Fic - "Habanera"
Title: Habanera
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 3,444
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There's only one rule: make him come first.
Warnings: Graphic sex, bondage, inappropriate use of tails, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: Ninth in the Basil/Ratigan series, and the first one not from a prompt at disney_kink! I don't know if I'll make it a habit, but it's been so long since I wrote some really nasty porn for this pairing that I had to take a break. All these serious plot-heavy fics! Where's the sex? HERE IT IS. Written for my dear little anneka_neko, who PMed me a prompt that was too delicious to resist. Please see the section marked "Warnings" for further details. Anyway, this was supposed to be a quick and dirty write, but of course, I got carried away and it gets a little serious at the end. Still. It's mostly porn. XD Timeline-wise, we're post-Smoke and Mirrors and pre-A Private Little War. I'll fill in the blanks in later fics and SHUT UP, COLONEL, LESS TALK MORE PORN.
A drop of sweat creeps down the side of his neck, and it’s just uncomfortable enough that Basil would reach up and scratch it--- if his arms weren’t tied securely behind his back. It’s quite the efficient binding job, not just wrist against wrist but forearm against forearm, each hand curled around the opposite elbow. Between that and the blindfold, Basil is utterly helpless, and his ears flick back in surprise when Ratigan’s chuckle reveals him to be much, much closer than previously thought.
“Sweating already, precious?” the rat notes, and his fingers brush lightly over the wet-dark fur at Basil’s nape. “That won’t do. We’re only just getting started.”
The detective keeps his breathing and his voice level. “A body can sense the approach of exertion. It reacts. It prepares.”
“And can it also sense the approach of pain?”
Quite abruptly, Ratigan grabs hold of Basil’s tail and yanks. It’s not a playful gesture, nor a flirtatious one--- it’s designed to hurt, and Basil bites his tongue against the instinctive yelp that threatens to tear out of him.
He’s not sure if Ratigan is clothed or not. The blindfold went on the moment he entered the shabby Whitechapel flat, and he was quickly disrobed and bound in silence. Kneeling on the rough floor, he caught the sound of the villain throwing the deadbolt--- there will be no interruptions. Now he’s only aware of Ratigan’s hands. They’re as naked as Basil himself, the better to threaten to unleash his claws, the smoother his touch as his palms trace serpentine circles between the detective’s shoulderblades, drawing from him a frustrated hum of confusion. It’s too gentle. It feels false, and Basil grits his teeth in anticipation of the rat’s true self.
There--- the hands turn suddenly rough, shoving Basil forward and off-balance. With his arms tied behind him he has no way of breaking his fall, and he does his best to turn his face to the side, catching the worst of the impact on his shoulder. The humiliating new position--- face pressed against the floor, rump terrifyingly exposed--- has an immediate effect, and underneath the blindfold his eyes boil with tears while his throat closes in panic.
“How pathetic you look now, Basil,” Ratigan’s voice rumbles against his ear. “How filthy.”
Basil’s scathing retort is eclipsed by his fierce hiss of alarm as Ratigan’s brushes a curious fingertip against the detective’s asshole. Basil absolutely expects to feel the tip of a claw next, and he clenches himself protectively while attempting to rear back up onto his knees and give himself a fighting chance. If he’d been bound at the wrists he might have reached behind him for balance, but his arms are too tight against his back and his legs aren’t strong enough to pull him all the way upright. He slams back into the floor again, this time with enough force to split his lip as his jaw cracks hard against the wood.
“Poor thing, did I startle you?” the rat feigns remorse. “Oh, and now you’ve wound yourself as tight as a watch spring--- my dear, you must relax.”
That’s not about to happen. Teeth bared and every muscle pulled taut, Basil cannot speak, so he growls his refusal to cooperate.
“Very well,” Ratigan sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to do my best to soften you up.”
Hot, liquid contact--- it’s his tongue, Basil realizes with a strained gasp, Ratigan has slid his tongue up against the base of his tail. Basil has never known a muscle quite like this one, as strong and sinister as the rat himself, a true extension of his wickedness given a form that allows it to lap slowly but surely at the detective’s tensed and trembling entrance. A few surface licks, like a cat skimming for cream, and then Ratigan pushes inside.
“Ha,” says Basil, the sound of laughter but the pitch and duration of a low, guttural groan. Already in darkness, he nonetheless squeezes his eyes shut, grinding his face against the floor as arousal blooms unbidden between his legs, as he feels himself getting harder with every stroke of Ratigan’s relentless tongue. The rat answers the groan with one of his own, his elegant voice distorted by the primitive sounds of lust. He forces himself deeper, until his whiskers scrape the detective’s backside and Basil’s willpower is taxed beyond endurance. When he has been stretched to satisfaction, Ratigan withdraws, and Basil releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding.
“I wish I could tell you,” Ratigan pants, his tone still sounding strange and rough. “How you taste. How you feel inside.”
“Spare me your--- your incessant--- soliloquizing,” Basil rasps, his vocabulary still doggedly intact. “I believe you would--- ah, make love--- to your own voice--- if you could.”
“You don’t want me to tell you?” There it is--- the rat’s speech drops back into the familiar silky register, as though he has regained a control that had almost been lost. “Very well. I’ll show you.”
He draws the length of Basil’s tail between his hands, stretching it out for a moment of unbearable contemplation before he curls it down and pulls the end of it into his mouth. Basil can feel his jaw working as he draws up a quantity of saliva, and as he slowly pulls the tail out between his pursed lips, he coats it with a thick layer of lubrication.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s planning. Basil smacks the tops of his useless feet against the floor, a drumroll of protest as he splutters, “Don’t be ridiculous! You have no right to---”
“You are bound and I am not,” Ratigan reminds him, giving the tip of his tail a fond kiss. “You have no rights at all.”
Basil can’t argue with logic, can’t argue with the truth of the situation, and he certainly can’t argue with the end of his own tail being gently but firmly pushed inside of him. He tenses instinctively and the thin bones of the appendage scrape together, buckling at the sudden obstruction.
“Hnh,” says Basil, and the villain tuts in annoyance.
“I’ve told you to relax, darling. It would make this a little easier.”
“For who?” the detective wonders.
“For both of us,” Ratigan says simply, and the hand that isn’t gripping the tail gives Basil’s thigh a condescending squeeze.
Relax, Basil commands himself. Ratigan is relentless, and although the passage is not yet fully open, he presses against the resistance. Basil’s tail bows up, and it throbs at the point where it was once broken by the trap in Ratigan’s lair, healed but still remembered as the outline of a fracture that threatens to snap again if pushed too far. The memory of that day floods through his veins--- his own pain and helplessness, his shame and humiliation--- and with a gasp and his head dropped hard against the floor, he finds the desire to let go.
Suddenly open, he accepts as much as he can of his own tail with one decisive shove from his enemy. Ratigan actually gasps in surprise and delight, and the sound triggers a wave of arousal in Basil, which in turn causes the tip of his tail to twitch. It startles him badly, strikes him in a deep place that has never before been touched, and he whines with satisfaction.
“I told you,” Ratigan murmurs with a note of pride. “I knew you would enjoy it.”
Always bragging, Basil thinks, his mind still functioning though his voice has been reduced to mere grunts. Ratigan is sounding far too pleased with himself, far too smug, while Basil is pinned and writhing under his touch. Come on, now, the detective urges himself, knowing from experience that he does not need freedom of movement nor power of speech to bend Ratigan to his will. He thinks back to the day of the trap, to the way the rat maintained the illusion of control while doing exactly what Basil wanted him to do. There’s a way, there’s always a way to reach him, to wrap tendrils of influence around his unsuspecting mind. Ratigan’s mistake is to assume that he has the upper hand simply because he has trapped Basil’s physical form. He forgets that Basil’s mind is sharpest when he is able to leave his body behind, as his mother taught him.
Mother. Her face flits through the corner of his thoughts and he grabs onto it. It anchors him, sobers him, enables him to gather his wits and form a plan. Control almost splinters away from him again when Ratigan twists his tail, twists inside of him, and he releases a lustful moan that originates in his chest and burns his throat like bile as it bubbles out of him.
“Ah,” says Ratigan, breathless with want.
And just like that, Basil knows what to do.
“Oh,” he gasps, and arches his back, pushing himself back against Ratigan’s hand. He can feel Ratigan shudder, hear the soft wet sound of his mouth popping open, as his free hand comes down hard on the small of the detective’s back, fingers twining in his fur. Because he can’t believe it, Basil tends to forget that Ratigan finds nothing more arousing than Basil himself. This can be used to the detective’s advantage. This can give him an edge in an impossible situation, and really, there’s nothing he loves more.
So he squirms and whimpers, curls his hands around his elbows, fingers hooking around the joints until his knuckles throb with the effort. He gasps and shivers, cracks his useless feet against the floor and rubs his face from side to side in wild spasms. Blindfolded, he relies on his other sharp senses to tell the story--- his ears catching the whisper of Ratigan’s trousers sliding down his thighs, his skin tingling against the cold as the rat’s touch pulls away from the small of his back, his nose prickling against the bitter smell of musk as Ratigan takes himself in hand.
Now is the real test. Now, although his tail strokes hard at his innermost places and his own cock strains for release, he must not succumb. He absolutely must not. He tells himself it’s a simple question of mind over matter, and he sends his thoughts to dark and distant places, dashing cold water on his screaming nerves. He thinks again of his mother, how she’d slap him and command him not to flinch--- mind over matter, you foolish boy!--- and how she would slap him now if she could see him so close to surrender.
“Confound you, Basil,” Ratigan hisses in his ear, his voice tremulous. “You wretched little beast, you torment me so.”
How terrifying that Ratigan is able to read him so well, to somehow know that Basil has never felt more like a dumb beast, debased and debauched on the floor of a filthy Whitechapel flat. He has never felt so perverse, and if that wasn’t exactly what he wanted then he wouldn’t be here. It’s all he can do to fight him, to hold himself in check while he pushes his enemy to the edge. He can feel himself getting closer--- I must not, I must not--- but he can hear Ratigan’s breath growing faster, can feel the tension spreading through his muscles, turning them weak and stupid so that his grip on Basil’s tail becomes clumsy. He’s bent almost double over him--- Basil can feel the outline of him, hot and heavy, curved along the length of his spine.
“Come, you brat!” the rat spits. “I want you to come!”
“Ohhh, God,” says Basil, and he pushes his arms back and up as far as he can, far enough to graze Ratigan’s belly.
That’s enough. Basil gives a genuine scream as Ratigan suddenly bites him, hard, between his shoulders, a savage instinct as he’s overwhelmed by climax. Come splatters over the small of Basil’s back, right where Ratigan’s hand rested just a short time ago, and it sinks down through the fur to pool warm and wet against the detective’s skin. Nerves scraped raw, Basil nonetheless gives an exhausted bark of victory, and he waits, panting, for Ratigan to recover his senses and witness his triumph.
The silence lasts almost too long. Basil can just imagine Ratigan’s handsome face, flushed red with satiation, his mouth curling in a snarl of dismay as he realizes that the detective has beaten him once again. Quiet, still, Basil feels filthy and beautiful and proud of himself.
Then: “Well played, Basil.”
The ropes binding him give way at a precise swipe of the claws, and Basil drops his aching arms under him, pushes himself up so that he’s on his hands and knees. Now, his prize--- Ratigan’s hands stroking his thighs, his ass, treasuring him, worshiping him with a reverence that he absolutely does not deserve. The wrongness of it, the sheer, undeniable wrongness of it, is enough to drive Basil to madness, and he speaks in fragments of foreign tongues as Ratigan takes hold of his cock and draws him towards orgasm. “Vincit qui se vincit,” as Ratigan gives his tail another treacherous turn. “Mi benedica, padre, perchè ho peccato,” as Ratigan pumps his length, his hand slick with sweat and pre-come. “L'amour est un oiseau rebelle,” as Ratigan leans in close to press a kiss between his shoulders, at the point where he bit him, the bruised skin still rising from the impact of pointed teeth.
Just as climax is upon him, Ratigan swiftly, savagely pulls out his tail from where it has trespassed. Sensation floods through him, as though his whole self is being turned inside out, and when Basil finally allows himself the release, he comes harder than he ever has in his memory. Empty in all regards, he drops his body spent and shaking to the floor.
The blindfold comes off last. Basil looks up into the sweat-streaked face of his nemesis.
“Very well played, indeed,” Ratigan smiles, breathing hard.
He’s in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows, with his trousers still pushed down around his knees. As fluid as a cat, he slips back onto the floor, supporting his considerable weight on his shoulders and his feet as he cants his hips up into the air. It’s a shameless display and Basil looks away, unimpressed. Ratigan quickly completes the gesture by pulling his trousers back up into place and then rolling again to a kneeling position.
“Was that French you were speaking at your peak, my dear?” he coughs, perhaps embarrassed by his own exhibitionism. “An interesting choice.”
“A significant one,” Basil mutters, as he hauls himself to his feet and goes looking for his clothes. “A quotation, from an opera.”
“You always did have such good taste,” Ratigan stays crouched on the floor but follows him with his eyes.
The detective finds his garments folded neatly over a nearby chair. He doesn’t know how the rat found time to do it, but leave it to Ratigan to make sure that every detail is gentlemanly and precise. Never mind that they just fucked like savages on the filthy floor--- the illusion of good conduct must be maintained. Basil yanks on his trousers and his shirt, his belly boiling with disgust and self-loathing.
But he turns, and sees Ratigan watching him, waiting for him to say something, and he can’t help but feel a stab of frustration and sympathy. As someone who fights every day to keep a good public face over his own less than stable self, he can feel a vague sense of empathy for his enemy.
That’s the worst part--- the sensation of falling.
He can’t help it. He finds himself slowly approaching Ratigan, reciting the lines that precede the aria in a distant voice.
“Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas.”
The rat starts to smile, shifting his weight so that he’s settled, inviting the detective to join him. Basil sinks slowly down before him, the words coming unbidden to his tongue, the truth of them scorching his lips.
“Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain.”
He lays a hand on the side of Ratigan’s face, a hand that the rat covers with his own. It’s a moment on the verge of something altogether too dangerous, altogether too unpredictable. Fire and ice clash hard in Basil’s mind, a thousand alarum bells, a bridge that he is still not strong enough to burn.
So he says decisively, “Mais pas aujourd’hui, c’est certain.”
And he stands, quick and painless, finishes dressing, and goes for the door. One hand on the doorknob and he looks back, at Ratigan still sitting on the floor, his face shadowed with suspicion and anger.
“Is it a love song, precious?” he wonders, his voice treacherously dark.
“That depends on who you ask,” Basil answers, fearless, and he doesn’t bother to slam the door behind him.
- - -
Ratigan sings to himself in the empty flat, his warm baritone well-suited to the melancholy tune.
“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, que nul ne peut apprivoiser...”
Basil is a spoiled brat who assumes that Ratigan has not had exposure to the arts. Oh, he recognized the words immediately, recognized them and remembered the first time he heard them and felt his heart tremble at such a fate. To see Don Jose throw his life away in pursuit of such an ungrateful whore--- it chilled his blood.
“Et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’appelle, s’il lui convient de refuser...”
He winds the rope around his forearm, collecting it into a set of serpentine coils that he hangs over the back of the chair. He folds the blindfold and lays it tidily on the seat. Then he rolls down his shirtsleeves and slowly, slowly returns to himself.
“Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière...”
It isn’t until he’s putting his gloves on that he realizes he’s grinding his teeth, that his eyes are smarting with rage and the fur of his hackles is raised like brushfire. He slams one fist against the doorjamb, butts his head against the door itself. He knows that he’s going in circles, and he knows it will drive him mad. Still, did Jose not pursue his lover to the mountains and beyond? Did he not chase her down to the plaza of the toreadors?
And did she not deny his love until he tore the last breath from her body?
On a small table by the door sits an abacus, six columns of beads in two colors, black and white. His hand shaking with fury, Ratigan nonetheless knocks another white bead to its opposite side. The white beads far outweigh the black. Basil is winning the game. If Ratigan does not mind himself, he could be lost.
And he sighs as he locks the door behind him:
“L’amour! L’amour! L’amour!”
_________end.
Translations
Basil:
Latin = He conquers who conquers himself.
Italian = Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
French = Love is a rebellious bird.
The aria =
When will I love you? Good lord, I don’t know.
Maybe never, maybe tomorrow,
But not today. That’s certain.
Ratigan:
Love is a rebellious bird that nothing can tame,
And it is simply in vain to call him
If it suits him not to come.
Nothing will work, neither threats nor prayer...
Love! Love! Love!
- - -
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Basil, Ratigan. The Great Mouse Detective.
Word Count: 3,444
Rating: NC-17
Summary: There's only one rule: make him come first.
Warnings: Graphic sex, bondage, inappropriate use of tails, general desecration of beloved Disney characters.
Notes: Ninth in the Basil/Ratigan series, and the first one not from a prompt at disney_kink! I don't know if I'll make it a habit, but it's been so long since I wrote some really nasty porn for this pairing that I had to take a break. All these serious plot-heavy fics! Where's the sex? HERE IT IS. Written for my dear little anneka_neko, who PMed me a prompt that was too delicious to resist. Please see the section marked "Warnings" for further details. Anyway, this was supposed to be a quick and dirty write, but of course, I got carried away and it gets a little serious at the end. Still. It's mostly porn. XD Timeline-wise, we're post-Smoke and Mirrors and pre-A Private Little War. I'll fill in the blanks in later fics and SHUT UP, COLONEL, LESS TALK MORE PORN.
A drop of sweat creeps down the side of his neck, and it’s just uncomfortable enough that Basil would reach up and scratch it--- if his arms weren’t tied securely behind his back. It’s quite the efficient binding job, not just wrist against wrist but forearm against forearm, each hand curled around the opposite elbow. Between that and the blindfold, Basil is utterly helpless, and his ears flick back in surprise when Ratigan’s chuckle reveals him to be much, much closer than previously thought.
“Sweating already, precious?” the rat notes, and his fingers brush lightly over the wet-dark fur at Basil’s nape. “That won’t do. We’re only just getting started.”
The detective keeps his breathing and his voice level. “A body can sense the approach of exertion. It reacts. It prepares.”
“And can it also sense the approach of pain?”
Quite abruptly, Ratigan grabs hold of Basil’s tail and yanks. It’s not a playful gesture, nor a flirtatious one--- it’s designed to hurt, and Basil bites his tongue against the instinctive yelp that threatens to tear out of him.
He’s not sure if Ratigan is clothed or not. The blindfold went on the moment he entered the shabby Whitechapel flat, and he was quickly disrobed and bound in silence. Kneeling on the rough floor, he caught the sound of the villain throwing the deadbolt--- there will be no interruptions. Now he’s only aware of Ratigan’s hands. They’re as naked as Basil himself, the better to threaten to unleash his claws, the smoother his touch as his palms trace serpentine circles between the detective’s shoulderblades, drawing from him a frustrated hum of confusion. It’s too gentle. It feels false, and Basil grits his teeth in anticipation of the rat’s true self.
There--- the hands turn suddenly rough, shoving Basil forward and off-balance. With his arms tied behind him he has no way of breaking his fall, and he does his best to turn his face to the side, catching the worst of the impact on his shoulder. The humiliating new position--- face pressed against the floor, rump terrifyingly exposed--- has an immediate effect, and underneath the blindfold his eyes boil with tears while his throat closes in panic.
“How pathetic you look now, Basil,” Ratigan’s voice rumbles against his ear. “How filthy.”
Basil’s scathing retort is eclipsed by his fierce hiss of alarm as Ratigan’s brushes a curious fingertip against the detective’s asshole. Basil absolutely expects to feel the tip of a claw next, and he clenches himself protectively while attempting to rear back up onto his knees and give himself a fighting chance. If he’d been bound at the wrists he might have reached behind him for balance, but his arms are too tight against his back and his legs aren’t strong enough to pull him all the way upright. He slams back into the floor again, this time with enough force to split his lip as his jaw cracks hard against the wood.
“Poor thing, did I startle you?” the rat feigns remorse. “Oh, and now you’ve wound yourself as tight as a watch spring--- my dear, you must relax.”
That’s not about to happen. Teeth bared and every muscle pulled taut, Basil cannot speak, so he growls his refusal to cooperate.
“Very well,” Ratigan sighs. “I suppose I’ll have to do my best to soften you up.”
Hot, liquid contact--- it’s his tongue, Basil realizes with a strained gasp, Ratigan has slid his tongue up against the base of his tail. Basil has never known a muscle quite like this one, as strong and sinister as the rat himself, a true extension of his wickedness given a form that allows it to lap slowly but surely at the detective’s tensed and trembling entrance. A few surface licks, like a cat skimming for cream, and then Ratigan pushes inside.
“Ha,” says Basil, the sound of laughter but the pitch and duration of a low, guttural groan. Already in darkness, he nonetheless squeezes his eyes shut, grinding his face against the floor as arousal blooms unbidden between his legs, as he feels himself getting harder with every stroke of Ratigan’s relentless tongue. The rat answers the groan with one of his own, his elegant voice distorted by the primitive sounds of lust. He forces himself deeper, until his whiskers scrape the detective’s backside and Basil’s willpower is taxed beyond endurance. When he has been stretched to satisfaction, Ratigan withdraws, and Basil releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’s been holding.
“I wish I could tell you,” Ratigan pants, his tone still sounding strange and rough. “How you taste. How you feel inside.”
“Spare me your--- your incessant--- soliloquizing,” Basil rasps, his vocabulary still doggedly intact. “I believe you would--- ah, make love--- to your own voice--- if you could.”
“You don’t want me to tell you?” There it is--- the rat’s speech drops back into the familiar silky register, as though he has regained a control that had almost been lost. “Very well. I’ll show you.”
He draws the length of Basil’s tail between his hands, stretching it out for a moment of unbearable contemplation before he curls it down and pulls the end of it into his mouth. Basil can feel his jaw working as he draws up a quantity of saliva, and as he slowly pulls the tail out between his pursed lips, he coats it with a thick layer of lubrication.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s planning. Basil smacks the tops of his useless feet against the floor, a drumroll of protest as he splutters, “Don’t be ridiculous! You have no right to---”
“You are bound and I am not,” Ratigan reminds him, giving the tip of his tail a fond kiss. “You have no rights at all.”
Basil can’t argue with logic, can’t argue with the truth of the situation, and he certainly can’t argue with the end of his own tail being gently but firmly pushed inside of him. He tenses instinctively and the thin bones of the appendage scrape together, buckling at the sudden obstruction.
“Hnh,” says Basil, and the villain tuts in annoyance.
“I’ve told you to relax, darling. It would make this a little easier.”
“For who?” the detective wonders.
“For both of us,” Ratigan says simply, and the hand that isn’t gripping the tail gives Basil’s thigh a condescending squeeze.
Relax, Basil commands himself. Ratigan is relentless, and although the passage is not yet fully open, he presses against the resistance. Basil’s tail bows up, and it throbs at the point where it was once broken by the trap in Ratigan’s lair, healed but still remembered as the outline of a fracture that threatens to snap again if pushed too far. The memory of that day floods through his veins--- his own pain and helplessness, his shame and humiliation--- and with a gasp and his head dropped hard against the floor, he finds the desire to let go.
Suddenly open, he accepts as much as he can of his own tail with one decisive shove from his enemy. Ratigan actually gasps in surprise and delight, and the sound triggers a wave of arousal in Basil, which in turn causes the tip of his tail to twitch. It startles him badly, strikes him in a deep place that has never before been touched, and he whines with satisfaction.
“I told you,” Ratigan murmurs with a note of pride. “I knew you would enjoy it.”
Always bragging, Basil thinks, his mind still functioning though his voice has been reduced to mere grunts. Ratigan is sounding far too pleased with himself, far too smug, while Basil is pinned and writhing under his touch. Come on, now, the detective urges himself, knowing from experience that he does not need freedom of movement nor power of speech to bend Ratigan to his will. He thinks back to the day of the trap, to the way the rat maintained the illusion of control while doing exactly what Basil wanted him to do. There’s a way, there’s always a way to reach him, to wrap tendrils of influence around his unsuspecting mind. Ratigan’s mistake is to assume that he has the upper hand simply because he has trapped Basil’s physical form. He forgets that Basil’s mind is sharpest when he is able to leave his body behind, as his mother taught him.
Mother. Her face flits through the corner of his thoughts and he grabs onto it. It anchors him, sobers him, enables him to gather his wits and form a plan. Control almost splinters away from him again when Ratigan twists his tail, twists inside of him, and he releases a lustful moan that originates in his chest and burns his throat like bile as it bubbles out of him.
“Ah,” says Ratigan, breathless with want.
And just like that, Basil knows what to do.
“Oh,” he gasps, and arches his back, pushing himself back against Ratigan’s hand. He can feel Ratigan shudder, hear the soft wet sound of his mouth popping open, as his free hand comes down hard on the small of the detective’s back, fingers twining in his fur. Because he can’t believe it, Basil tends to forget that Ratigan finds nothing more arousing than Basil himself. This can be used to the detective’s advantage. This can give him an edge in an impossible situation, and really, there’s nothing he loves more.
So he squirms and whimpers, curls his hands around his elbows, fingers hooking around the joints until his knuckles throb with the effort. He gasps and shivers, cracks his useless feet against the floor and rubs his face from side to side in wild spasms. Blindfolded, he relies on his other sharp senses to tell the story--- his ears catching the whisper of Ratigan’s trousers sliding down his thighs, his skin tingling against the cold as the rat’s touch pulls away from the small of his back, his nose prickling against the bitter smell of musk as Ratigan takes himself in hand.
Now is the real test. Now, although his tail strokes hard at his innermost places and his own cock strains for release, he must not succumb. He absolutely must not. He tells himself it’s a simple question of mind over matter, and he sends his thoughts to dark and distant places, dashing cold water on his screaming nerves. He thinks again of his mother, how she’d slap him and command him not to flinch--- mind over matter, you foolish boy!--- and how she would slap him now if she could see him so close to surrender.
“Confound you, Basil,” Ratigan hisses in his ear, his voice tremulous. “You wretched little beast, you torment me so.”
How terrifying that Ratigan is able to read him so well, to somehow know that Basil has never felt more like a dumb beast, debased and debauched on the floor of a filthy Whitechapel flat. He has never felt so perverse, and if that wasn’t exactly what he wanted then he wouldn’t be here. It’s all he can do to fight him, to hold himself in check while he pushes his enemy to the edge. He can feel himself getting closer--- I must not, I must not--- but he can hear Ratigan’s breath growing faster, can feel the tension spreading through his muscles, turning them weak and stupid so that his grip on Basil’s tail becomes clumsy. He’s bent almost double over him--- Basil can feel the outline of him, hot and heavy, curved along the length of his spine.
“Come, you brat!” the rat spits. “I want you to come!”
“Ohhh, God,” says Basil, and he pushes his arms back and up as far as he can, far enough to graze Ratigan’s belly.
That’s enough. Basil gives a genuine scream as Ratigan suddenly bites him, hard, between his shoulders, a savage instinct as he’s overwhelmed by climax. Come splatters over the small of Basil’s back, right where Ratigan’s hand rested just a short time ago, and it sinks down through the fur to pool warm and wet against the detective’s skin. Nerves scraped raw, Basil nonetheless gives an exhausted bark of victory, and he waits, panting, for Ratigan to recover his senses and witness his triumph.
The silence lasts almost too long. Basil can just imagine Ratigan’s handsome face, flushed red with satiation, his mouth curling in a snarl of dismay as he realizes that the detective has beaten him once again. Quiet, still, Basil feels filthy and beautiful and proud of himself.
Then: “Well played, Basil.”
The ropes binding him give way at a precise swipe of the claws, and Basil drops his aching arms under him, pushes himself up so that he’s on his hands and knees. Now, his prize--- Ratigan’s hands stroking his thighs, his ass, treasuring him, worshiping him with a reverence that he absolutely does not deserve. The wrongness of it, the sheer, undeniable wrongness of it, is enough to drive Basil to madness, and he speaks in fragments of foreign tongues as Ratigan takes hold of his cock and draws him towards orgasm. “Vincit qui se vincit,” as Ratigan gives his tail another treacherous turn. “Mi benedica, padre, perchè ho peccato,” as Ratigan pumps his length, his hand slick with sweat and pre-come. “L'amour est un oiseau rebelle,” as Ratigan leans in close to press a kiss between his shoulders, at the point where he bit him, the bruised skin still rising from the impact of pointed teeth.
Just as climax is upon him, Ratigan swiftly, savagely pulls out his tail from where it has trespassed. Sensation floods through him, as though his whole self is being turned inside out, and when Basil finally allows himself the release, he comes harder than he ever has in his memory. Empty in all regards, he drops his body spent and shaking to the floor.
The blindfold comes off last. Basil looks up into the sweat-streaked face of his nemesis.
“Very well played, indeed,” Ratigan smiles, breathing hard.
He’s in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows, with his trousers still pushed down around his knees. As fluid as a cat, he slips back onto the floor, supporting his considerable weight on his shoulders and his feet as he cants his hips up into the air. It’s a shameless display and Basil looks away, unimpressed. Ratigan quickly completes the gesture by pulling his trousers back up into place and then rolling again to a kneeling position.
“Was that French you were speaking at your peak, my dear?” he coughs, perhaps embarrassed by his own exhibitionism. “An interesting choice.”
“A significant one,” Basil mutters, as he hauls himself to his feet and goes looking for his clothes. “A quotation, from an opera.”
“You always did have such good taste,” Ratigan stays crouched on the floor but follows him with his eyes.
The detective finds his garments folded neatly over a nearby chair. He doesn’t know how the rat found time to do it, but leave it to Ratigan to make sure that every detail is gentlemanly and precise. Never mind that they just fucked like savages on the filthy floor--- the illusion of good conduct must be maintained. Basil yanks on his trousers and his shirt, his belly boiling with disgust and self-loathing.
But he turns, and sees Ratigan watching him, waiting for him to say something, and he can’t help but feel a stab of frustration and sympathy. As someone who fights every day to keep a good public face over his own less than stable self, he can feel a vague sense of empathy for his enemy.
That’s the worst part--- the sensation of falling.
He can’t help it. He finds himself slowly approaching Ratigan, reciting the lines that precede the aria in a distant voice.
“Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas.”
The rat starts to smile, shifting his weight so that he’s settled, inviting the detective to join him. Basil sinks slowly down before him, the words coming unbidden to his tongue, the truth of them scorching his lips.
“Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain.”
He lays a hand on the side of Ratigan’s face, a hand that the rat covers with his own. It’s a moment on the verge of something altogether too dangerous, altogether too unpredictable. Fire and ice clash hard in Basil’s mind, a thousand alarum bells, a bridge that he is still not strong enough to burn.
So he says decisively, “Mais pas aujourd’hui, c’est certain.”
And he stands, quick and painless, finishes dressing, and goes for the door. One hand on the doorknob and he looks back, at Ratigan still sitting on the floor, his face shadowed with suspicion and anger.
“Is it a love song, precious?” he wonders, his voice treacherously dark.
“That depends on who you ask,” Basil answers, fearless, and he doesn’t bother to slam the door behind him.
- - -
Ratigan sings to himself in the empty flat, his warm baritone well-suited to the melancholy tune.
“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, que nul ne peut apprivoiser...”
Basil is a spoiled brat who assumes that Ratigan has not had exposure to the arts. Oh, he recognized the words immediately, recognized them and remembered the first time he heard them and felt his heart tremble at such a fate. To see Don Jose throw his life away in pursuit of such an ungrateful whore--- it chilled his blood.
“Et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’appelle, s’il lui convient de refuser...”
He winds the rope around his forearm, collecting it into a set of serpentine coils that he hangs over the back of the chair. He folds the blindfold and lays it tidily on the seat. Then he rolls down his shirtsleeves and slowly, slowly returns to himself.
“Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière...”
It isn’t until he’s putting his gloves on that he realizes he’s grinding his teeth, that his eyes are smarting with rage and the fur of his hackles is raised like brushfire. He slams one fist against the doorjamb, butts his head against the door itself. He knows that he’s going in circles, and he knows it will drive him mad. Still, did Jose not pursue his lover to the mountains and beyond? Did he not chase her down to the plaza of the toreadors?
And did she not deny his love until he tore the last breath from her body?
On a small table by the door sits an abacus, six columns of beads in two colors, black and white. His hand shaking with fury, Ratigan nonetheless knocks another white bead to its opposite side. The white beads far outweigh the black. Basil is winning the game. If Ratigan does not mind himself, he could be lost.
And he sighs as he locks the door behind him:
“L’amour! L’amour! L’amour!”
_________end.
Translations
Basil:
Latin = He conquers who conquers himself.
Italian = Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
French = Love is a rebellious bird.
The aria =
When will I love you? Good lord, I don’t know.
Maybe never, maybe tomorrow,
But not today. That’s certain.
Ratigan:
Love is a rebellious bird that nothing can tame,
And it is simply in vain to call him
If it suits him not to come.
Nothing will work, neither threats nor prayer...
Love! Love! Love!
- - -