Fic - "Claws"
Title: Claws
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 2,358
Rating: R
Summary: "You do love to remind me of what I am. You want me to be a rat? Very well. I'll be a rat!"
Warnings: Violence, sexual assault, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: Written for/linked to disney_kink. Most of the prompts there are pretty fluffy and princess-centric, but when I saw this prompt--- "Basil/Ratigan. Just good old-fashioned physical(/sexual) assault."--- I was hooked. Prompter also mentioned that it would be a nice plus if Ratigan's claws came out. Done and done!
The pavement is still wet from the rain, and Basil almost slips as he rounds the corner. Really, the conditions are just about as bad as they can possibly be for a chase--- the only thing that could make it worse would be if the storm had not yet passed, but judging by the time-lapse between lightning and thunder, Basil can tell that the worst of the weather is moving swiftly away. Puddles and treacherous footing are his biggest obstacles now, and he crashes through the former while doing his best to navigate the latter. Up ahead, a hulking, caped figure races with a nimbleness that would surprise anyone who didn't already know him too well.
It's been quite some time since they saw each other face to face. Usually Ratigan has just nipped out by the time Basil catches up to him, his cigar still smoking in the crystal ashtray, the back of his chair still warm from his royal recline. This time Basil stumbled upon him mid-heist, jewels in hand, and received a face full of rubies for his trouble, flung like a smokescreen at the detective’s eyes as the villain made his escape. One of the gems did manage to make a decent nick in his jaw, but with some calculated dodging Basil emerged more or less intact, and as the police busied themselves with rounding up the various henchmen, he spotted a flash of black velvet darting out the back door and gave chase without a moment's hesitation.
Now they tear through the gutters of the Whitechapel district, and though Ratigan seems to possess a limitless reserve of strength, it will not be a competition of stamina. No, it's a competition of speed, and there's already a clear winner. As the seconds crawl by, the distance between them closes--- Basil is gaining on his target with every step.
Up ahead, Ratigan veers sharply into a narrow gap between buildings, vanishing around the corner. Basil puts his head down and throws himself into a burst of speed, determined not to lose him. He whips around the corner with such velocity that he barely has time to realize where he's going before his feet are lifted straight off the ground. Ratigan waited for him to pass and has now seized the back of his jacket, hoisting him up in the air, cackling in delight as the detective's furious momentum causes his whole body to jerk and swing like a marionette. When that same momentum swings back around, Ratigan uses it to drive him straight down to the pavement, and Basil lands hard on his back with his opponent's foot pinned against his chest.
"Confound it all, Basil!" Ratigan roars.
He's putting only a fraction of his considerable weight on the foot doing the pinning, Basil can tell--- any more and he might crack the detective's ribs. Basil can already feel the bones groaning treacherously, and his breath comes in shallow, helpless gasps, his hands twining feebly around Ratigan's ankle.
"You've spoiled yet another beautiful caper," the villain snarls. "And it's beginning to lose its charm."
Now he leans forward, an elbow propped on his raised knee, and Basil wheezes in protest, his feet kicking wildly, struggling to land a blow. On any other occasion Ratigan would relent, would step back with an apologetic chuckle and some pithy remark before vanishing into the night, leaving them both to resume the chase again. Not tonight. Tonight the villain's eyes are glazed with a peculiar shine, and although Basil knows those eyes better than he knows his own, he has never seem them like this before.
"How like a rat," he rasps, struggling to arch his back and give his ribcage room to expand for air. "Succumbing to your primitive nature. There's no victory in such savagery, Professor!"
That seems to get Ratigan's attention. He shifts his weight back to the other foot, and although Basil is still trapped, he is at least able to breathe, and he does so in greedy, desperate gulps. Ratigan's laugh is rough and strange, and when he smiles it shows all of his long, sharp teeth. He stoops and thrusts his head down to the detective's level, his nostrils flaring and steaming in the chilly night air.
"A savage, am I?" he growls. "Don't tempt me, Basil."
"You overestimate yourself, Ratigan," is the sharp reply. "And you overestimate your ability to intimidate me. You're all bark and no bite."
Quite abruptly, Basil finds himself seized by the throat and yanked to his feet, his back thrown roughly against the wall of the alley. Their faces are only a fraction of a distance apart, close enough that he can smell the brandy on Ratigan's breath and see the unholy rage burning in his eyes. It began as a spark, but as he speaks now, it builds to something like a blaze, and for the first time, Basil is truly afraid of him.
"How many years has it been, Basil?" the rat hisses. "How many years and you still don't know what I'm capable of? We play our little game of cat and mouse, a little puzzle here, a little clue there. You think that's the worst of me? A few capers, an occasional heist? Impudent little brat!"
Basil rises to his toes, then loses the ground entirely as Ratigan pushes him slowly, inexorably upwards along the wall.
"You do love to remind me of what I am," he continues, his voice harsh and terrifyingly unfamiliar. "Well how about a little validation, eh, old boy? How about a taste of the sewers? That's what you want, isn't it? You want me to be a rat. Very well. I'll be a rat!"
With that, he raises a hand and unsheathes the claws that Basil never knew he had. This is not the last time he will see them but it is the first, and he can feel his own eyes go wide and stupid in surprise as Ratigan brings the claws to bear and rakes a path down the detective's chest.
Tweed tears and buttons go flying as Basil's jacket shreds under the assault. Only the thickness of the material saved his skin from a similar fate, but now the coat falls open and if Ratigan strikes again, there's nothing but the thin fabric of his shirt between his flesh and those claws. Basil shrivels up and away, sucking in his stomach and contorting his spine, hoping to wriggle loose from his enemy, but Ratigan's grip is like iron and the pavement is too slick for Basil to find enough footing to break free.
The second blow rips through shirt and skin, and Basil can't contain his shriek as Ratigan carves four bloody trails from his left shoulder down to his right hip. Even the villain seems surprised by the sheer violence of the gesture, and his momentary hesitation is all Basil needs to wrench his neck low enough to allow him to bite the arm that's restraining him. It's a peculiar moment, his teeth locking into Ratigan's wrist, and he wonders how he never realized that their feud was always leading up to this.
As Ratigan yanks his hand back in dismay, Basil drops to the pavement and rolls, hoping to put enough distance between them to allow an escape. He doesn't make it two steps before he’s grabbed by the scruff and spun back towards the wall, slamming into it front first, his arm twisted up and behind him at such an angle that any more struggling would only succeed in dislocating his shoulder. Ratigan's other hand wraps around the back of his skull, crushing his face against the rough brick.
"How does it feel, my dear?" the professor purrs. "Is it what you always dreamed of? Are you quite satisfied with my performance?"
"Ratigan," Basil whimpers. "That's enough."
"Enough?" Ratigan growls, twisting his captive's wrist until Basil yelps. "I'll say when I've had enough. I've got you at a disadvantage now, haven't I? I don't think I ever realized it could be so easy."
With one hand still pinning Basil's face to the unforgiving wall, Ratigan suddenly plucks at the detective's jacket, stripping it down over his shoulders and down past his arms, finally pulling it off him entirely and tossing it aside. It lands in a puddle with a disgraceful splash. Basil latches onto that, focuses on that indignation and not how bare he suddenly feels, how exposed and vulnerable.
"The great Basil of Baker Street," Ratigan chuckles, and his claws leave bright red spots on Basil's white dress shirt as they nip and nick at the flesh beneath. "How pretty you look when you're frightened. I don't believe I've ever noticed that your eyes are such a lovely shade of green."
Desperate to do something to fight him, Basil squeezes his eyes shut, denying him at least that much. Of course that only pleases him, and by now Ratigan's claws have found their way down along his back and have reached the waistband of his trousers. As one sharp nail finds its way inside and leaves a dainty cut on the detective's hip, Basil bolts into a frenzy of movement, all of his limbs flailing in a mindless panic. For one thrilling instant he thinks he might get away, but then Ratigan throws his full weight against him, his much larger body pressing over and against Basil's small, slender frame, trapping him utterly.
"There, there, my sweet," he coos. "Don't make such a fuss."
Basil's bottle-green eyes roll wildly around the alley that entombs them. There, there, the crumbling of the wall at the corner would indicate that the brick is composed primarily of--- and Ratigan delivers a kick to the inside of each ankle, driving his legs apart. The particular shine of the pavement suggests a layer of oil that would be found in a district where--- and Ratigan grabs his tail and yanks upwards, exposing the seat of his trousers. The distant sound of voices and music implies that a nearby tavern must be--- and when Ratigan leans over him, he can feel the erection pressing against the back of his thigh.
"For pity's sake," Basil chokes out, his eyes brimming with tears of fear and embarrassment. "Be reasonable."
"Ah, but I'm just a rat," the professor scolds, and he pulls Basil's tail hard enough to make him moan. "I'm beyond reason."
As if restrained by some bizarre fraction of decency, Ratigan allows both of them to retain their trousers. The gentility of the gesture is completely lost by the crudeness to follow, as he jerks forward and shoves himself roughly against Basil's backside, once, twice, and again and again, grinding himself towards satisfaction. One of his massive forearms is pinned along the span of Basil's shoulders, the other hand still fondling the detective's tail, his claws raking down along its length until they reach the base, which he proceeds to squeeze and pump in a disgusting mockery of intimacy.
Basil's nails dig into the rough brick wall, his horrified gaze fading into a blank stare of utter shock. He's never felt so small. He struggles weakly but only because it is expected of him. In truth, he has quite lost the will to fight, and in that moment, he wonders if he might have also lost the will to live, if only for a little while. There's a distant flash of lightning and he counts the seconds before the thunder breaks, deep and distant, as the rain glides low and fast out into the open country.
Ratigan grunts and hisses in his ear, then he shakes him roughly, and then with some hideous sound like a caterwaul, he comes. Basil feels the heat soaking into him, staining him, and he bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything that might give his enemy even a fraction more pleasure.
"There," Ratigan pants, giving Basil's ass a conspiratorial slap. "Savage enough for you, precious?"
Basil checks himself and remains silent.
"Ever the stoic, aren't you?" the professor laughs condescendingly. "Very well, then I shan't linger for pillow talk. A true gentleman knows when he has overstayed his welcome."
A thousand insults splutter helplessly to the tip of Basil's tongue--- fiend, blackguard, monster--- but none of them sound good enough so he keeps them to himself. When Ratigan steps back abruptly, the detective discovers that his legs have gone quite weak and they buckle as soon as they lose their support from behind. He sinks to his knees, his forehead resting against the brick, his shoulders slumped.
Ratigan kneels behind him, and for a split-second Basil wonders if the villain has set some burning thing against his face--- but it's the rat’s tongue, tracing a hot wet trail up the side of his neck, reaching his ear and flicking briefly, horribly at the inside. It seems to Basil as if the thing penetrates, pours dark and poisonous straight down the canal and into his swollen, aching mind, and quite against his will he feels his whole body jerk and his voice shudder out of him in a wretched groan.
Apparently that was the last thing Ratigan wanted, because after a fond whisper of, "Adieu, my dear, until we meet again," he's gone, and Basil is left to pick up the pieces of himself from the cold dark pavement.
- - -
When they do meet again, it's only a glance across a great distance, as the villain's dirigible glides up and out of the reach of his eternal nemesis. Their eyes connect across the foggy air, and with a knowing smile, Ratigan lays a hand across his broad chest. Unconsciously, Basil mirrors the gesture, and both of them know that underneath his tweed jacket and waistcoat, underneath his shirt and his fur the color of dust, there is a set of four long scars, carved from shoulder to hip, permanent, profound.
_______end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 2,358
Rating: R
Summary: "You do love to remind me of what I am. You want me to be a rat? Very well. I'll be a rat!"
Warnings: Violence, sexual assault, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: Written for/linked to disney_kink. Most of the prompts there are pretty fluffy and princess-centric, but when I saw this prompt--- "Basil/Ratigan. Just good old-fashioned physical(/sexual) assault."--- I was hooked. Prompter also mentioned that it would be a nice plus if Ratigan's claws came out. Done and done!
The pavement is still wet from the rain, and Basil almost slips as he rounds the corner. Really, the conditions are just about as bad as they can possibly be for a chase--- the only thing that could make it worse would be if the storm had not yet passed, but judging by the time-lapse between lightning and thunder, Basil can tell that the worst of the weather is moving swiftly away. Puddles and treacherous footing are his biggest obstacles now, and he crashes through the former while doing his best to navigate the latter. Up ahead, a hulking, caped figure races with a nimbleness that would surprise anyone who didn't already know him too well.
It's been quite some time since they saw each other face to face. Usually Ratigan has just nipped out by the time Basil catches up to him, his cigar still smoking in the crystal ashtray, the back of his chair still warm from his royal recline. This time Basil stumbled upon him mid-heist, jewels in hand, and received a face full of rubies for his trouble, flung like a smokescreen at the detective’s eyes as the villain made his escape. One of the gems did manage to make a decent nick in his jaw, but with some calculated dodging Basil emerged more or less intact, and as the police busied themselves with rounding up the various henchmen, he spotted a flash of black velvet darting out the back door and gave chase without a moment's hesitation.
Now they tear through the gutters of the Whitechapel district, and though Ratigan seems to possess a limitless reserve of strength, it will not be a competition of stamina. No, it's a competition of speed, and there's already a clear winner. As the seconds crawl by, the distance between them closes--- Basil is gaining on his target with every step.
Up ahead, Ratigan veers sharply into a narrow gap between buildings, vanishing around the corner. Basil puts his head down and throws himself into a burst of speed, determined not to lose him. He whips around the corner with such velocity that he barely has time to realize where he's going before his feet are lifted straight off the ground. Ratigan waited for him to pass and has now seized the back of his jacket, hoisting him up in the air, cackling in delight as the detective's furious momentum causes his whole body to jerk and swing like a marionette. When that same momentum swings back around, Ratigan uses it to drive him straight down to the pavement, and Basil lands hard on his back with his opponent's foot pinned against his chest.
"Confound it all, Basil!" Ratigan roars.
He's putting only a fraction of his considerable weight on the foot doing the pinning, Basil can tell--- any more and he might crack the detective's ribs. Basil can already feel the bones groaning treacherously, and his breath comes in shallow, helpless gasps, his hands twining feebly around Ratigan's ankle.
"You've spoiled yet another beautiful caper," the villain snarls. "And it's beginning to lose its charm."
Now he leans forward, an elbow propped on his raised knee, and Basil wheezes in protest, his feet kicking wildly, struggling to land a blow. On any other occasion Ratigan would relent, would step back with an apologetic chuckle and some pithy remark before vanishing into the night, leaving them both to resume the chase again. Not tonight. Tonight the villain's eyes are glazed with a peculiar shine, and although Basil knows those eyes better than he knows his own, he has never seem them like this before.
"How like a rat," he rasps, struggling to arch his back and give his ribcage room to expand for air. "Succumbing to your primitive nature. There's no victory in such savagery, Professor!"
That seems to get Ratigan's attention. He shifts his weight back to the other foot, and although Basil is still trapped, he is at least able to breathe, and he does so in greedy, desperate gulps. Ratigan's laugh is rough and strange, and when he smiles it shows all of his long, sharp teeth. He stoops and thrusts his head down to the detective's level, his nostrils flaring and steaming in the chilly night air.
"A savage, am I?" he growls. "Don't tempt me, Basil."
"You overestimate yourself, Ratigan," is the sharp reply. "And you overestimate your ability to intimidate me. You're all bark and no bite."
Quite abruptly, Basil finds himself seized by the throat and yanked to his feet, his back thrown roughly against the wall of the alley. Their faces are only a fraction of a distance apart, close enough that he can smell the brandy on Ratigan's breath and see the unholy rage burning in his eyes. It began as a spark, but as he speaks now, it builds to something like a blaze, and for the first time, Basil is truly afraid of him.
"How many years has it been, Basil?" the rat hisses. "How many years and you still don't know what I'm capable of? We play our little game of cat and mouse, a little puzzle here, a little clue there. You think that's the worst of me? A few capers, an occasional heist? Impudent little brat!"
Basil rises to his toes, then loses the ground entirely as Ratigan pushes him slowly, inexorably upwards along the wall.
"You do love to remind me of what I am," he continues, his voice harsh and terrifyingly unfamiliar. "Well how about a little validation, eh, old boy? How about a taste of the sewers? That's what you want, isn't it? You want me to be a rat. Very well. I'll be a rat!"
With that, he raises a hand and unsheathes the claws that Basil never knew he had. This is not the last time he will see them but it is the first, and he can feel his own eyes go wide and stupid in surprise as Ratigan brings the claws to bear and rakes a path down the detective's chest.
Tweed tears and buttons go flying as Basil's jacket shreds under the assault. Only the thickness of the material saved his skin from a similar fate, but now the coat falls open and if Ratigan strikes again, there's nothing but the thin fabric of his shirt between his flesh and those claws. Basil shrivels up and away, sucking in his stomach and contorting his spine, hoping to wriggle loose from his enemy, but Ratigan's grip is like iron and the pavement is too slick for Basil to find enough footing to break free.
The second blow rips through shirt and skin, and Basil can't contain his shriek as Ratigan carves four bloody trails from his left shoulder down to his right hip. Even the villain seems surprised by the sheer violence of the gesture, and his momentary hesitation is all Basil needs to wrench his neck low enough to allow him to bite the arm that's restraining him. It's a peculiar moment, his teeth locking into Ratigan's wrist, and he wonders how he never realized that their feud was always leading up to this.
As Ratigan yanks his hand back in dismay, Basil drops to the pavement and rolls, hoping to put enough distance between them to allow an escape. He doesn't make it two steps before he’s grabbed by the scruff and spun back towards the wall, slamming into it front first, his arm twisted up and behind him at such an angle that any more struggling would only succeed in dislocating his shoulder. Ratigan's other hand wraps around the back of his skull, crushing his face against the rough brick.
"How does it feel, my dear?" the professor purrs. "Is it what you always dreamed of? Are you quite satisfied with my performance?"
"Ratigan," Basil whimpers. "That's enough."
"Enough?" Ratigan growls, twisting his captive's wrist until Basil yelps. "I'll say when I've had enough. I've got you at a disadvantage now, haven't I? I don't think I ever realized it could be so easy."
With one hand still pinning Basil's face to the unforgiving wall, Ratigan suddenly plucks at the detective's jacket, stripping it down over his shoulders and down past his arms, finally pulling it off him entirely and tossing it aside. It lands in a puddle with a disgraceful splash. Basil latches onto that, focuses on that indignation and not how bare he suddenly feels, how exposed and vulnerable.
"The great Basil of Baker Street," Ratigan chuckles, and his claws leave bright red spots on Basil's white dress shirt as they nip and nick at the flesh beneath. "How pretty you look when you're frightened. I don't believe I've ever noticed that your eyes are such a lovely shade of green."
Desperate to do something to fight him, Basil squeezes his eyes shut, denying him at least that much. Of course that only pleases him, and by now Ratigan's claws have found their way down along his back and have reached the waistband of his trousers. As one sharp nail finds its way inside and leaves a dainty cut on the detective's hip, Basil bolts into a frenzy of movement, all of his limbs flailing in a mindless panic. For one thrilling instant he thinks he might get away, but then Ratigan throws his full weight against him, his much larger body pressing over and against Basil's small, slender frame, trapping him utterly.
"There, there, my sweet," he coos. "Don't make such a fuss."
Basil's bottle-green eyes roll wildly around the alley that entombs them. There, there, the crumbling of the wall at the corner would indicate that the brick is composed primarily of--- and Ratigan delivers a kick to the inside of each ankle, driving his legs apart. The particular shine of the pavement suggests a layer of oil that would be found in a district where--- and Ratigan grabs his tail and yanks upwards, exposing the seat of his trousers. The distant sound of voices and music implies that a nearby tavern must be--- and when Ratigan leans over him, he can feel the erection pressing against the back of his thigh.
"For pity's sake," Basil chokes out, his eyes brimming with tears of fear and embarrassment. "Be reasonable."
"Ah, but I'm just a rat," the professor scolds, and he pulls Basil's tail hard enough to make him moan. "I'm beyond reason."
As if restrained by some bizarre fraction of decency, Ratigan allows both of them to retain their trousers. The gentility of the gesture is completely lost by the crudeness to follow, as he jerks forward and shoves himself roughly against Basil's backside, once, twice, and again and again, grinding himself towards satisfaction. One of his massive forearms is pinned along the span of Basil's shoulders, the other hand still fondling the detective's tail, his claws raking down along its length until they reach the base, which he proceeds to squeeze and pump in a disgusting mockery of intimacy.
Basil's nails dig into the rough brick wall, his horrified gaze fading into a blank stare of utter shock. He's never felt so small. He struggles weakly but only because it is expected of him. In truth, he has quite lost the will to fight, and in that moment, he wonders if he might have also lost the will to live, if only for a little while. There's a distant flash of lightning and he counts the seconds before the thunder breaks, deep and distant, as the rain glides low and fast out into the open country.
Ratigan grunts and hisses in his ear, then he shakes him roughly, and then with some hideous sound like a caterwaul, he comes. Basil feels the heat soaking into him, staining him, and he bites his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything that might give his enemy even a fraction more pleasure.
"There," Ratigan pants, giving Basil's ass a conspiratorial slap. "Savage enough for you, precious?"
Basil checks himself and remains silent.
"Ever the stoic, aren't you?" the professor laughs condescendingly. "Very well, then I shan't linger for pillow talk. A true gentleman knows when he has overstayed his welcome."
A thousand insults splutter helplessly to the tip of Basil's tongue--- fiend, blackguard, monster--- but none of them sound good enough so he keeps them to himself. When Ratigan steps back abruptly, the detective discovers that his legs have gone quite weak and they buckle as soon as they lose their support from behind. He sinks to his knees, his forehead resting against the brick, his shoulders slumped.
Ratigan kneels behind him, and for a split-second Basil wonders if the villain has set some burning thing against his face--- but it's the rat’s tongue, tracing a hot wet trail up the side of his neck, reaching his ear and flicking briefly, horribly at the inside. It seems to Basil as if the thing penetrates, pours dark and poisonous straight down the canal and into his swollen, aching mind, and quite against his will he feels his whole body jerk and his voice shudder out of him in a wretched groan.
Apparently that was the last thing Ratigan wanted, because after a fond whisper of, "Adieu, my dear, until we meet again," he's gone, and Basil is left to pick up the pieces of himself from the cold dark pavement.
- - -
When they do meet again, it's only a glance across a great distance, as the villain's dirigible glides up and out of the reach of his eternal nemesis. Their eyes connect across the foggy air, and with a knowing smile, Ratigan lays a hand across his broad chest. Unconsciously, Basil mirrors the gesture, and both of them know that underneath his tweed jacket and waistcoat, underneath his shirt and his fur the color of dust, there is a set of four long scars, carved from shoulder to hip, permanent, profound.
_______end.