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Green Day RP Partner??

I once again rise from the dead to ask if anyone on this site would be willing to do a Green Day RP with me? I just saw them live on the Saviors tour and it has sent me right back into my middle school fangirl phase. (HOW Billie Joe get sexier with age... I'll never know 😩)

If anyone is willing to do a Billie Joe x Mike Dirnt rp, please message me!

I jumped ship with this show midway through Stain, but I still love this character

Wise financial decisions across the board for me lately, tbh

Forgot to upload this Inktober sketch!

My husband Levi.

Not me again 30 years late for another fandom.

(And writing fanfic for it no less)

Because this story got more attention than I expected, I put it on Ao3 for easier access. Thanks for all the wonderful comments guys!!

Shorter Wong x Reader: Whatcha Reading? (T)

You’re in a bookstore when the aggressive whispering starts.

“Ay yo, cutie with the booty!”

You look left, right, around. There’s no one.

“Whatcha reading?”

You look up. Leaning over the bookshelf – Jesus, they’re tall enough to lean over the bookshelf? – are thick arms covering the bottom half of a face sporting sunglasses and a mohawk the color of crayola. If the crayon was purple.

You have so many questions. But the first one is, “How do you even know what my body looks like from the other side of the shelf?”

They have the gall to look embarrassed, running long, thick fingers over their head. “I circled you for a bit, trying to figure out the best way to approach you.”

Your mouth drops. “And…and this is what you came up with?” You motion to the fact that, again, they’re on the other side of a bookshelf.

Keep reading

He’s colored!

He’s inked!

He’s inked!

Shorter Wong x Reader: Whatcha Reading? Part II (Explicit!)

[Part One here.]

You pick up the phone. 

“Yeah?”

“Listen.” It’s Cain, your brother. “Some Asian dude came waltzing up to the crib askin’ for you.” 

You’re confused. What?

“Turns out,” your brother continues, “He’s the motherfucking boss of Chinatown.” 

Shorter Wong. 

“What’d you do to him?” You ask quickly, panicked on Shorter’s behalf. You can’t believe that idiot that hit on you in a bookstore –what, three weeks ago?-- actually showed up to the gang’s main hideout. How fucking stupid can you–

“He was alone and unarmed, so we just got him tied up here at the moment. But, you know this clown? He talking ‘bout some book date with you or something. I know you be reading, and that’s the only reason why I didn’t smash his fucking mouth in. So what’s up?”

You sigh: long, exasperated, tired. “Yeah, yeah, we… we got a book date.” 

There’s silence on the other end of the line. You know your brother is thinking. 

“I’m aiight,” you reassure him. “Shorter’s alright too. Have one of ya boys bring ‘em over.” 

The silence lasts a little longer. Then, “Okay. But you got your gun on you?” 

“Yeah.”

“Your knife?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Your other knife?”

“Yeah.” 

“Them brass knuckles with the–”

“YES! JUST SEND HIM OVER!”

—

When Shorter appears in your doorway later, hands tied in front of him so he’s unable to fix his twisted up tank top and pull up his pants, you feel as if you’ve entered a dream. That first encounter with this man shouldn’t have happened, and yet fatefully here is another. 

Your brother’s friends toss him into your apartment, then leave without a word. They know you can fuck him up if you want to. 

Blindfold over his eyes, he clutches Song of Solomon in his restrained fingers. 

Shorter calls your name, smile wide and dopey. 

“You look mighty cheerful for a hostage,” you drawl, though your eyes are looking him up and down. He’s wearing red boxers with a white waistband, and the roughhousing of whoever brought him here has stretched out the neckline of his tank top. Thick breast muscle is on display. Sinful.

“Baby, I’m happy I get to see you again. If I can see you again.” He wiggles his brows pointedly, and you approach him to take off the blindfold. The short hair of his buzzed sides are soft against your wrist. 

“You could have gotten yourself killed,” you admonish. 

Shorter shrugs a massive shoulder. Without sunglasses, you can see his eyes are a deep brown alight with mischief. 

“I wanted to know what you thought of Beloved,” he says, and you know that it’s true and only half of it. 

You pull him by his tied wrists and lead him to the couch. It’s leather, and it annoys you that Shorter’s big frame fills it like it was meant for him. Taking his wrists in one hand, you drag it over his head, his elbows bent and framing his mohawk, until you hook a metal groove into the rope. 

“Kinky,” Shorter laughs, testing the restraints. You expect another joke, but then Shorter surprises you by asking about the book. 

And you, well. 

You talk about the book. 

For someone who is lying along the length of a couch and unable to move their arms, Shorter looks completely at ease. Head against the headrest, mohawk moving animatedly whenever he nods in agreement or contemplation, Shorter crosses his long legs and listens. 

An hour passes. 

“When I first learned about slavery,” Shorter’s saying emphatically, “I thought that shit was the most evil thing I ever heard. And the way Morrison plays with trauma, death, and birth, and the afterlife of slavery is one of the reasons I keep coming back to that book.” 

You hum, nodding. 

“Like,” Shorter continues, “I get it. Killing something you love, your beloved, just to prevent them from being taken by the fucked up evil ass people in the world.”

You join in. “And I like that Morrison doesn’t judge the mother for her decision, but she shows us that trauma like that,” you whistle, a long heavy pause. “Breeds ghosts, man. Ghosts that can’t be put to rest.” 

“Exactly,” Shorter says. Then you’re both quiet. You’re looking at Shorter, really looking at him. He catches you.

“Yeah?” he asks, head tilting, and it’s the little innocent movement that makes the decision for you. 

You had been sitting at a coffee table the entire conversation, but you get up now. Intensity fills Shorter’s expression. 

“I want to fuck this big boy body of yours,” you say, and Shorter sucks in a harsh breath, legs tightening. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and though it’s the same thing he said a second ago, the whole tone is different. “Yeah? Yeah you can baby. You can do whatever you want.” 

What a relief. If Shorter had rejected you, you don’t know what you would have done. All that intelligent book talk coming out of that sexy mouth made you wet twenty minutes ago.

You leave the room to get supplies, and by the time you come back there’s a prominent tent in Shorter’s jeans. When you notice it, it jumps, twitches, and Shorter has the audacity to look shy about it. 

“Just, uh, just excited,” he explains. 

You take off your shirt, letting it hit the floor. “Me too,” you admit. “You’re, you’re so fucking handsome. I bet you get a lot of people to spread their legs for you.”

Shorter’s eyes zero in on the prominent swell of your breasts, held up by the valorous effort of your bra. 

“A lot of people don’t got the ass you have,” Shorter answers. “I ain’t so interested if that’s the case.” 

You laugh, throwing your head back. “Well, I get a lot of dick,” you say, trying to gauge his reaction. Would he get jealous? Possessive? Angry? 

“Shit,” Shorter whines, bucking his hips desperately. “Yeah? I bet you get all the dick you want, with your fine ass. You gonna add me to your list, baby? Let me get a chance to satisfy you too?” 

Oh. You. You weren’t expecting that. 

“You want to be one of my boys, Shorter?” You say in a voice of sin as you slide your pants off. Your panties are soaked through, and Shorter opens his mouth like he wants a taste. 

“Please, please, fuck, please, let me taste that pussy. Make me one of your boys.” 

Your cunt throbs, and you do just that. You don’t even have the patience to take your underwear off, you just throw your juicy thighs on each side of Shorter’s head and pull them to the side. You can tell the second Shorter smells you, cause he groans like he was punched. 

“Shit, mmmh, yeah,” he mumbles nonsensically, breathing deeply before sticking his tongue out for a sloppy taste. It’s not long before you’re dripping on his chest; Shorter’s tongue parts your hair down there like it’s the fucking red sea, and he’ s Moses and the promised land is your clit. 

You grab his head, messing up his mohawk, moaning along with him. You’re riding his face, looking down at him as he colors slightly, brows pinched in concentration like you’re the single most important thing he’s ever done. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you say, breathlessly, and then you do, right on his mouth, his chin, a thick glob of slick sliding out of you and onto his neck. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Shorter whines, again, like he’s hurt. Like it’s too much. “You taste so fucking good.” He turns his head to the side to kiss your thighs, and you shiver at the touch. “I’m addicted, I’m already addicted,” he murmurs, and you are overwhelmed with the need to fuck him. 

You take off the rest of your clothes and stand next to him. “You wouldn’t be the first,” you tease again, turning to give Shorter a front row seat to your bubble butt. He whines like a wounded animal, and it’s affecting you, making it difficult for you to keep up your cool demeanor. 

“I know,” Shorter agrees, eyes flicking back and forth between the way your ass jiggles when you shake it, and the bit of side-tit he can get from this angle. “Ride me please, sweetheart. My dick’s gonna burst.” 

You spread your legs over Shorter again, but this time facing his feet. Your ass is inches from his face, and you hear him struggling against the restraints for the first time.

“Fuck, if I could only slap that delicious ass of yours,” he growls, and you can imagine his face. He’s so open with his emotions, and it makes you feel like you’re as coveted a prize as he makes you to be. 

You pull his pants and underwear down in one go, and his dick slaps back heavy against his stomach. 

“Oh,” you say, stupidly. “You’re…. You’re bigger than I thought.” 

That cock-sure confidence fills Shorter’s voice. “They don’t call me Wong with the Long Schlong for nothing.” 

“No one calls you that,” you laugh, before licking up his dick. It has this fantastic curve to it that you can’t wait to feel for yourself. 

Shorter doesn’t talk for a while after that. He’s too mesmerized by your ass, and how you keep twerking it to tease him. A few times, your dick-sucking and hip-shaking aligns and you get your cheeks to clap. Shorter groans loudly then, and the velvety tip of his cock spurts precum on your tongue. 

“You’re gonna have to jump on me soon,” Shorter says, finally, voice strained. You look back at him. His forehead is beaded with sweat, mohawk down for the count. He looks so, so disappointed in himself when he says, “I might come soon if you don’t.” 

You decide not to tease him, because your cunt has been aching for it too. 

“Alright Shorter,” you appease, and turn around on him so you’re facing him now. His eyes rake all over you: the thick thighs and the outer curve of your ass dwarfing his body, the tiny waist he wishes he could grab, the full heavy breasts that dangle in front of him, with nipples he wants so badly to taste. And then there’s your face. 

“Kiss me,” he begs, and you lean down just as you’ve rolled down the condom and lined the head of his cock up. Slapping your hips down then grinding, you ride his dick as you two share your first kiss. He’s eating your mouth like he ate your pussy — hungry, desperately. 

You let him, let him because his cock is pushing right against your G-spot and you’re an animal seeking that release. Your pussy is making such filthy noises around his dick, and Shorter’s wanton moans are only adding to the hysteria of the moment. 

“Your dick Shorter,” you moan, tits slapping against his neck as you kiss. “Fuck, you got such a fat cock.” 

“Yeah? All for you baby,” Shorter groans, separating from your mouth just to try to reach his tongue to the top of your breasts. You oblige, lifting up a tit to feed him. He looks like he’s in pain again, the pleasure overwhelming. His hips are pistoning up and you know he’s got a nice ass too to have the muscle to pound you like this from below. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you say again. 

Shorter lets your tit drop from his mouth. “Yeah, fucking cum baby. Fucking cum on my cock. Wanna know I did that for you, wanna know I’m good for this pussy.” 

You’re nodding, tears forming, and your cunt is so tight you don’t even realize when you’ve slipped into your climax until it fully has you. You’re moaning whorishly, and Shorter’s coaxing you through it all.

“That’s right baby. Holy shit, damn, goddamn, I’m gonna–” 

And then Shorter makes you bounce on his lap his body convulses so fiercely. You’re still too sensitive but you can’t do anything but sit on his fat dick as he spills into the condom. Heat blooms in your loins. 

You’re both trying to catch your breath. You’re both realizing that was some of the best sex you’ve ever had. 

Shorter breaks the silence first. 

“You free this weekend?” 

You cock your head. “Why? Already thinking about next time?”

Shorter laughs, and it’s so stupidly endearing how much of a teddy bear he appears now. 

“We never talked about Song of Solomon. Was thinking we could do that, and I could cook for you. You could meet my sister, my family.” 

You can’t hide your shock. “Wha– But– Shorter, we’re not, we’re not even dating!” Despite the fact that you had the dirtiest sex of your life and still currently have his dick inside you, it is his words that are coloring your cheeks red. 

“Yeah I know, but after that,” he looks your body up and down as a smile splits his goofy face, “I got a mind to give you Chinatown right now.” 

When he leaves another hour later, gentle with the way he holds you and touches you, you think to yourself that your list of partners might just end up being Shorter.

I colored it! And in the process remembered that I don’t know how to use Copic markers 🙃

P.S. Some of y’all tags on the reblogs of the inked drawing gave me  L I F E. I was not expecting 100 notes, thank you!

Hi my name is Deanna and I have a Problem 🥲

[Color version to come soon!]

Shorter Wong x Reader: Whatcha Reading? (T)

You’re in a bookstore when the aggressive whispering starts.

“Ay yo, cutie with the booty!”

You look left, right, around. There’s no one.

“Whatcha reading?”

You look up. Leaning over the bookshelf – Jesus, they’re tall enough to lean over the bookshelf? – are thick arms covering the bottom half of a face sporting sunglasses and a mohawk the color of crayola. If the crayon was purple.

You have so many questions. But the first one is, “How do you even know what my body looks like from the other side of the shelf?”

They have the gall to look embarrassed, running long, thick fingers over their head. “I circled you for a bit, trying to figure out the best way to approach you.”

Your mouth drops. “And…and this is what you came up with?” You motion to the fact that, again, they’re on the other side of a bookshelf.

You cannot tell what kind of expression they make, only notice an eyebrow piercing for the first time as their brows shift. Then, too loudly, they say, “Wait there!”

The arms, the sunglasses, and the hair disappear, and in the absence of the visual cues you get the sound of footsteps. Away from you, then around the bookshelf, and then you get to watch long legs in tight ripped jeans come your way. The fifteen seconds of silence should have been awkward, but you’re mostly just confused.

“Shorter Wong, he/him pronouns,” the guy, Shorter, says, resting an elbow on the bookshelf. Your eyes drift to his biceps, then snap quickly to his face. He’s Asian, but also maybe black. Light brown skin, small but wide nose, full lips.

You say your name, your pronouns, and wonder why you did. This guy, did you forget, cat-called you in a bookstore. You still haven’t decided if that makes him more or less classy than the average asshole.

“So…” Shorter drawls, smirk crawling up his face. “Whatcha reading?”

Your eyebrows furrow. You don’t think you want to be having this conversation. “Stop hitting on me. I just want to read.”

“Fair, fair,” Shorter relents, abandoning his kabe-don position to stand up straight – which, for him, is really just a slouch. “So can I not-hit on you and ask what you’re reading?”

You glare. But you’ve always been a book bitch and the lure is too strong. “Toni Morrison’s Beloved.”

“Isn’t that the chick that wrote The Bluest Eye?”

Your brain decides not to deal with the fact that Shorter called Miss Legend Extraordinaire Toni Morrison a “chick,” and latches onto the fact that he’s read her. “Yeah, yes. I’ve read Bluest Eye and God Help the Child. Loved them both. Wanted to read more.”

Shorter leans down –like the tall asshole he is– to look at the bookshelf from your eye-level. “I didn’t read God Help the Child, but I did read Bluest Eye and Song of Solomon.” As he scans the bookshelf, you scan his profile. His jaw is a road leading down to a thick neck that detours over muscular shoulders. You swallow.

“Song of Solomon is next on my list,” you pronounce.

Shorter looks at you, smiles. “Well then,” he starts, grabbing said book off the shelf. “Why don’t I buy Song of Solomon, you buy Beloved, and we make a date later to exchange?”

“I thought you weren’t hitting on me?” You counter, but you’re smiling too. Damn, why’d he have to be attractive and well-read?

Shorter laughs, and it’s a little goofy, a lot endearing. “I can’t help it.” Shorter’s lip quirks like he already thinks what he’s about to say is the funniest shit on the planet, and you brace yourself. “Your booty got me like–”

“Okay I’m leaving!” You say loudly, cheeks burning. You turn on your heel, heading for the register.

“Can I at least get a number?!” He calls after you. You see the tops of heads over various aisles turn in your direction, and you want to yell at Shorter to stop being so damn loud! But that would mean getting close enough to whisper, and you’ve already walked this far. So.

You turn to face Shorter Wong one last time from nearly the other side of the bookstore. The cashier, not knowing what’s going on but also not paid enough to interfere, rings you up silently.

“When you finish the book, just go to Cain’s crib and ask for me. It’ll go over real well,” you half-yell, immensely satisfied by the confusion that takes over Shorter’s face for the first time since this bizarre interaction began. Good. He deserves to be confused. Doesn’t make no goddamn sense that all that fine muscle is connected to such an irritating(ly handsome) face.

“Cain?” He parrots. “Cain Blood?”

You only smile, accepting your change from the cashier.

“Ho–Holy shit!” Shorter exclaims, but instead of the fear that you expected to see paint his face, there’s only what appears to be genuine awe. “You’re his little sibling! Damn, I knew you was special, we ‘bout to be the Montagues and Capulets up in this bit–”

“THEY BOTH DIE AT THE END YOU IDI—!”

“I’M GOING TO HAVE TO ASK YOU TWO TO LEAVE!!!” screams a staff member.

Hi my name is Deanna and I have a Problem 🥲

[Color version to come soon!]

They did my boy so dirty and I will never not be mad about it 😩

Just finished volume 32 of SnK.

The kids are not alright.

The Final Chapter is Up!

Click heeah for the titillating conclusion of Good Fences by me and @lola1b!

Thanks to everyone for reading! ^_^