing criminal charges. His expertise spans various areas of criminal law, including DUI/DWI, drug offenses, assault, theft, and more.

#Rajeev SUNKARA #El Paso #TX

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heelhausen · 7 months ago

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felony DUI (swerve/crash)

FELONY DUI IS THE FUNNIEST POSSIBLE SHIP NAME AND IM SCREAMING

Crash is at his best when he’s a funny oversized purse dog to an insane bastard, so I can see them making a good heel pair where Crash is acting as security/protection to Heel Champ Swerve.

Plus lbrh crash would’ve seen the Texas deathmatch and gotten so hard he blacked out. And then immediately upon coming to wouldve run to swerves DMs and been like. Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy :3c do u need a lap dog :3c I’ll bite if u ask me to

It’s also one of those inevitability things where if you swerve, you’re gonna crash. And if you face swerve, you’re gonna lose and then go back to your locker room and find crash waiting with a hockey stick so he can make damn sure you remember not to step to swerve ever again

[Have your followers send in suggestions for ships for your OC, and you describe how good/bad/amazing/disastrous/hilarious it would end up.]

#askhausen #oc: crash #anonymous #anon I am stealing that name that’s so fucking good #swervecrash

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sataniccapitalist · 1 year ago

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youtube

Cops charged a man with a false DUI, but body camera exposed the truth!

Thomas, a Texas firefighter, was driving in Denton County when he was suddenly pulled over by local sheriffs. Despite being completely sober, he quickly found himself railroaded into a DUI charge by police, who claimed he appeared "slow" and "heavy footed." Body camera footage has since revealed that the arresting officers even commented during the arrest that they did not believe Thomas was drunk. So why was Thomas arrested, and what does this reveal about the capricious nature of police power? Police Accountability Report examines the evidence.

#copwatchers #cop #first amendment #texas #Youtube

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dwi-lawyer-houston · 2 months ago

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chateautangerine · 1 year ago

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character sheet.

full name: quincy clifford bailey. nickname: cliff (practically exclusively). quinn, quinny. alias: none. pronouns: he/him. height: 5'10". age: 34. zodiac: dragon, cancer. spoken languages: english.

physical characteristics.

hair: blonde and long to about the start of his jaw. straight, curling/rolling at the end. facial hair: none, clean shaven. his facial hair is a darker blonde than the hair on his head. he grows facial hair easily. eyes: large, sky blue eyes, almost sleepy, quiet, or soft, occasionally with a slight puffiness. there's a sweetness to them, although i wouldn't consider cliff himself sweet. skin tone: fair but not pale. he can tan. body type: average build and weight. he does not exercise regularly and has a softer middle. voice: he has a regional dallas accent and is notably soft- or sweet-voiced, perhaps spacey or often with a wistful lilt. not deep. cliff never raises his voice and, when particularly low, he croaks. sounds like owen wilson. dominant hand: left. posture: mostly very casual—hands in pockets, arms folded. he can sink deep in chairs or lean an elbow on one arm [of a chair] with his legs crossed. he often does not take up space or assert his presence. scars: none. birthmarks: none. must notable features: crooked nose. it was broken twice.

childhood.

place of birth: dallas, texas. hometown: dallas, texas. siblings: none. parents: roger bailey (father) and charlotte bailey (mother).

adult life.

occupation: author. current residence: dependent. close friends: none. he has a lot of acquaintances, but no strong relationship with any substance. financial status: middle. driver's license: yes. he drives a white 1964 austin-healey 3000 series iii. financial status: middle. criminal record: nothing appalling and only driving infractions like speeding, blowing red lights, a couple of duis. he once got called for driving his car into someone's garden. vices: smoking, alcohol, and psychedelics drugs like dmt, psilocybin, and mescaline. praise—he craves and needs to feel encouraged and seen.

love and romance.

sexual orientation: insofar as experiences go, he has only slept with women and has only ever felt a particular want to sleep with women. he would be open to sleeping with other men, but it's never happened. i'd consider him more hetero, but not absolutely and strictly. preferred emotional role: no preference. i don't even believe cliff plays any role. he tends to not deal with emotions whether they're his own or someone else's. he can be emotionally unavailable. preferred sexual role: switch. turn offs: aggression and antagonism, lack of consideration, belittling and mocking. tactlessly and bluntly honest. love languages: to receive: physical touch, quality time (even if it's shared silence), and words of affirmation. to give: physical touch and quality time. relationship tendencies: he can fall easily for anyone who gives him positive attention, praise, or validation, and he almost never verbally admits to being in love until the relationship has broken off—he's terrible with genuine and threatening emotional vulnerability and will avoid being in a position where he can be extremely hurt. for that same reason, when he gets too close, he can suddenly pull away. "ghosting"? this can be hard for people to pick up on, too. he's so spacey and is inherently, to a degree, emotionally removed or subdued.

miscellaneous.

character theme tune: "gymnopédies no. 1" by erik satie. hobbies to pass time: writing. reading. drinking and substance use, occasionally with tennyson or fernando pessoa. driving or aimlessly cruising in his car. takes roping lessons, like lassoing and wrangling cattle on horseback (he's a hobbyist and can't compete. he can mainly only rope dummies while stationary on his own two feet). wine tasting. left- or right-brained: right. self-confidence level: low.

tagged by: @godpyre and @indeath (ty!) tagging: @vilestblood, @vullcanica (any), @lykaiia, @ohshadow, @sparrowsfall, @tewwor (any), @vanishinq

#( ct: tagged. )#( ct: hc. )#( ct: cliff. )#i rattle him like a snow globe

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injurylawfirmhouston · 1 year ago

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vomitdodger · 2 years ago

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Austin Texas. Essentially the socialist woke capital of the south. And you know what goes with that…all the defund the police BS. And the cops excuse was just that, “understaffed and underfunded”. That statement would of course have to be legitimized but it sure sounds worthy.

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dwidallas · 2 years ago

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erbjrlawtx · 2 years ago

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