#bobby bones show

[heckyestaylorhicks]

[petnews2day]

Bobby’s Dog Stanley Has to Have ACL Surgery on Other Leg

New Post has been published on https://petn.ws/faZg1

Bobby’s Dog Stanley Has to Have ACL Surgery on Other Leg

Unfortunately, Bobby Bones dog, Stanley has torn his other ACL. He’s just recovered from getting ACL surgery on his other leg a few months ago. His vet texted him with the news yesterday, while Bones was already having a bad day. He said it was a nightmare to deal with last time, but he’s choosing […]

See full article at https://petn.ws/faZg1 #DogNews #ACL, #BobbyBones, #BobbyBonesShow, #Dog, #Stanley

[bobbys-not-that-small]

I really love the bit between Flo and George on the boat in the show. From the books we know that George sees through physical appearance and likes Flo for who she is, but the main interactions we actually see between them (i.e. not Flo tending to him when he’s injured) are very awkward but cute stilted conversations.

But the show gives us this gorgeous scene where George is not in his right mind due to the bone glass and Flo immediately clocks what’s going on and treats him like I’d imagine you’d seriously/firmly but lovingly speak to a friend struggling with mental health. Because she knows what it’s like to not be ok. She just cares for him so deeply as a friend first and foremost, walks him to DEPRAC, reassures him repeatedly that he’s strong enough.

This has just turned into a Flo appreciation post. We all need a Flo in our lives.

Bonus massive shoutout to Hayley Konadu for nailing the Look™ of someone who immediately sees and understands.

[m0ose-idiot]

The Deaths of Button House

Being herewith a complete and chronological collection of the upstairs deaths at Button House and its grounds.

Featuring obligatory live-action footage...

[darkphoenix180]

[eddiegettingshot]

all i can think is that that opening date scene COULD actually be good for buck and tommy and maybe we’ll all sigh and roll our eyes. but it could also be more hilarious than any of us would have ever imagined, better than 7x09’s leaving room for god, and we could really spend the next four months giggling about this non-entity… statistically speaking this option seems more likely

[wellgoslowly]

i really liked those fix’s you recommended <3 i was wondering if you had anymore recs i’d love to hear them and read them !!!! thanks so much bae <3

hehehe I live to serve :) also IM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO GET THIS OUT!!! it's revving up on finals for me and I've been hella stressed I'm so sorry

I love you toast - [1/1] lucy accidentally confesses her love for lockwood and tries to cover it up, leading to unresolved tension

you lost the battle, we both won the war - [1/1] lockwood gets jealous of kipps (as per usual), which leads to an interesting discussion between him and lucy (warning: implied sexual content- nothing more graphic than making out is actually written)

first and final - [1/1] lockwood asks lucy to be his first kiss, but only for business purposes of course.

like life, like fury - [1/1] 5 times lockwood wanted to kiss lucy, and one time when he actually did

the weight of us series - [6 works] lucy and lockwood have a lot of close calls and lockwood is desperately trying not to kiss lucy the entire time. (warnings: angst, discussions of sexual content but nothing graphic)

what we'll become - [4/20] lockwood & co, now working as an agency under fittes, go to the north of England to work a job and end up recruiting a new team member [or, au in which lockwood steals lucy from jacobs]. (warnings: rn as it stands there's only sexual tension but it's tagged as having sexual content.)

I met you in the dark, you lit me up - [1/1] lockwood overhears a conversation at a restaurant between a couple and decides to intervene on behalf of the gorgeous girl sitting with her prick of a boyfriend. (warnings: controlling partner, verbal abuse, body image issues)

if you want any more let me know!! once again I'm so sorry this took so long :)

[loverboydotcom]

AUTISM HAUL!!!

the spirit of bobby told me i needed to get the judas priest vinyl and I think it looks cool 👍 new order because true faith is felix’s favourite song ever so im sure he has substance on repeat 👍 gaga and my best friend george beautiful charity shop finds 👍 then i went a little crazy in the small indie bookstores 👍

[innytoes]

ohh how about 9. I work at the pumpkin patch and that is an alarming amount of gourds you got there, buddy, with willie collecting the gourds? also, happy decorative gourd season!!

Reggie loves his job at the pumpkin patch. The pay is decent, it's more fun than stocking shelves at the supermarket, and he loves seeing all the excited kids run around trying to find The Perfect Pumpkin. Also, he gets to take home some of the leftover cider donuts they sell at the little stall next to his sometimes.

Also, today he made a baby stop crying by juggling tiny gourds, so he felt kind of like a superhero.

It's not all families, of course. Their clientele also consists of hipsters, goths, cute couples on romantic pumpkin picking dates, people really really into fall, and Instagram Lifestyle Influencers. Thank god he gets to call Bobby when those come around. Bobby likes either flirting with them, or being nasty about their follower count and their 'lazy-ass diy projects', depending on whether or not they're trying to scam them out of free gourds or not.

Their boss actually gave them both cider donuts and a whole pumpkin pie, the day Bobby made an Influencer cry and vow never to return. Apparently she'd been terrorising the pumpkin patch for years.

The guy coming up to their table now, well, he was pretty enough to be an Influencer. Like, really, really pretty. His long hair was in a messy bun, and he was wearing a crop top with pumpkins all over it under a pair of paint-stained overalls.

Reggie really, really hoped he wasn't trying to scam them out of free pumpkins. Because he had a lot. Like, he'd taken one of the little wagons they usually gave to the kids and had a virtual pyramid of pumpkins on it. Big ones, small ones, weirdly shaped ones that people usually left in the field. Then, Reggie realised he’d somehow hitched a second wagon onto the first one, with another pile of gourds.

"That's uh... that's an alarming amount of gourds you have there, buddy," Reggie said, kicking himself. That was neither the suave pick-up line he'd wanted to say, or a customer-friendly meaningless pleasantry.

"I know, right?" The guy said, delighted. "I think I'm gonna need to borrow your wagon to get them all to the car, sorry."

"That's alright, I can help carry them if you want," Reggie said.

"Really? That'd be awesome!" Gourd Guy beamed. "I um, I kind of lost count out there, so I have no idea what my total is gonna be. But my budget is five hundred bucks so... I think we should be good."

"You have a budget of five hundred dollars for pumpkins?" Reggie asked incredulously. God, he really couldn't control his mouth around this guy.

"I mean, my boss gave me five hundred dollars to pick out new Halloween decoration for the Club," he said. "And he told me to make it classy. 'None of that plastic stuff, William.'" He made a severe face, lowering his voice as he pretended to be his boss.

"I mean, gourds are super classy," Reggie agreed, even though he had no idea what counted as classy. If he was given 500 bucks for Halloween decoration, he probably would have blown it on that 12 foot skeleton he'd seen online.

"I'm gonna get some black and purple and gold spray paint as well. Maybe use some paint pens and make some of them extra fancy." William wriggled with excitement at the idea.

"That sounds so cool," Reggie said, as he started to line up gourds and count them. "Are you an artist?" The paint-splattered overalls made it seem that way. He bet William was really pretty when he was all in the zone.

"Myeah, mostly grafitti stuff, though. You can check me out on Insta, I'm under willie.ortega.art." Bobby, who had perked up at the mention of Instagram, wandered over. Reggie wanted to glare at him. For once, he wanted to flirt with the cute Instagram-haver.

“Oh dude, you’re actually pretty good,” Bobby said, holding his phone so Reggie could see. Willie wasn’t just pretty good. He was amazing. His page showed big sweeping murals, as well as a surprising number of custom skateboard decks. Also some little street art scenes in surprising places.

“Hey, I know that one! It’s right near my favourite dog park!” Reggie beamed. “It makes me laugh every time.”

Willie beamed proudly, a pleased smile staying on his face as he gazed at Reggie with soft, pretty eyes.

“Of course your follower count-” Bobby started, before Reggie quickly turned around and shoved a hand over his mouth.

“Back off, he’s cute and he’s paying and he’s mine,” he hissed. He didn’t want to see Bobby try to make Willie cry. Bobby looked from Willie to Reggie and back with doubtful, squinting eyes, before Willie took out his wallet awkwardly. Then he shrugged, bit Reggie’s hand for good measure, and wandered off.

Reggie turned back, embarrassed. “Sorry about him, we’ve been having some problems with people trying to get free stuff and...” He looked up to see him watching him, a flirty smile on his face.

“Oh sure, influencers. They try to get VIP treatment at the club as well,” Willie said. “I was more interested in the other parts of that sentence. The part where you said I’m cute.”

Oh. Oh no. He’d heard that?

“And yours.”

“Uuuuum!” Reggie spluttered, but Willie just grinned at him, helping unload his many pumpkins onto the table. Their fingers brushed probably more than necessary, and the way the guy kept smirking at Reggie’s blush, he was pretty sure it was on purpose.

The pumpkin counting seemed to go on forever, not that Reggie was in a rush. In the end, Willie’s total came to 210 dollars worth of gourds, which wasn’t shabby. They were definitely getting leftover cider donuts tonight.

And, if Reggie was lucky, maybe a phone number as well.

[dylanconrique]

if they wrote Nolan as the show's Bobby Nash, it would really fix a lot of things about Nolan's character.

you're so right, nonnie. i know we wouldn't even have a show without nolan, but honestly who is watching it for him anyway?? at least nash is.. idk... more self aware of his past and his faults??? i mean, let's face it, of the two, nash clearly has the more tragic backstory. he accidentally started a fire that killed his wife and young kids, which made his already very serious alcohol addiction spiral even further out of his control. while, from what i can remember the only background we have on nolan is that he is divorced, has pete davidson as a half brother, and his son has/had a fatal heart condition.

idk i just feel like whenever there's an obstacle nolan has to face the writer's make quick work for him to resolve it within an episode or two, and never touch on it again. whereas with bobby they hinted from the very beginning of 9-1-1 that he has a dark past, delved deeper into it in "bobby begins again", and even after that it's still mentioned quite often. because that is apart of nash and who he is. nolan just rebounds so quickly from one sticky situation to the next without any kind of reflective period at all. bobby is haunted. john is the village idiot who keeps getting stuck trying to walk through a puddle of quicksand instead of going around it.

[heckyestaylorhicks]

undefined

From Taylor’s Instagram Story

[petnews2day]

Phone Screener Abby Caught Neighbor’s Dog Pooping In Her Yard With Camera

New Post has been published on https://petn.ws/wXtJ4

Phone Screener Abby Caught Neighbor’s Dog Pooping In Her Yard With Camera

A dog in Abby’s apartment complex is pooping all over yard and their owner isn’t picking up after them. She didn’t know whose dog it was or what to do, so the show shared some advice. She took Eddie’s suggestion and got a camera that she put on her patio table facing the direction of […]

See full article at https://petn.ws/wXtJ4 #DogNews #Abby, #ApartmentComplex, #BobbyBonesShow, #Camera, #Dog, #PoopingInYard

[tayfabe75]

Bobby: When do you get to enjoy a show? When's the last time you've you went to a show and got to actually enjoy it, being someone who's watching? Keith: Oh gosh, we've been… So, Harry Styles in Paris. We were over there at the time, in Paris. Which was amazing to see him there, um… I think the last one that really like, hit me was The 1975 who played here at the Ascend Amphitheater maybe a year or two ago. Bobby: What about that - because we listen to them too - what about The 1975 do you like? Keith: The spirit of that band. They got a spirit and it's in their audience too and you just go and just sort of immerse in it. It's the first time ever - we have people come to our show - and you I bet you have this too, people come to your show repeatedly again and again and you're like, why do you keep coming back to this? A lot of the times it's the same show and you're like, you're here again and again like, why? And they go, 'I just want that feeling I come to get that feeling', and I've never understood that until I went and saw The 1975 at Ascend and I was driving home I went and saw him on my own, nick was out of town, I'm driving home and my first thought was, 'oh I think they're playing Atlanta tomorrow night. I could probably drive…' and I went, 'oh my god there it is. I'm thinking of driving to Atlanta to see this band.' Why? Because I wanted that feeling.

November 22, 2022: When Keith Urban is asked about recent shows he's enjoyed, he names The 1975, complimenting the spirit of the band. (source)

[omresult]

Bobby Bones Show TaxSlayer 2024 Sweepstakes - Chance To Win $3,140 Cash Prize

Entering into the Bobby Bones Show TaxSlayer 2024 Sweepstakes and chance to win $3,140 cash prize. So, all United States residents enter the Sweepstakes before January 28th, 2024 to fix your chances to win. Sweepstakes Entry Page Sweepstakes Rules How To Enter : Any purchase or Payment not make you winner, odds of winning of this Sweepstakes Depends on valid entries. First of all open the…

[ghoulphile]

sticky fingers | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 4.5k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; mildly dubious consent, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, squirting, rough sex, size kink, standing doggystyle, overstimulation, teasing, choking, dacryphilia, cooper howard is his own warning (he nasty y'all), canon compliant - takes place around ep 7, a grab bag mix of the show and the games ➥ summary | “Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal.” ➥ notes | i love my men like i love my beef jerky 🫠 i wrote this over 16 fevered hours after finishing the finale. hope you enjoy~ minor edits 4/22/24 | x posted to ao3 | masterlist | feedback is always appreciated ❤️ feel free to send in thots, questions, requests!

It begins, as most things in the Southwest Commonwealth do, with a fight for survival.

City life is tough to be sure, but here on the outskirts of pocket civilizations where there’s nothing but long stretches of desolate wasteland - arid, sunbaked earth and scorched shrubbery - for miles around?

Well, if the ferals, fiends, and super mutants don’t get you in the night, then the desert itself will. During the day the sun burns overhead so nuclear hot, heat glimmers on the horizon in dancing waves.

Unforgiving, relentless as blink-and-you-miss-it mirages are swallowed by ever shifting sands.

It’s easy to get lost.

Even easier to boil alive in your armor if you’re unprepared.

Far too many travelers from the Eastern Commonwealths have met their demise here, where shade is sparse, and water even moreso. The rain - if it does blow in over the mountains - brings rad sickness.

If you’re lucky enough to still be alive, the only reprieve from the heat is in the stooped bones of bombed buildings and ramshackle shacks... where you're just as likely to catch a knife in the back from a chem fried addict as you are relief.

Because here, in the Wastes, danger lurks in sand and shadow alike.

You don’t trek out into the flats half-cocked: a fact all locals know. And if you do decide to? Well, you learn one way or another.

No, only the truly ignorant - or the desperate - dare to tempt man and nature.

Consequently, as you dust off the crumbs from the last half of a Fancy Lads Snack Cake and suck a melted smear of icing from your thumb, you're of the latter half.

You tried holding off for as long as you could. But once the shakes started, you knew you couldn’t put off eating lest you pass out and wake up in a slaver camp.

Well, shit, you think as you rattle a dented canister of purified water. This fucking sucks.

Almost going cross-eyed, your tongue hovers under the rim as you watch the last lazy drop fall free. You catch it with a grimace, smacking your lips. The water tastes metal warm in your sour mouth, barely enough to wet your whistle - let alone your thirst.

You began rationing the last of your supplies days ago, and it’s been a battle against light-headedness ever since. Pretty soon you won’t have the strength to defend yourself, scavving be damned.

Come on. Think - gotta think. What can I scrap for caps?

Not only is Filly more than half a day away, Ma June isn’t one for charity cases. The fact she offered twenty extra caps last time for some burnt books and bent bobby pins was as close as you were ever going to get to a Wasteland miracle.

Sunken cheeks and pleading eyes can only get you so far; everyone’s gotta eat.

"Fuck..." The palms of your hands grind into your eye sockets until you see stars. "FUCK!"

There are two unspoken laws in this otherwise lawless land: steal or starve, live or die. A grim reminder that surrounds you in old bleached bones, empty bullet casings, and scraps of cloth fluttering in the breeze.

Someone always has to be top dog. If you’re lucky, they might be willing to share their spoils.

It’s as you’re considering what pieces of yourself you’re willing to barter that you see them. On the horizon, coming from the west, are two dark blobs.

Stark against the flat plains - a shining beacon of salvation - is a man in a ratty duster and cowboy hat. The saddlebag tossed over his shoulder bounces with his steps while a dog trots beside him, its sable coat rippling with muscle.

Pay dirt.

Making sure to keep low and distant, you stalk them. Watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

When the sun dips low, the sky a swath of pale pink and gold, they make camp at a blown-out Drumlin Diner. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles and sickly clouds gather.

Dark and roiling, acid green; a Radstorm brewing.

Electricity cracks at your skin, stands your hair on end. You scrub your hands over your arms, huddling into yourself for warmth. Meanwhile, the stranger seems to luxuriate in the budding promise of rad rain.

He lounges under an awning, his back pressed against a defunct Nuka Cola fridge. He gazes in the direction of the oncoming weather while mindlessly running his fingers through the dog’s fur as it curls up against his legs.

Occasionally, its ears twitch, and its eyes crack open.

Whenever it glances in your direction, you hold your breath and squeeze your eyes shut but it never gives any other indication that it notices your presence.

A small mercy you’re thankful for.

While you’re a pretty good shot, your body is weak with hunger. Besides, you have quick hands and light feet. There’s no doubt you can stealth your way in and out before he realizes his pack is lighter than he left it.

You’ll only take what you need - not interested in causing any more trouble than is necessary. Some food, maybe something to drink if he can spare it, and something to pawn. Just enough supplies to get you sorted in Filly.

Anyway, he certainly isn’t hurting for it by the look of things.

Any guilt you felt was short-lived when he settled down after dropping his pack inside, walking out with an inhaler of Jet in one hand and a can of Cram in the other.

Watched, greedy, as he cracked it open and picked at the tin of meat with lazy fingers. Salivated as he sucked them clean in between deep pulls of chem.

Soon, you decide, licking your lips as he chews, swallows. Soon.

However when push comes to shove, the stranger proves far more keen than you give him credit for.

The world spins like a hit of Daytripper, a kaleidoscope of color as your skull bounces off the wall with a loud crack. Air rushes from your lungs as something huge - hot and heavy - slams into you from behind.

Pins you against the wall with ease as your ears ring.

Something rattles loose; your teeth too large and your tongue too thick. Warm metal floods your mouth as the side of your face throbs in time with the rabbit fast stutter of your heartbeat.

Pain sparks and your stomach rolls.

"Wha's?" you slur, thoughts dripping like wax. "Wh-at's..."

Meanwhile, a gloved hand lassos around your throat like a collar. Brute fingers squeeze the tender flesh of your jugular until you hear your pulse in your ears. Senses struggling - sluggish to adjust in the encroaching night - as tiny cavities eat at your vision, little pockets of darkness.

“Lil girls should know it’s rude ta steal," a gruff voice mocks. “Betcha thought you was real slick, huh? Tch. You ask me, you’re dumber than shit, Darlin'.”

Trying to regain your bearings, you shake your head only to groan. “I don’t - ‘m not -” It’s difficult to concentrate, a throbbing tempo taking up residence in your temples. The words come slow. “Wha’d you mean?”

He whistles, long and low-pitched, "D’ya have any idea who you're fucking with?"

“N-No…”

“How’s about I show you, then?”

Warm breath puffs over the shell of your ear, a tongue sliding out to trace along the lobe. You jolt, squirming in discomfort as he crowds closer.

“Tasty lil thing like you, wrapped up all nice and pretty just for me." He chuckles. "Why, it must be Christmas.”

What the hell is he talking about?

It’s hard to breathe with his heavy weight suffocating you; the scent of gunpowder and bitter smoke clogging your nostrils with every labored inhale. His lips - ragged - scrape over the nape of your neck.

The grip on your throat squeezes once, twice; leather sticks to your sweaty skin.

You squint your sore eyes, taking in the faint flickers of firelight that spill through the open doorway. The desert chill of night has settled in, creeping through the busted out windows to dig beneath your padded armor.

Thunder rumbles directly overhead as lightning follows in flashes of acid green. It’s only a matter of time before sheets of rain come pouring down; the air sticky with humidity, trembling with energy.

The Radstorm has finally arrived.

You’ll undoubtedly get sick if you leave the shelter of the diner - might even die from it if you can’t afford or find any RadAway. But as the stranger’s chest digs into your shoulders, and the dog curls up in the corner - uncaring of your plight as its nose tucks into the whip-thin tail - you think you’ll take your chances.

Tilting back to glance at him from over your shoulder through damp eyes, you say, “Look--”

Only his hand moves, viper quick, as it slides from the front of your neck to the nape. Strong fingers clamp down like a vice, like scuffing an unruly dog.

He grinds your face into the wall, rough metal shredding your cheek.

You cry out, a soft, pained little thing that echoes through the empty diner.

“Now why’d you gotta go an' make me do that?”

A phantom glimpse told you all you needed to know; broad jaw, thin lips, a hollow nasal ridge, creeping radiation burns and cracked skin. Ghoul.

“Let’s try this again, Sugar.”

His free hand - sans glove - creeps over the curve of your hip to splay along the swell of your belly, fingers tucking up under the hem of your shirt. You shiver at the stroke of roughened skin.

“Don’t take another peep or I might jus' have ta pluck out those pretty eyes of yours.”

Dread pools low in your gut, a leaden ball.

Everything in you screams: RUN, RUN, RUN.

Alarms blare but you freeze. Stare straight ahead at the featureless wall, eyes wide and unseeing. Through the foggy mire of your thoughts - half formed and shapeless - you have enough presence to understand the precarious nature of your position. 

Heart hammering, you plead for mercy, “Please, I’m - I’m sorry.”

"Aw, ain't that real sweet?" He remains impassive, unmoved. "The little thief does got some manners after all."

Without warning, the sharp toe of his cowboy boot kicks apart your feet. In the ensuing empty space between your thighs, his leg slots into place. Spurs dig into the tender meat of your ankle, little kisses of pain, as his hips rut forward against your ass.

You choke on your spit, pulse jumping in your throat.

"H-Hey, that's..." You attempt to shove at any part of him you can reach to no avail. Built and broad with compact muscle, it's like trying to move a brick wall. "I said I was sorry, okay!"

He ignores you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. A deep inhale sounds next to your head, the expansion of his chest against your back so firm you're not sure you won't fuse together.

The whiskey rough groan he releases does wicked things, makes your mind wander to places it shouldn't. Full of grit and gravel as his cock twitches against your backside, a burning line of heat.

A shiver ricochets down your spine.

He grunts, says, "Mm, you smell good enough ta eat."

The cap of his knee nudges up against your clit with a sudden jolt, shocks of pleasure electrifying your body. Tears prick the corners of your eyes, and a sob threatens to scrape its way up from the depths of your throat.

You swallow, mouth desert dry. "Come on, let's just forget all about this, yeah?" you reason. "No harm done. I'll even give you whatever I've got left so - so..."

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest. "So?" he prompts, plucking at the waistband of your trousers.

"So let me go?"

"Now why would I go an' do an asinine thing like that?" he replies. "If you think you can buy your freedom, think again, Sweetheart."

Rain pings off the metal roof, the smell of pungent ozone and rusting metal wafting in through busted windows and open doors.

“'Sides,” he pauses to turn your attention outside, “I’d hate ta have you yakin’ before the fun’s even started.”

There’s no way to misconstrue his meaning when he punctuates the statement with a teasing rut of his hips. Those rugged fingers tug open the clasp of your trousers, yank until the material goes slack and pools around your ankles.

“Hey, wait--!”

You jolt, hands scrambling for purchase as he slides his leg against your core. The friction of his pants through your thin cotton underwear makes you ache.

Ripping through your bottom lip, blood beading to the surface, you choke on a high-pitched whimper. "I..."

There's no way he can't feel your reaction.

How quickly you're getting wet as he drags you along the length of his thigh while yanking your hips back into the cradle of his pelvis. You meet him in a slow grind that boils your blood and steals the breath from your lungs.

It’s been - shit - far too long since you’ve felt anything other than hunger, thirst; the animal drive to keep pushing forward.

"You like this, don'tcha?"

You hear the dagger-sharp smile hidden in his words.

He croons, "What would your fellow smoothies think, huh? Here you are lettin’ a ghoul get you all hot n bothered - and you’re lovin’ it. Ain't you?"

You throb in response, heat stealing its way into your cheeks as you turn your head away in shame. His dark chuckle lets you know he felt the squeeze of your thighs, the rock and dip of your hips against his knee.

"I - I don't..." you stutter, struggling for a retort. “I’m not--”

A tremble works its way through your body, crushed as you are between the rad warm burn of his body and the wall. Completely at his mercy as you try to figure out where it all went wrong and what you can do to worm your way out of this one.

Terrified of what'll happen if you stay, terrified of what'll happen if you go; stuck in limbo as what was meant to be a simple grab-and-dash devolved into this confusing cluster of shame and lust.

You loathe the embers of desire kindling to life low in your belly.

"You really outta start bein' more honest, Sweetheart."

A large hand dips beneath the worn band of your underwear, and you wait with baited breath. Helpless as calloused fingertips brush over the swell of your mond.

Your inner thighs are uncomfortably sticky with slick, and your eyes burn in humiliation. Your throat trembles around all the words you want to say.

"Didn't anyone teach you lyin' was bad?" he asks rhetorically as his fingers slip down to play with the swollen bud of your clit, tapping lightly.

You keen, low and wounded.

Short nails dig into your palms as you flex your hands for want of something to grab onto.

“I am being honest,” you bite out through grit teeth. Sweat dapples your furrowed brow. “Just lemme go, please.”

"I find that hard ta believe," he replies. "Sorry to say, but you're shit at lyin'. Just look how hungry your lil cunt is for me."

It’s the only warning you get before those long digits plunge deep inside, two becoming three as they stretch you wide. Hollow you out; knuckles massaging your entrance as the tips prod along the sensitive front wall of your cunt.

You clamp down with a strangled moan. “Shit!”

This is a horrible idea - but it’s been forever and a day since you’ve felt anything other than your own touch.

Whether it be the bone-deep loneliness you’ve been shoving down for months or the sudden, inexplicable need for contact, you long for a reminder that you’re still alive.

That you’re not some wrath of the Wasteland filled with sand and blood, doing whatever it takes to survive in a place that would rather see you fail.

“I - I’m not sure.”

He snorts but offers no council or reassurances, using his free hand to yank at the back of your head in impatience. While it might’ve been a fairer fight if you weren’t in such bad shape, there’s no denying that he’s proven himself to be more adept.

Stronger, quicker.

This is going to happen either way.

And that turns you on - even though you feel like it shouldn’t.

If you give in, if he forces you to give in, it’s not really your fault then, is it? You can enjoy it because you have no choice.

Fuck it, you think, closing your eyes and tilting your head to the side in submission.

Like a doll with cut strings, all the fight drains from your body and you’re left sharing space. The ghoul is a furnace of heat behind you, barely any space to breathe he’s crowded so close.

His cock thickens where it digs into the soft fat of your ass, as large and intimidating as the man himself. “Now stay still for me.”

The or else goes unspoken.

Then he’s stepping away, a rush of cold air filling the empty space at your back.

You shiver, tempted to turn around. Maybe make a run for it. The only thing stopping you is the awareness that his threats aren’t so idle. In your experience, it’s far better to befriend the monster than to anger it.

So you comply, waiting an eternity as your senses strain to pick up on anything other than the murmuring hush of rain, the rumble of thunder, as the Radstorm continues to blow its way through.

Though just when you think he might’ve left, ready to chance moving, you hear the clink of a belt buckle clicking open. The scuff of boots across the linoleum before broad hands shove up under your shirt, scarred palms bare as they settle on your hips.

You tense before forcing yourself to relax.

“You ain’t as stupid as I thought,” he says. “Good girl.”

A test.

You breathe a sigh of relief.

“I can listen,” you mumble, keeping calm as his hands explore the plains of your stomach, pluck at the waistband of your panties. “Promise ‘m not gonna do anything else.”

Learned my lesson the first time. Got my skull cracked open for it.

“That’s what I like ta hear.”

Without warning, your panties are being ripped from you, scraps of fabric fluttering useless to the floor. You squawk in indignation but then a heavy hand settles between your shoulder blades.

He presses down, and you follow without complaint, finding yourself bent in half.

And then the fat head of his cock is right there, teasing at your entrance. He plays with your cunt, slipping the shaft between your wet folds. Dragging up the length of you to tap at your swollen clit.

Jerking in his hold, you whine and try to bear down with all your weight. “Please,” you squirm. “Please, c’mon…”

His grip remains firm, bruising as he exhales next to your ear, a pleased little grumble. “Thatta girl. Now tell me, who’s my pretty lil thief?”

Every hard ridge of his body bites into the softness of yours, your stiff nipples dragging against the rough material of your shirt. Zings of pleasure shoot through you; bursting in your bloodstream, fizzy like warm Nuka Cola.

“I-”

“Go on now, Sweetheart: say it.” Fingers dig into your hips so hard your bones ache. “Or I jus' might be tempted ta take a bite outta your pretty lil backside instead.”

He’s bluffing, you think, half delirious, … Right? He wouldn’t--

You swallow, throat clicking, and squirm against him.

Is that a chance you’re willing to take?

No, no it’s not.

“Y-Yours - I’m - I’m your little thief.”

The unexpected flare of satisfaction in his voice is almost your undoing. A hand pets down your flank, swatting the outside of your thigh playfully.

“Good girl.” He demands, “Say it again.”

Sharp hip bones kick forward against your ass as he lines himself up and starts to bully his way inside.

“I’m - YOURS!”

Your soft, gummy walls flutter, squeeze until giving in with a pop under the hard pressure of the fat head. His cock stretches you out, thick and girthy.

Ridges of scar tissue and patches of rough friction pockmark his shaft, massaging tender places as he fills you up, fucking you open.

He feeds you inch after inch… until he can’t.

“Wait!”

Accommodating his girth is a struggle, your cunt filled to the brim by the time he’s halfway inside. No amount of slick could make him fit, so he makes do with harsh little jerks of his hips. Forces himself deeper and deeper until he glides home nice and smooth, sheathing himself to the base with a sigh of satisfaction.

You clamp down hard with a hiccupy whine, walls furtively trying to push him out. “A-Ah!”

“Goddamn,” he huffs, hands kneading your ass, “You’re a tight fit.”

Tears prick your lash line, your hips shifting as you try to stop him from moving. Begging for a moment of reprieve. You’ve never taken something so big and thick, so textured before.

Coupled with the minimal foreplay, it feels like he’s punched his way through your body. Hollowed you out to make a home for himself.

Pussy aching, a low burning tightness creeps over your lower belly as tender flesh pulses uncomfortably around the unforgiving heft of his cock seated deep inside. You swear you feel him poking your belly button.

“Please,” you pant, heat settling into your cheeks. “J-Just wait a sec-ond! I can’t - oh shit.” 

“Aw, look at you.” Fingers reach around to brush over your cheeks, gather the tears that’ve slipped free. “Didn’t mean ta make you cry,” he lies.

The sound of him sucking his fingers clean reaches your ears. Your stomach swoops, and your clit throbs. Dazed as you wonder what his mouth would feel like on your pussy.

"Hah - too much, you're - fuck - you're too big."

He snickers. “Can’t be helped, I guess.” Body rippling in a shrug, his hands re-settling on your hips. “But that’s all right - I like it better when they cry.”

Before you can retort, he pulls his hips back.

Your toes curl in your boots, feet squeaking across the linoleum floor as your sweaty forehead grinds into the cool metal of the wall. The texture of his shaft burns as it slides through your swollen folds, dragging against sensitive spots you didn’t even know existed.

You can’t tell if it’s the best you’ve ever felt or the worst, but you nearly sob all the same, nerves alight with liquid fire. Want him as deep inside as he can go; a frenzy of desperation that needs him to stuff you so full you choke.

“See for all your whining, you’re takin’ me so well. What did I say about bein' honest?”

You sniffle, blurry eyes creaking open to stare out the window.

Your body throbs in time with your pulse, your pussy so stretched out you can’t clench down when he thrusts in deep. The fat mushroom head teases your cervix, a faint whisper, before he’s drawing back again.

“T-Too fast,” you stutter, head rolling back to rest on his shoulder. Your thighs tremble, knees going soft. “Slow down, slow down.”

“Sh, you can take it. I know you can.”

With a grunt, he surges forward. Wasting no time in starting up a brutal pace that rattles your bones. He drives you hard into the side of the diner; tits crushed and face smashed, a disgusting mixture of tears and drool wetting your cheek.

“Just like that, Sweetheart.”

You do little more than hold on, all thoughts driven from your mind as he fucks you swollen and bruised. Cunt a sticky mess as your slick eases the way, clinging to your inner thighs and dripping down his heavy balls.

Every thrust punches little sounds from you, and he grunts. “Fuck!”

Your hands cling to the sides of his hips, focusing on the shift of muscle beneath heavy fabric. “I can’t,” you slur, eyes cloudy as you glance up into his, gazes meeting for the first time. “Please, I - ah!”

His thrusts turn punishing, even more so than they already were, hips meet your ass with enough force to leave bruises. “What did I say about sneakin' a peek?”

While the words sound threatening, his voice is heated and breathy. For all his talk, he doesn’t look away. In fact, his hips slow into languid rolls, grinding close. When your eyes slide from his, he reaches down to pinch your clit between his fingers.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chides. “You keep those eyes on me.”

Pretty, you think, dazed.

Glinting in the slants of firelight like wet sand or a Nuka Cola bottle in the sun; bourbon warm as they peer at you from beneath a heavy brow bone.

“That’s it, there’s my good girl."

Eyes fluttering when he flexes his hips in reward, the tip massaging along your g-spot, your mouth drops open on a whine.

“O-Oh! Right there, I - fuck, please don’t stop. ‘m so close.” F-Feels s'good.

His bare hand reaches up to curl around your jaw, gnarled fingers pushing their way past the open circle of your swollen lips. They compress your tongue as they gather saliva, stroking along your tastebuds.

Gritty, rough; he tastes of dirt, blood, and gunpowder.

You sneak a kiss to his scarred knuckle when he pulls free.

“Shit, I’ll be damned. You’re just a nasty lil freak, ain't you?”

You moan in response, stretching up on your tip-toes and arching your hips to change the angle. Your palms rest beside your head, docile.

A crazed grin cracks the corners of his lips, his teeth bared like an animal. “I like that,” he husks. “Now be a peach…”

Then those soaked digits are finding their way between your thighs, ghosting over your skin to smear spit onto your abused clit. The tender bud throbs beneath his fingertips, swollen and begging for attention.

He hitches his hips forward to feel you jerk, pulsing beneath his touch as he resumes a fast, jolting pace that has you smacking into the wall.

“And cum for me.”

A deep rumble escapes his throat, the sloppy, wet sounds of him fucking you ringing loud in your ears. Your hips roll, unsure if you want to press forward into the swirl of his fingers or back into the rut of his cock.

Tears stream down your cheeks, your chest heaving with weak sobs.

“Please,” you whine, his shaft pinching your walls uncomfortably. You feel swollen, rubbed raw. “A-Almost there.”

A nip to the ear is all it takes.

“Hhaah, I’m--!”

The liquid heat that’s been pooling low in your belly - building and building - finally bursts in a gush of slick that soaks his hand. Darkens the crotch of his pants as it drips down your thighs to splash against the tile.

You sob, a full body tremor zipping through you like bottled lightening.

In the aftermath, your cunt twitches in time with your heartbeat. Hands numb and head full of cotton as cramps bloom between your hips. Sharp little stabs shoot up behind your navel.

“Shit, I’ve got myself a gusher,” he laughs, a nasty little smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at the mess you made. Now if you ask real sweet-like, maybe I’ll let you clean it up with your tongue.”

You sag, too boneless to be ashamed as electric aftershocks tingle along your nerves. All the while, his pace never falters, quickly fucking you into overstimulation.

Your clit twitches pathetically when the fat head of his cock drags along your g-spot. "No more," you mumble weakly, letting him maneuver your body how he likes. "Please."

“Heh, let’s see if you can do that again.”

You whimper, “Oh, oh, please n-no. I - I can’t. You’ll break me.”

“That’s real cute,” his lips, harsh and rasping, drag over the shell of your ear, “but I wasn’t askin’.”

The grip on your hips tightens to the point of pain, digging in and marking you up.

“Now, why don’ we have some real fun, Darlin'?”

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Dolly Parton - Jolene 1973

Dolly Parton is an American singer-songwriter, actress, and philanthropist. With a career spanning over fifty years, Parton has been described as a country legend and has sold more than 100 million records worldwide, making her one of the best-selling music artists of all time. She has had 25 singles reach no. 1 on the Billboard country music charts, a record for a female artist (tied with Reba McEntire). She has 44 career Top 10 country albums, a record for any artist, and she has 110 career-charted singles over the past 40 years. She has composed over 3,000 songs. She has founded a number of charitable and philanthropic organizations, chief among them is the Dollywood Foundation, which manages a number of projects to bring education and poverty relief to East Tennessee where she grew up. In response to the COVID-19 pandemic, Parton donated $1 million towards research at Vanderbilt University Medical Center, which funded the critical early stages of development of the Moderna vaccine.

"Jolene" was released on October 15, 1973, as the first single and title track from her the thirteenth solo studio album Jolene, and became Parton's second solo number one single on the country charts. "Jolene" became Parton's first top ten hit song in the UK, reaching number seven in the UK Singles Chart in 1976. It also re-entered the chart when Parton performed at the Glastonbury festival in 2014.

According to Parton, the song was inspired by a red-headed bank clerk who flirted with her husband, Carl Dean, at his local bank branch around the time they were newly married. In an interview, she also revealed that Jolene's name and appearance are based on that of a young fan who came on stage for her autograph.

During an interview on The Bobby Bones Show in 2018, Parton revealed that she wrote "Jolene" on the same day that she wrote "I Will Always Love You".

"Jolene" was nominated for the Grammy Awards for Best Female Country Vocal Performance twice, in 1975 and 1976. The first nomination was for the original recording, and the second was for a live recording from the TV series In Concert. It did not win either time, but in 2017, a cover by the a cappella group Pentatonix which featured Parton as a guest singer won the Grammy Award for Best Country Duo/Group Performance.

In 2023 she released her forty-ninth solo studio album, Rockstar, a collaborative project with a variety of rock musicians and where "Jolene" is sung by Italian rockband Måneskin, listen to it here!

"Jolene" received a total of 94,3% yes votes!