#Rat/Mat

[fluff-writing]

Hmmm, fic where Rat have fever and Mal take advantage? :D or change side(omegaverse)

This inspired the start of a sick-fic before I remembered u specified omegaverse lmao.

Malthael being inappropriate under the cut.

Rathma growled at him, low and dangerous in his chest. It only served to make Malthael chuckle as the vibrations tickled at his thighs where he was straddling the nephalem. He reached forward to rub affectionately under his chin. “That’s not going to help, you know.” Malthael teased. “I’m not letting you go anytime soon, and you’re not even that intimidating right now.”  That was a semi-lie. Not the part about being let go; Malthael was keeping his alpha tied up until he’d forcibly wrangled his rut out of him (or possibly just until he himself was satisfied), and that was that. No, despite having both hands bound above his head, and a gag clamped between his teeth, Rathma was actually still rather unnerving to behold.  It had to be something in the way he stared, Malthael thought. Plenty of Alphas had oggled him over the years, but this was something else. A level beyond. Oh, there was raw, filthy lust in those eyes. There was violent intent. But there was also a possessiveness, a fierceness he had never quite found in another angel.  It wasn’t actually all that often that Malthael got to behold his partner all splayed out like this, got to hold him still after tearing away all his trappings and armor himself. His chest and belly, pale with a smattering of black hair, were constantly rising, flexing beneath him where he had perched himself on his mate’s body. There was also the strained way his restraints creaked whenever he flexed clawed hands and lean arms. Malthael had the feeling that if Rathma truly wanted to be free, then he would be. It was a strangely giddy feeling, knowing that his alpha was letting him tease and taunt and play with him like this. Rathma must’ve been enjoying it.  With a huff through his nose, the nephalem settled once more. Back to glaring daggers.   “Good boy.” Malthael purred. He leaned in to gently kiss him on the forehead, and noted the way Rathma went completely still. Anticipating affection? Or perhaps waiting to pounce.  White skin was hot beneath his lips. Just shy of burning. Oh, his mate ran warm, warmer than humans, certainly warmer than the angels. But in the throes of rut, he’d heated up even more.  We don’t call it ‘mating fever’ for no reason. Rathma had wryly told him, before said fever had totally taken him. With a satisfied hum, Malthael inhaled, breathing in his partner's scent. It was heavier than usual, thick with pheromones and sweat-scent. He nuzzled his way down his cheek, tucked his nose up into the crook where Rathma's throat-met-jaw. Heady. Delicious. "My dear nephalem." Malthael breathed. "How I shall care for you tonight."

[fluff-and-such]

A li'l RatMat sketches this evening.

[likesummerrainn]

AEW Dynamite | 10.16.24

[3-aem]

cat and i no longer friends after the the great de-matting

[atomra]

Finally made a proper ref for a new hellsing character ive been messing with for weeks— Meet Toxi! ☣️

[mrghostrat]

Okay so. Author/editor au. I was thinking of the angry texts in the middle of the night, and then imagined crowley being one of those writers (aka bascially every writer) that writes rlly well but texts without a care (and of course aziraphale texting professionally).

Then I made this

(I don't have an iPhone so pretend those aren't Samsung emojis lmao)

AHAHAH ITS PERFECTTTTTT

[androidgirlthing]

@chongoblog mat rat eternity cassette real

[sillydegu]

Aren't snuffle mats much more fun than climbing the radiator?

[littlealienproducts]

Sleeping Rats in a Field of Anemone Flowers Desk Mat by RatLadyArt

[tiredmoonslut]

I'm ngl I think of Mat wiping tears from his eyes when he reunited with Rand like once a week

[draconicfool]

also

not allowed back in the mines cuz daniel needs his trace mats but genti is done

[asha-mage]

Mat/Rand. Prince

[Send me a character or pairing, and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!]

There is a small grassy glade in the Waterwood, nestled between two oddly shaped boulders that at one point in history, might have been something more. The huge willows of the Waterwood, with their spreading branches and tangling winding roots flank it on all sides and make the place almost invisible, if you do not know the trick of finding the path.

Rand can no longer remember if he or Mat was the first to discover it- the first to wander into that hidden place, always a little shadowy and damp with dew, even at mid noon in summer. But he knows that it was just their place: for the two of them to lay back in the grass and reach up for the branches, to laugh and joke and share secrets together. To talk of the adventures they would have when they where big enough to no longer be told no but their families or the Wisdom, or the Women’s Circle.

It wasn’t like the pond where they would go sometimes, with Perrin and Egwene to swim in the boiling heat of summer. Or like the trips down to idle by the river with other village youths. Something unspoken held it just between them, as if sharing knowledge of it would shatter something fragile and brittle and shinning kept there, between their laughs and games of make-believe.

Once, when they where eight, Mat had made a crown. With his clumsy fingers he had woven starburst and morning glory with loose garlands from the willows, twinning them around broken branches and loose sticks until he had made a rough ring of white and gold and bright orange.

He had bowed elaborately when he was done and presented the crown to Rand with a flourish.

“My prince.” Mat had said with exaggerated deference spoiled only a little by the fox like grin on lips. Rand couldn’t help but laugh as he had taken it and placed it onto his head. He had known it would look foolish, but something had shinned in Mat’s eyes as Rand had fixed it in place, something for which Rand had no name at the time.

“And what am I prince of exactly?” Rand had teased when the crown was settled. “Where is my kingdom?”

“You are standing in it!” Mat had laughed and gestured at the glade. “Prince of the hidden grove! Lord of the Waterwood, etc etc.”

Rand had smirked back. “Master of all the castles in the air? And served by soldiers armored in gossamer steel?” He teased. “And who is my general then? A puppet made of glass?”

Mat had whooped but shaken his head, plucking up another stick to hold like a General’s rod. “No puppets for the Prince of the Morning. I am your general, leader of your loyal hawks, and dogs and foxes. All the carrion eaters, all the foul things can oppose you if they wish-“ He winked. “I will drive them all back with sword and shield and catapult. Let the beetles and the snakes, the rats and the ravens try. I will chase them all away from you, Highness.”

He had said it with such solemnity, such stiff lipped strength that Rand couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and Mat had followed suit soon after. They had ended up laying on their backs staring at the sky and joking about the campaigns they would wage, and the laws they would enact in their new realm (beginning with no bed times of course, and descending in importance from there).

At some point Mat’s hand had found it’s way into Rand’s, and stayed there, until it was to late for them to remain, and they had no choice but to head back to the village.

My general of the hawks and the dogs and the foxes. Rand thought as he watched Mat ride ahead of him. That was years ago no, more then a decade gone. All around them, the crowds of Cairhien citizens cheered and sang, trying to press in on Rand’s small party, held back by the Maidens and the Tearians alike.

And Mat rode ahead, not looking back. Afraid to even stare into Rand’s eyes for to long. Lieutenants and officers from the Band of the Red Hand surrounded him on all sides, and more soldiers marched, rank on rank ahead of them, basking in the accolades of their victory.

The Band of the Red Hand. Not the Band of the Dragon, or the Legion of Al’Thor. The Band of the Red Hand, named for a long dead army of mercenaries, and likely to be just the same.

Rand felt his eyes sweep up to the spires of the Sun Palace in the distance. He was more then any Prince now, more then any King, probably more even then long dead Artur Hawkwing. His name would be writ across history in fire, and their where thousands ready to march at his word, to die for him.

He felt the never healing wound in his side throb in dull agony.

His eyes sank back to Mat, to the sight of the nape of his neck, just visible above the collar of his coat.

And I would trade it all, to be in our grove again. I would give it all away for our castles in the air, for our army of hawks and dogs and foxes.

Better to be a prince with a flower crown, then the Dragon Reborn. Better by miles.

[fluff-and-such]

Shippy ship shipping

Happy flowers day y'all

[otterpuppss]

round boys of the feasting table

[bbcghostssixidiots]

Introducing: Thomas “rat” Thorne

[angelictrancy]

If someone could magically detangle my depression hair that would be great.

(I've had my hair in a bun for awhile, seasonal depression, but it's bad....)

Lord give me the willpower to power through and fix this nest.