yellingmetatron

[yellingmetatron]

have to take my dad to the emergency room,won't be on.

[yellingmetatron]

But before I go, more Abrahamic chicanery. It turns out there are at least four fucking Hebrew words that are commonly rendered as 'diligence' in English bibles:

For instance, other meanings to this word diligence is charitsuit which is a diligence, or careful and persistent work with a specific skill. This would apply to a carpenter who is diligently applying his skills in his trade. Then you have hatamadah which is being diligent in the sense of enduring. This would be applied to someone on a difficult journey or performing a difficult task. This would be a diligence or persistence is completing a difficult journey or task. One who is hatamadah would not give up. Then there is shaqidah, this is a diligence in just doing a good job and performing a task to the best of one’s ability. … The word for diligence here further narrows this down. It is the word mishamar from the root word shamar which means to watch over and to guard.

Do the little details matter? Iunno, have rabbis all but gotten into fistfights over specific words and specific letters? Yes. Every day those "KJV Only" as an article of faith types seem dumber and dumber

[yellingmetatron]

Status Update

Hey all,

I've long since recovered from being sick, but I've been working through a major depressive episode that followed immediately after. My brain's turn to betray me after my body, I suppose x'D I'm starting to get out of the funk, but I'm gonna wait until tomorrow to try much anything RP related. I have discovered, to my annoyance, that I'm one of those people who really needs to stop doing things when I'm really stressed. I don't have the luxury as resting as much as I might, and it turns out even fun stuff can keep stress levels high. Booo.

So. Gonna be quiet tonight, and try to rp a little on the weekend. For everybody waiting on me, thank you for your patience.

[yellingmetatron]

Metatron sighs languidly as he bleeds. He wonders if it would be amiss to offer the flesh of his heart next time. Could Metatron survive that? Interesting thoughts...

Thor looks absolutely gorgeous smeared with the angel's own ichor. It makes Meta feel possessive and possessed all at once. He rumbles softly laying one hand on the Thor's head as the Thunderer so vigorously engulfs Meta's thick, achingly hard cock. There's something intoxicating about Thor going at it so demandingly, taking what he wants even on his knees.

With his other hand, the angel languidly fingers the wound Thor gifted him. True pain of the body has been a rare thing for him, and the novelty in itself is fascinating. Long fingers trace the ragged rim, and he hisses at the sting before exploring deeper. The flesh parted by his lover parts under his own exploration, the raw redness gushing thick ichor as he tenses, both in pleasure and pain. It exceeds the gush of precum across his lover's tongue, just as heady and offering. Deeper the finger presses, parting sinew, at last skirting bone... keeping himself open to the one who receives him.

Sunlight shimmers like a mirage across that gore-bedecked hand as he lovingly cups Thor's face, stilling him a moment. Meta's need to sanctify Thor in his own name burns as hot as the fire of his arousal-- perhaps there is no difference. He catch's his lover's gaze. His smile is fond and radiant even as he is clad in his own ichor.

"I want to fill you," he confesses, voice like silk and sand. "I want to cover you. I want there to be no part of you... inside or out... that I haven't touched."

And with that, his hips snap up, and he begins fucking Thor's mouth in earnest, in counterpoint to the god's own greedy sucking. Metatron grabs hold of Thor's head for leverage just as his own hips are held with bruising force, pushing deep, making Thor take everything, surrendering everything to his lover.

[ ϟ ]—A sharp, nigh greedy breath is pulled through the god's teeth.

This enticing, beloved angel, how well did he know to beckon him forth, how to express his demand and plea both, request yet a command still, how to yield without surrendering an ounce of his radiant, inherent dominion.

' I hear and obey, my Lord...' the response another hiss that is released to punctuate the sting of the Chancellor's fingers.

There is no hesitation in the thunderer, no restraint, only the answering hunger of a god whose hands have shaped realms and shattered them alike, now curved to the sanctity of a single, invaluable offering.

Lightly marred hand is shifted languidly yet ruthless still, bearing down around Metatron's throat, pressure applied just enough to steady angel's form against whatever surface holds them.

Lighting, its beautiful pale glow, sings before it strikes, a crackling herald to the divine desecration he craves, and that was asked of him.

The wound blossoms under his touch, skin parting with the scent of ozone and familiar, age-old carnage, so oft experienced in its full, warm glory. Deep, rich ichor wells forth in thick rivulets, dark yet near luminous in its descent, and thunderer watches - reverent, rapt - as it slips over the thick mound of lover's pectoral, spilling further.

The first heady flow is caught with his tongue, a languid, luxuriant pass over the open wound, savoring the taste of something purer than all the heavens could possibly hold. The divine, the undying, the absolute, it is anointing, benediction, worship in its most primal form.

Mouth is heat and possession as he laves of the raw gash, the growl a fragment of thunderous vibration pressed against now blood-slick skin. Hunger of a war god, reverence of a lover who knows his due and takes it unflinching. The god's fingers, still damp with sacral red, splay wide over Metatron's ribs, smearing sanctity into desecration.

A kiss is stolen then, drinking paused to have mouths connect and tongues play, a vicious communion of copper and want.

Thor shifts then, rising over his herald, drinking in the sight of him with eyes dark as storm clouds before the strike, allows the blood to trail lower, the trickle now a heavy, thick flow. It traverses the plane of Meta's stomach, over the trembling strain of his cock, marking it in something far more sacred than ink or scripture. A baptism in ichor, its rivulets of dark matter mingling with its lighter counterpart.

There is no room for amusement at the sight; the god's hand wraps firm around the aching length between them, a slow, claiming grip that makes clear all his angel's demands will be granted. Thumb smears through the leaking tip, mixing ichor and arousal, teasing, tormenting, savoring every pulse and twitch of need beneath his fingers. The pace is unhurried, indulgent, coaxing pleasure with the same reverence he gives to war and worship alike.

Then, with wickedness returning to crimson-smeared lips, curved smile only briefly present, he lowers himself further.

His mouth follows the path large hand has set, lapping at the still trickling ichor, lips questing, soon brushing over flushed, sensitive skin. Mouth parts to envelop the bulbous head of lover's length. The first drag of his tongue is slow, molten heat, a deliberate tease before he seals his lips around the head more firmly, tasting nectar and copper, sinking down, taking Metatron deep into the wet furnace of his mouth. The groan is delighted acceptance, vibrating through every inch of contact, reveling in the weight and taste of his beloved heavy against his tongue.

Thor’s fingers dig into Metatron’s hips, holding him firm as he sets his rhythm, as lightning crackles along the edge of lips, worship given in the most primal way he knows. Swallowing deeper, hungrily.

[yellingmetatron]

The archangel moans sharply as he's both drained and flooded. The sound is pained, but thick with desire as Meta's god takes what belongs to him. The ichor flows freely against Thor's tongue, filling him with warmth even as the lambency of Metatron's veins and arteries do the same against his skin. The archangel tries to hold on to enough of his own mind to form an answer lest Thor draw out the last of his senses with that clever mouth.

"Think... think of me," the angel breathes holding Thor close as he bucks his hips in counterpoint, one hand stroking that broad, muscular back as the other fists in his hair. "Call-- the name Malakhel. Loud or soft, fuck, fuck, Thor--" Metatron arches his back, trying to press as much of himself against Thor as he can, thick cock smearing them both with a hot trail of seed. Metatron snaps his hips up, hissing through his teeth, needing more Thor.

"You'll be... at my office door, just... come in, fuck, Thor, Thor..." His nails leave welts down his back. His eyes shut tight as light flickers across his body like embers in the wind. It's hard to breathe in the best way. As his throat strains, more ichor flows from him and in to his lover.

"I have... one lord. In my arms. You."

[ ϟ ]—– Groan emerged low in the god's throat, sound more instinct than intent, guttural and as raw as skin felt where own light rushed to the surface. It was eager, so desperate to connect with Meta's own, almost furious to blend with it.

Seeking its own kind, needing it.

The angel's warmth enveloped him entire, held him, attempted to keep him; it did not yield in the slightest yet drew him in, clinging like something that had been made for him and craved to be completed.

Or perhaps, he was milking just for the sake of wanting more, which was a delectable, delightful thought all in and of itself.

Heat licked fiercely along the god's spine at the teasing cadens of Marai, at the languid way Metatron always gifted him names, words that dripped from his lips like honey meant to coat the god's tongue. And taking them in felt as devouring as his mouth was.

' You have... a plethora of lords... it seems...'

Breath stuttered with each languid thrust, halting along with a deep press of his body, the appearing cedar between them a rather sudden offering. The brief sight of it he manages to catch, the weight of its meaning - key, permission - sending something molten to pool in tense belly.

Hand flexed where it had sunken into Meta's body, dragging it upwards as deliberate and slow as another thrust. Capturing a nipple between thumb and finger was entirely intentional, the pressure and sparks escaping equally purposeful. Gentle gesture, yet the acts are far from it.

' Fair? Let me consider...' Thick voice was rich with amusement, edged with something far more dangerous. Taking a kiss almost allows him to taste the dare in Metatron's words, bronzed throat bared so willingly but the suggestion almost casually made.

' Hmm, tell me..' words came rolling almost reverent, almost gentle, yet the renewed snap of ihs hips, baring forward was anything but. Teeth grazed at the angel's pulse point, hovering, waiting, teasing his own hunger as much as his lover's.

The bite is not soft, nor was there viciousness in the act; skin breaks to yield to the mark, the additional claim, the kind that seared deeper than flesh. Cock responds to the flow of ichor, flood of seed a river the comes in tandem with the crimson coating his tongue.

[yellingmetatron]

Deep in his sephirah, Metatron recognizes how rare this is, his god's pliancy. It goes beyond tolerance or even submissiveness; every part of Thor welcomes the archangel inside, needing the fullness of him. And when the archangel feels the first drops of cool rain hitting his bare back, he moans deeply as his cock provides its own small, molten deluge deep inside his lover.

As hips work wildly and mouths meet for kisses and bites, the winds rise around them. The heat of the sun is enveloped by thick, heavy stormclouds, but burns through all the same even as lightning crackles within.

The sky is nothing separate from them. It's another venue for their coupling, skin to skin and light to light, essences blending.

They fit together effortlessly, the angel pushing down to savor the slide of gold against copper. Meta's eyes swirl with sunburst intensity as the blackness of them drinks in Thor's heroic form. As the wind swirls and the raindrops sizzle into mist as they hit the angel's back and wings. Each drop feels like a kiss, a challenge, a benediction, and the archangel can only respond in kind as sunlight pierces and suffuses the storm. The tattoo of Meta's hips against Thor changes its cadence as he finds the place deep inside his lover to bring the most pleasure, and ruts against it hard, blunt head of his cock pressing and leaking inexorably.

"You're... so... fucking good... ah..." Meta struggles for breath between his exertions and the utter sublimity of the image of Thor being fucked by Metatron. One hand roughly gropes the swell of Thor's pectoral, kneading and teasing the stiff nipple with his thumb. "None of the songs... could tell me these things... fuck..." hair plastered to his forehead, he grins. "So perfect... taking my cock... taking, hn, me..."

And with that, Metatron moans as his lips latch on to the other nipple, lips sucking and tongue dancing. His hips buck, stutter as pre that would be mistaken as a climax continues to flow out of him and into Thor. It's not enough. It can never be enough. They need to be closer, closer, blending and indwelling in each other. Were it not for the dance of the elements and the mutual suffusion of light, had they only their bodies to join, it would be an exercise in frustration.

Eventually it's Metatron who unbinds Thor's hands rather than Thor breaking free. Still the 'ropes' of light accentuate the god's vast body, but the archangel needs to feel those strong hands on him.

[ ϟ ]—– There was no word in any tongue that could describe the feeling of pressure on this cock, nothing that could hold enough weight to describe what was sensed during the slow grind on him, every drag over thick veins pulls a minute flood of seed from it without effort.

Not even the crack of lighting through the firmament , or sensing the power of weapon in his palm was ever felt so loud inside his bones as Meta's voice did, a mere murmur of words and still...

Light and heat moved across him like reverence incarnate - not simple, feeble rope, not true binding. This was consecration, worship in the oddest yet soothing form, and sensing it turns him into pure want, no protest formed in the god's ever more clouding mind.

It was a salacious delight all on its own; laid bare and covered, split wide and enveloped by longing, not pain. Golden ropes emitting from the angel was akin to being kissed across the heaving span of his chest by thousands of lips, threads over thunderer's hips and thighs a celestial devotion that is pure heat.

As if sculpting him, turning battle-hardned flesh pliant, and willing, as if he needed more coaxing...

There is no true surprise at the response of his body, nor is there restraint of any kind. Long before victorious grin flashes back onto the god's features he had known that the desire would accept all of it, the breach then welcomed with a moan rumbling from the depts of his chest.

Involuntarily does power react, but it is not the protesting, dangerous kind. The teasing something that would birth annoyance in any other circumstance, now a prolonging of the pleasure with every inch. Lightning dances to the surface, colors the god's eyes to the extent it glows through closed eyelids.

It yields to the intrusion as all of his muscles do, flickering against the binds, dancing in delight over the damp planes of the god's chest. Nipples harden further, straining and impossibly tightened, the first thrust welcomed with a sharp-edged growl.

Devouring is met with eagerness, mouth and tongue responding with the senseless urgency of craving more and biting lover's bottom lip the god feels girth stretching him, pressing against his inner walls with each deliberate thrust as if something is invading every atom of his being.

' More.... ' is a clear, wrecked demand, hips rising to meet each punishing thrust, slick skin meeting slick skin and the dripping of it between their flesh, pushed out with each movement, noted with a hint of satisfaction.

[yellingmetatron]

Hi guys. On top of being sick with something like mild flu for a while... did you know that euonymus alatus, an ornamental plant also known as burning bush, can cause skin irritation? I didn't. It's invasive as fuck where I am, and I've been uprooting it and pulling it apart by hand to make it easier to burn, because making small recreational campfires are one of my few reliable hobbies besides writing. I was feeling well enough to do so this afternoon for the first time in a while. It was also the first non-overcast day we've had recently. And whatayaknow, burning bush sap irritation is fairly mild, but can be exacerbated by exposure to UV radiation.

All this to say that aside from being woozy and having sinus pain, my fingers itch like mad, as do a few places on my face-- not poison ivy/oak bad, but not nice. Shoulda worn gloves. Learning experience. It's all been very distracting, so expect me to be quiet a few more days at least.

[yellingmetatron]

Something about the archangel's face seems delighted. Perhaps a brighter glow?

"That sounds fuckin' great, honestly. Just lemme check something..."

Metatron puts a hand over where his eyes would be. Yup, Niffty's still occupied with Lucifer. Well, the most important thing is that she's having fun, and he'll make sure he leaves with her-- what he does after getting her home is his own business.

"Just had to make sure my date's having a good time." He makes his way to the table as the pop star leads. "I'm here 'cause I lost a bet with another archangel, but I like doing things right. Which... has proven fuckin' weird with her, because she kinda gets off on being treated like shit? I know lotsa people do, but... Niffty's on the far side of things." He shrugs once he's taken a seat.

She...hadn't actually been expecting a genuine, honest answer. Verosika was used to getting surface level compliments on her popular hits, but...Over You was deeply personal to her.

Sure, it had become a hit like most of her songs, but she doubted it would resonate this much with someone else, or that they would actually dissect the song to it's very core.

A smile tugged at her lips, features softening, allowing her mask to slip just a bit more. "Hey, don't worry about it. That's...probably the best compliment I ever received on any of my songs...Actually, it's the best compliment I received, like, ever." A pause as she shifted, looking a bit uncertain. "Hey uh, if you want, you can talk my ear off more. We can head back to my table."

[yellingmetatron]

Andras just keeps finding new ways to be the hottest person Metatron has ever known. He's hard and leaking in his own pants, something about the combination of pleasure and embarrassment very sexy on his lover.

He stroke's Andras's back as he comes down, avoiding both his wings and his scars-- he doesn't want to risk overstimulating him. He makes sure Andras has time to catch his breath.

"Well, little slut," he rumbles after a while, "I know we talked about you doin' my wings after, but right now you're lookin' really fuckable, and I got a hard cock with your name on it. Sound good to you~?"

Andras tries to ignore what Metatron is saying. Because it's really not fair that he can do this and then get him even more hot just by talking. He wraps his arms around the archangel, panting and moaning as the pleasure continues to build until he can feel himself reaching the edge. Fuck, he really is going to cum from this. He didn't even know he could. Then again, it won't be the first time that Metatron has made him cum in a way he didn't know was possible.

It happens as soon as Metatron begins sucking on the tip of his ear. Andras cries out, his hips jerking as he begins to cum in his pants, thick seed seeping through the fabric, staining it white as it runs down his legs. "Ah, fuck! Fuckfuckfuck....Meta! Fuck!" He gasps and shivers, then slumps forward when it's over, panting heavily. All of his feathers are raised now, making his wings much fluffier.

[yellingmetatron]

What registers first is always the same sensation, warmth, heat in fact. And it is not the residual of suns, nor the smolder of battle that lingers in his bones long after the fighting has ended but something softer, something alive.

The exhale comes languid and deep, and only then does thunderer feel it properly, angel pressed against him like a creature made of embers. Running hot, as he always did, a luminous heat that does not burn yet soothes, lingers even when there is the barest of space between them.

Arm rests curled around Meta’s form pressed against the god, fingers splayed against the copper sheen of Meta’s chest. Unable to recall reaching for him during sleep it somehow does not surprise the god in the slightest, not when lover fits against him so well, limbs tangled and breath even, skin flushed where they rested connected during the night.

Even when unconscious the god’s light needed its counterpart near it seems.

A hum rolls from his chest, a lowly vibrating and pleased sound, the movement then a deliberate pressing of nose and lips against the angel’s nape. Scent is sun-warmed cedar and something sweeter, akin to air after a summer storm.

The hold is entangled , indulgent, unmistakably content, tightening ever so slightly as if every cell in sprawled out being wished to telegraph something unspoken, something not yet admitted aloud.

This heat, this weight, this proof of presence… he will not lose this, not now, not ever. (( this is NOT A THING. it def is NOT A THING it's just lore adding. expansion if you will ))

So I've been sitting on this lovely image for a while and aaaaaah. Yes, best lore. Prettiest writing. Snugliest celestial beings.

[yellingmetatron]

The archangel throbs hard, blood-swollen flesh stimulated by its counterpart. He's leaking just as freely as Thor, warm seed blending with warm seed, making the slide of their cocks achingly sweet. The thought of blending with Thor in every way he can sends golden warmth out from his core that permeates his veins and arteries, finally diffusing in lambent waves across Thor's skin. The archangel's breath hitches and his hips buck even as he grins fondly down at his captive. All those places where light meets light crackle with mutual desire.

"Whatever my Prince commands," he murmurs, pressing a deceptively chaste kiss to Thor's rough cheek. And then his own grin turns equally devious. "You've honored me by letting me hold you like this, lover. If you will be restrained at all, though... you deserve only the best..."

And with that, the light that permeates Metatron's body becomes somehow solid, strands of effulgence weaving themselves together on his skin, only to part from it, and come to rest against Thor. The threads-- ropes, now-- not only serve to bind Thor's hands, but gracefully pattern themselves across the vastness of Thor's mighty body, serving to accentuate the powerful lines of his muscles-- especially the slabs of his chest.

So Meta has a fixation. Sue him.

The bonds are warm and soft, but above all alive; the light is no dead matter, nor alien energy. It's as much a part of Metatron as his hands or mouth or cock. It reacts to Thor's own sparks, even like this, the yearning of light for light satisfied wherever the meet.

"You are," Metatron gasps, eyes filled with as much reverence as lust, "So perfect." The angel presses needy kisses and nips to the god's mouth, neck, chest. He keeps rutting against the Thunderer's cock, his own properly lubricated by their joined impatience for each other. "I am going to fuck you full of me, lover." He pulls back, enough to hook Thor's legs around him and take his cock in hand, lining it up. "Flood you. Mark every part of you, inside and out..."

The tight ring accepts the angel with more ease than he would have thought possible. Thor, never ashamed of his appetites, seems as greedy for this as ever. The archangel growls as the blunt head is accepted, then inch after inch of ichor-thickened flesh. He forces himself to go slowly, as much to tease himself as his lover.

When at last the velvet warmth covers him to the root, and his heavy sacks press against Thor, he pauses. He breathes deeply, sweat just beginning to truly dew.

Then he pulls out abruptly, slams back in with bone-shaking force, and absolutely devours Thor's mouth as he begins to fuck his god in earnest.

[ ϟ ]—–  Where he able to wish for something – had mind been more present than it was now – the god was certain his heart’s desire would mingle with that of heavy, lust-riddled physique, would then also wish for every forlorn and abandoned part of him to be filled with the very warmth that blossoms beneath his fingers, pouring into him as a relentless wave of heat.

Fingers still grasp as if trying to capture it all, foolishly questing for something that was more essence than matter, ever the careless, wanting parts of him stronger than any slivers of resolve.

The sound however, words and laughter both, plucks at already tense insides, a reward in and of itself to hear a plea… again.

A laugh would have bubbled to the surface had his mouth not been preoccupied with questing for more connection, all of his intentions then startled by fall, resistance, descend.

Somehow there is vague awareness of the change, - air and wind, a different kind now, other elements sensed but not recognized – and resistance, restraint, now pressing against the sturdy solid mass of his bones.

The collision, for it was naught else but flesh even closer against flesh, and his own coiling form held against something solid. Earth… or something similar, or something different entirely…

It was the push and capture that had something of thunderer’s reason return to the forefront, most of it too clouded to care about the where and the how. The primal parts of him still seeking friction, cock turning painful and protesting against its confines.

In a similar fashion hands ball into fists then, chest heaving against chest and air barely capable of entering lungs from the sheer solid mass of Meta’s everything pressing down. Grinding paused to rake together what was left of frayed reason, to consider, to weigh options…

Release would be possibly easy, certainly now when angel’s form appeared to have exerted itself, and that other much needed release would need naught more than a few more grinds, a harsh thrust or two of his hips.

But that would be shallow, superficial, discharge for the sake of sparing his cock from aching for too long, and there would be no… fun in that. Behind thunderer’s ribcage the storm is rumbling, pulse galloping thick and fast, and as careless as every action has been so far mouth and tongue return to lave the skin protecting a pulse point under Meta’s ear.

‘ That is… the second time… you begged…’ The sound of it archived somewhere in his mind to consider, to abuse the knowledge that Meta was not above such things later...

Light transfers from beneath the god’s skin to the surface, tendrils of moving, light-blue slivers of electric fire snaking over thunderer’s form, somewhat guided, with what little control he had, decimating everything in its wake what is not living, breathing matter. Freedom, finally for Thor’s prickling skin.

Confident it would not wound or scar the other he ensures their destructive force turns the beautiful, yet pitiful remnants of the angel’s Midgardian suit to powdery ashes. And the sheer sensation of the act – destruction, always so tempting – turns  both of their cocks damp with a slow grind. Thunderer's trickling cloudy and warm dollops of need now undoubtedly felt by his lover, morphing his smile a fraction more devious.

‘ Now… as much as I hate restraints usually… I am willing to suffer it… for a while.’

Hushed, yet darkened, rumbling bass is colored with threat and promise both.

‘ Only long enough for you to fuck me senseless, Chancellor… I want to feel every drop of you inside me, deep enough so I can taste it….'

[yellingmetatron]

Co/m/mi/s/sion done for @asgardianhammer ♥ I'm so happy that you like it. :3

Find me on Bsky ♥

[yellingmetatron]

Also, if we're disregarding price: Frozen custard. The egg content makes it extra delicious and often prohibitively expensive, but... it's good. It is so very very good. If you have a Rita's Italian Ice & Frozen Custard anywhere near you, go if only once in your life. The plain vanilla is transcendent.

[yellingmetatron]

The only objectively wrong choices for icecream are:

Anything with bubblegum flavoring, but especially Moon Mist (look it up) and bubblegum/cotton candy. I really wish I did not know about that.

Salty black licorice. My own mother likes that one, and she is the only person I will forgive for it outside of Sweden and Finland.

Pretty sure that's the whole 'blasphemy against the Holy Spirit' thing we were warned about.

[yellingmetatron]

"Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin." --Literally Jesus. On the other hand, Jesus never criticized anyone for tithing cookies and cream. The theological implications are obvious.

[yellingmetatron]

Scritches the little dragon after he's done with Gabe.

"Yeah, it's not so fun, huh bright spot? But you're both gonna feel much calmer once time out is over. And you'll say sorry to each other and then get some Turkish Delight, OK?" He keeps scritching. "This is just so neither of you kill each other." He turns to Gabriel.

"And Gabi, I want to thank you for being so cooperative. I know it's hard when you didn't start this, but you're being very good right now, OK? I appreciate it a lot."

Angry muffled dragon growls and hisses this WAS NOT WHAT HE THOUGHT WAS GONNA HAPPEN WHEN HE PICKED OUT HIS FAVORITE COLOR TAPE!

“MMPFH MMGMH !!”

[yellingmetatron]

how did it come to pass that i started writing an archangel who addresses st. gabriel as 'sport'.