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rqgnarok · 2 years 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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beardedmrbean · 28 days ago

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Three imprisoned Americans have been released after years of detention in China, the White House said Wednesday.

Mark Swidan, Kai Li, and John Leung have been released, a spokesperson for the National Security Council said, and they will soon "return and be reunited with their families for the first time in many years."

The Biden administration has repeatedly raised the issue of wrongfully detained Americans with Chinese officials. President Biden spoke with Chinese President Xi Jinping about the issue on the sidelines of the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit in Lima, Peru earlier in November.

Secretary of State Antony Blinken and National Security Adviser Jake Sullivan spoke to foreign minister Wang Yi about the release of wrongfully detained Americans during multiple meetings in recent months.

"Thanks to this Administration's efforts and diplomacy with the PRC, all of the wrongfully detained Americans in the PRC are home," the National Security Council spokesperson said.

Swidan, a 48-year-old Texas businessman, was on death row in China. He had been behind bars since 2012 after being charged with narcotics trafficking. Swidan has denied the charges, which the U.S. says are trumped-up. The State Department categorized him as wrongly detained, and has previously raised concerns about his health. His family said earlier this year they feared Swidan might take his own life while detained.

Li, 60, has been held in a Chinese prison since September 2016. He had a stroke in prison, according to John Kamm, executive director of Dui Hua Foundation, a human rights group that pushes for the release of those detained in China.

Leung, 78, was arrested in 2021 and sentenced to life in prison for espionage in May 2023. Few details have been shared about the case.

In a statement addressing Li's release, Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer credited Mr. Biden's "personal engagement with President Xi" with securing the release of the three men.

"For the families of those Americans newly freed by the Chinese government, this Thanksgiving there is so much to be thankful for," Schumer said.

David Lin, a 68-year-old American pastor imprisoned on fraud charges for 18 years, was released by China in September.

#nunyas news

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dudeshusband · 28 days ago

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i should redraw "you cannot get a dui on a horse in the state of north carolina" as dude and change it to texas for the funny ha has

#typewriter dings #(because you can't in texas either)

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officerwhitmore · 5 days ago

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Hey, Tony...

Monday hit Vincent like a bullet in the back. Just like last Monday, when he’d dolled himself up to get fucked by Tony, ended up with a hickey that could’ve ruined his life, and then ran out on him—an act that, if he were being honest, actually had ruined his life (which was admittedly melodramatic but didn’t feel any less true). And honestly? Vincent should’ve been far more fucking concerned about the fact that he’d haphazardly handed this one, very mysterious, insanely attractive, and large-dicked man from Texas the power to wreck him completely.

Was this why parents—including Vincent—warned their daughters to be careful with boys? That they weren’t all they were cracked up to be? That they could stumble into your universe, claim the center of it like they had a right, and then destroy it with their fists like the goddamn Hulk while you stood there slackjawed, powerless to stop the devastation because ’but Daddy, I love him?’ And really, this whole gay situation only made the equation more impossible to solve because, sure, Vincent knew he was the Hulk in Tony’s universe right now—but sometimes it felt like the roles were flipped. Sometimes it felt like Tony had smashed both of their worlds to pieces just by existing. Just by being so infuriatingly sweet, impossibly tall and muscular, dangerous-looking with that deep, southern molasses voice, those dark brown eyes, and that shark-toothed grin that radiated unfiltered sexual energy—<em>even</em> in a dirty apron or someone’s dead grandma’s step-uncle’s ancient flannel shirt.

It was 6:00-something PM, and June was in her bedroom upstairs, battling the after-school Monday blues by screech-laughing on Roblox with some friends from school whom Vincent had carefully vetted in his own time. You couldn’t exactly run background checks on children—because, like Tony, they had no records to check—but their immediate family members? Fair game. DUI in the ’90s? Happens to the best of us. A few bounced checks or a minor shoplifting charge from a decade ago? Not great, but forgivable. An arrest for public intoxication during a rowdy college football game? Annoying, but not damning. An old citation for disorderly conduct at a neighbor’s backyard barbecue? Not ideal, but understandable after a few beers. However, a domestic violence charge filed just last year? Or a police call detailing a heated, late-night argument that ended with property destruction and terrified neighbors? Those were the kinds of things that immediately nixed a kid from his approval-to-play-with-June list, no exceptions.

Even as he scrolled through public records on his work laptop late one night—his personal laptop shoved aside, guilty by association—he couldn’t stop the nagging discomfort clawing at the back of his mind. This was overkill. He knew it was overkill. The logical, decent part of him reminded him that most of these kids’ parents were probably harmless screwups, the kind of people who racked up parking tickets or got into petty arguments with their HOA over mailbox colors. Not predators. Not monsters. But then, the darker memories crept in—the ones he didn’t let himself think about too often. That case in Coldwater, the one that made his stomach churn even now, years later. It had started with a routine tip about an unpaid parking violation and ended with something so insidious he couldn’t even bring himself to say the words aloud anymore. He shuddered at the thought, the bile rising in his throat.

So, yeah. He knew he was abusing his power. It wasn’t the first time he’d wrestled with that ugly truth. He hated that he had access to these records at all, hated that being a cop gave him the ability to dig into someone’s life just because he felt like it. There was a rottenness to it, the kind that made his skin crawl, but when it came to June, his guilt didn’t matter. Not compared to the nagging fear that he might miss something—something small, something buried, something that could put her in danger. He couldn’t afford to stop. Not after what he’d seen. Not after what he knew. It wasn’t right, though, and he couldn’t pretend it was. He’d look himself in the mirror afterward and feel the weight of his own hypocrisy pressing down on his chest, hot and suffocating. But he told himself it was worth it. It had to be. If it meant keeping June safe, he’d carry that weight. Even if it made him sick. Even if it made him hate himself.

Another thing that made him hate himself? What he was doing right now, sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, the screen dimmed just enough to be soothing but not enough to hide the shameful sheen on his face. His thumb swiped aimlessly through a femboy subreddit (on his porn alt, not his main, because he wasn’t a complete idiot), his left hand softly pawing at his cock through his sweats, willing it to come to life. The carousel of scantily clad young men in skirts and thigh-highs blurred together, their poses coquettish and calculated to entice. Normally, he might have felt something—a flicker of heat, a stir of interest—but tonight it was like trying to light a match in a downpour. Nothing. Just static. His chest tightened with a pang of frustration as he lingered on one photo a moment too long—a dark-skinned man with dreadlocks leaning back against the trunk of some sleek BMW with his short velvet skirt pitched high by a long, hard cock only <em>just</em> hidden beneath the fabric. Though it made something tickle in his stomach, his hand softly tightening around the shape of his length, the image did little more than remind him how hollow he felt.

With a sharp exhale, he backed out of the page, his thumb finding its way to another subreddit. This one presented him with slim-muscular men: taut torsos, sharply cut jaws, and those broad shoulders he always gravitated toward, faces that exuded confidence and a touch of arrogance. The first few photos were strangers, all technically attractive, but as his thumb scrolled, their features started to shift. His mind twisted every sharp brow, every smirking mouth, every shadowed jawline into Tony’s. Every image became Tony leaned back against that green leather couch, his broad chest stretching the fabric of his red button-down, his sharp, lust-drunk eyes cutting through Vince’s defenses like a knife.

It wasn’t long before Vince stopped scrolling, his hand falling limp in his lap as he stared blankly at the screen. The air in the room felt heavier, his throat tight as if his body were trying to ward off the memories threatening to overtake him. But it was useless. Tony was everywhere now, inescapable, his image burned into Vince’s mind with a ferocity that made him ache. The screen was paused on a post—some curly-haired fitness model with a cock hard enough to knock down Sears Tower—but it wasn’t his broad shoulders or the careful line of his abs that Vincent saw. Instead, he heard Tony’s voice, low and rough, murmuring something that wasn’t even sexy but still made Vincent’s stomach tighten. He closed the app with a sharp flick of his thumb, frustration bubbling in his chest as his mind betrayed him again. “Fuck this,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the phone onto the bed.

That led to the inevitable, didn’t it? The restless pull in his stomach, the ache that settled low in his body, and the gnawing need to exorcize Tony’s ghost any way he could. He jerked off like a man trying to erase a memory, forcing his focus onto something explicit—anything explicit—but it didn’t work. Not really. The man in the photo was there in his mind, sure—thick blonde curls and long, blushed cock—but it was Tony’s crooked smile that burned in the back of Vincent’s mind, the thought of his hands rough but steady on his hips, his broad chest warm and unyielding. When it was over, Vince let out a heavy sigh that sounded more like defeat than relief, staring at the mess he’d made and feeling emptier than before—just like it had the three other times he’d done it that day, numb and waiting for June to return so he’d have something to do other than jerk off and daydream about killing himself. He didn’t even bother cleaning up right away, just leaned back into the mattress and dragged a hand over his face, muttering, “You’re pathetic.”

Fifteen minutes later, hands washed, stomach cleaned, still feeling like total garbage, Vincent wandered downstairs and flipped on the TV out of sheer desperation, settling on a Bulls game because it was live and required no commitment. He let the mindless buzz of the commentators fill the room, his eyes tracking the movement of players across the court. It worked, for a little while. He could almost convince himself he was engaged—until one of the players stepped up to the free-throw line. Tall, muscular, with a cocky air and a predatory focus that practically radiated from the screen. Vincent felt his chest tighten, his mind whispering that familiar, unbearable name.

Goddammit, Tony.

Vincent’s jaw clenched, his fists pressing hard against his thighs, knuckles white as if bracing against the unbearable tension in his chest. He couldn’t take this—couldn’t sit here, drowning in his own head, as some random athlete on the screen reminded him of the man he’d spent the past week trying and failing to forget. The dull, pounding headache from the morning—courtesy of last night’s gut-wrenching sobs—had lingered all day, making everything feel muted, gray. It wasn’t pain anymore, not exactly. It was a heavy, numbing ache that pressed against his skull and made it impossible to focus on anything but the void gnawing at his insides.

His phone sat next to him, black and silent, like it was mocking him. It hadn’t buzzed all day, not with anything meaningful, and certainly not with the response he’d been stupid enough to hope for. He’d woken up that morning feeling gross and clammy, the fabric of his boxers uncomfortably sticky against his skin, and had immediately snatched his phone off the floor where he’d thrown it the night before. Nothing. No reply to the Kyle joke, no acknowledgment that he even existed. Tony’s silence had been like a slap to the face, but worse than the slap was the absence of surprise. Why the hell would Tony want anything to do with him after everything he’d put him through?

But now, hours later, with the dim glow of the TV casting strange shadows across the room, that stupid little device might as well have been alive, daring him to pick it up. His heart thundered in his chest as he grabbed it, opening their chat before he could think better of it. His fingers hovered over the blank message box beneath Tony’s name, his breath catching as the pressure in his chest tightened into something unbearable. Vince knew he should stop—knew he should leave Tony alone and save what little shred of dignity he had left. But self-control had never been his strong suit, and the urge to text him again, to say something, anything, was an iron grip around his lungs.

And then, against every ounce of logic, he started typing.

Hey… 🙃

Just wanted to check in and see if you're doing okay. Also! Any luck on the jacket hunt? 👀 I know some places around town that have a good selection. I'd be willing to drop you an addy if you like. (That means address. 😜)

@tex-mex-tony

#anthony castile #Cedar Point #maplewood lane #vincent's house #text thread #hey tony...

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jackals-ships · 24 days ago

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horse upd8 that there IS a rider an the neighbors ALSO don't know what's going on but the dude is looking for his wife ? which made me more 👀👀

i also googled can you get a DUI while on a horse. the answer is no, in Texas prolly not

#jackals barks #i was like were they riding drunk? is it jus him? an WHY on my neighbors PORCH !!

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dwi-lawyer-houston · 3 months ago

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youtube

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hotchfiles · 9 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 · 5 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 · 8 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 · 2 years 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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chateautangerine · 2 years 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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