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The Malfoy’s liked to collect all the rarest delicacies of the world, and Tom was the rarest of them all. His flawless mind, and his faultless face, and that streak of originality were all rare on their own, but together, they were a once in a millennia phenomenon. The rarest treasure the world had ever seen, Abraxas had just had to have him.Abraxas watched Tom, his black silhouette outlined by the golden rays of the sun. It was a sanctifying glow, smoothing over the shadows that dripped down every inch of Tom. He was beautiful, like an angel; so rare, so exquisite. Abraxas wanted to keep him forever, display his wonder to the world, allow everyone to be as captivated by the marvel as he was. He wanted everyone to fall in love with Tom, just as he had. But, perhaps, more importantly, he wanted to show the world what wonder his money could buy.
Tom turned away from the window, that smile on his perfect face. Abraxas knew everything that smile said, everything that Tom was capable of. He was the only one to know what true horrors painted his mind. Together, he and Tom, they were so much more than they were apart, so much more capable, more efficient, more powerful.
Abraxas wasn’t stupid, he knew how much Tom needed him: he was the key, Tom’s ticket to the world of pristine smiles, immaculate clothes and endless wealth – the world of old money. Abraxas wasn’t willing to give it to him for nothing though, he was a Malfoy and Malfoy’s didn’t share out of kind-heartedness. No, Tom had to work for his reward.
Silent negotiations hung between them, wordless agreements over what each would do for the other. For his part Abraxas would provide Tom with however much wealth he wanted, resources to achieve his grandiose visions. In return, Tom would give Abraxas what he wanted: his continued graces and, more crucially, his attention. Tom didn’t always enjoy Abraxas’ world, that was obvious to anyone. Tom was too tense, too cold, too indifferent to the lives of others. He did not have the calm assurance and casual conversation that most purebloods acquire naturally. But he stayed smiling by Abraxas’ side, letting the latter’s hands wander because Abraxas knew he secrets and wasn’t afraid to watch Tom fall if it would raise him higher. Abraxas didn’t doubt for a moment that, one day, such threats of secrets would no longer keep Tom in line, would no longer keep Tom obedient by his side. One day, Tom would get what he wanted, and he would undoubtedly make Abraxas suffer for his actions, so he would enjoy the moment while it lasted.
Tom looked at him, his face dipped in shadow showed the darkness in his heart. Tom wasn’t nice but successful people rarely are, Abraxas knew that. Abraxas stayed still, watching the sparkles of dust hover suspended around Tom; he was so perfect. Abraxas hoped he would never change, never grow old, never lose that cruel glimmer in his eyes. The one that said he was better than everybody else, but even if he did lose it all, Abraxas knew he would continue his worship regardless, after all, Tom already had flaws, as much as he wouldn’t admit them. Tom had flaws, large gaping flaws that stained every inch of him: he cared too much for reputation, letting childish theatrics cloud his vision and dilute his authority. He was too proud and too often he fixated unnecessarily on such minute details. But despite his cold arrogance and apathy to anything he deemed beneath him, Tom could be exhilarating.
Such a pretty face, such a pretty intellect: too quick for Abraxas to always follow. His thoughts spun like a tornado, a wonderful intoxicating storm that swept up everything in its path. Tom could be charming too though, a proper gentleman with false smiles and glittering eyes. Abraxas had toyed for a long time with words to describe Tom, words like: cruel, Machiavellian, seductive, and narcissistic, before settling on psychopath.
He did recognise every warning light that flickered around Tom, he didn’t care for others, not really. Abraxas doubted whether Tom would really care if he just vanished, probably not. He would skulk away and find new prey to lure into his divine world of nothing but words. The new and oh so willing victim, Black or perhaps Lestrange if Tom were feeling ambitious. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t miss Abraxas greatly – it would annoy him no end, all that hard work wasted but Tom always adapted. Perpetually altered himself to suit his surroundings, it was what made him so slippery, so sly, so Slytherin. Right now, he stood, leaning against the window, arms folded and fingers tapping his forearm. He was bored. Bored of waiting, bored of Abraxas’ world and its pleasantries. Abraxas smirked, let him be bored, Tom was always more interesting when he was bored, more inclined to restlessness. Some would even say carelessness, anxious for Abraxas to let him be, let him go back to that solitude and seclusion he held so sacredly. But Tom’s boredom was Abraxas’ greatest entertainment, the reason for wild reckless nights and long irresponsible days.
Tom glared at him, waiting. Abraxas held a certain degree of smugness. He was the only one who got to use Tom like this, to only one who could make him wait. The only one who got to see every unadulterated crevice, every coarse, rough, unrefined edge of Tom. All the parts that made him human, even the ones he tried so badly to hide from the real world.
“If you hadn’t noticed, I’m waiting,” said Tom, the coldness in his tone sending a nice shiver down Abraxas’ spine.
“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he said, not moving from the luscious chair that gave him such an unspoiled view of Tom’s devastating physicality. Tom’s glare deepened.
“Don’t give me that look, Riddle. We both know you like it, you like to be spoiled, you like me spending my money on you. I would almost say you like – me.”
Tom pretended not to hear, and Abraxas smirked. He’d learnt, mostly through a painful process of trial and error, to strike a balance between playful mocking and outright insulting. He’d quickly realised Tom shouldn’t be confined, if he was, physically or verbally, he’d start a painful offensive that no one wanted to be on the receiving end of. No, Tom liked to think he was the one pulling all the strings, that Abraxas was his choice, that Abraxas was under his spell, and not the other way around. Then, and only then, would Tom be amicable at his worst and beguiling at his best. Abraxas had also realised that, although he would never admit it, Tom liked being the centre of attention, liked that Abraxas worshipped every inch of him, liked how much money Abraxas wasted on him, almost as much as Abraxas, himself, liked doing it. He stood up and walked over to Tom’s motionless figure. He pressed his lips against Tom’s, mechanically the latter moved his mouth. It was nice kissing Tom in the warmth of the evening sun. Deep in his heart, he wished this was how it was. He wished Tom really wanted him and their kissed were more than a means to an end. He wished this simple moment would last forever and that Tom would finally stop holding back, stop this cold facade and admit he liked what Abraxas did to him in the dark.
They stood close to each other. The sun dipped behind a cloud and they were plunged into a kaleidoscope of grey. Abraxas watched Tom, and he returned the gaze. A thousand unspoken words flowed between them.
Abraxas wasn’t usually this hesitant, he didn’t dance around Tom, but right now he could almost hear the simmering magic that clung to Tom. It sounded feral, dangerous and so very desirable. When Tom was bored he became agitated, and when he was agitated an irrepressible hum filled the air around him, seeming to absorb every other sound. It was a heady mixture, noxious but stimulating, disorientating but exciting. Tom continued to watch him coldly, eyes never leaving his own. They could stay like this forever, two souls searching for an understanding. After all, they weren’t so dissimilar, as much as Tom would wish they were. Tom might be a force of nature, but Abraxas was a force of society, and in this man-made world they needed each other to create an order. Once Abraxas had thought that Tom would fall, would lose his footing, stumble, be swallowed by history and never achieve the recognition he so desperately craved. However, that had been a long time ago. Since, Tom had proven himself, shown just how far he was willing to go to get what he wanted. Abraxas hadn’t known whether to be amazed or appalled, astonished or disgusted at what Tom did. It had been then, Abraxas realised just how special Tom was, just how rare, and how he had wanted him. Wanted to devour Tom: his magic, his world, his entire existence condensed to show everybody what a remarkable rarity he was. Tom coughed as if to signify Abraxas should be paying attention to him, not his own thoughts. Abraxas looked up, taking his time to drag his eyes across every immaculate inch of Tom, who kept his arms folded but tilted his head back, looking at Abraxas under his lashes. Abraxas leaned forward, his fingers gentle against Tom’s cheek. Tom no longer flinched at his touch, but he didn’t welcome it either. His entire face set itself into a steely mask, waiting for Abraxas to finish whatever he was doing, to cease physical contact and return to the security of silent stares.
Abraxas smirked, his fingers sliding down Tom’s cheekbones and onto his lips. Tom’s glare deepened further. Abraxas knew Tom did not dislike what they did, he’d shown himself to be perfectly willing to indulge Abraxas’ whims. What he didn’t like though, was Abraxas using him, using him like he himself used everybody around him. Tom, he had learned, hated losing control, losing his strength to Abraxas’ finetuned authority made him a seething mass of agitation. Whenever Tom discovered he was being used, that someone dared to wrap him in silken spider webs, he went quiet and the air around him became so bitter that the sourness stung innocent tongues. People avoided Tom when he was mulling when his brow was furrowed, and his face was filled with shadows. But not Abraxas, he embraced the fire that burned just below Tom’s skin, he liked when Tom was agitated and careless and looking for any sort of release to quell the buzzing in his brain. The others noticed. When Abraxas was close to Tom’s side the fate of those who crossed Tom was marginally kinder, not gentle by any means, but milder; magic tempered, sedated until it was just bearable. Tom’s fingers tapped, as Abraxas touched his dry lips. “You can do whatever you like,” said Abraxas, “use me however you want.”
Tom scoffed, “why should I do exactly what you want me to?” he replied, disturbing Abraxas’ fingers with his words.
“Who said it was what I wanted?”
Tom had the audacity to roll his eyes. “You said it was. You love pretending you don’t like being used Malfoy, but in the pit of your stomach, you adore it, adore doing everything everyone has always told you not to. You love pretending you’re a proper little pureblood when really you’re nothing better than a hedonistic whore.”
Abraxas licked his lips, taking his time to smooth a curl of hair behind Tom’s ear; he’d been called worse, usually by Tom. Abraxas had never really cared what people thought of him. So what if he liked Tom rough, heavy against his back, half-moons permanently marked into his skin. Tom liked taking control and Abraxas liked losing it before it had been the perfect equilibrium because Tom hadn’t known what Abraxas liked. When he found out, he lost interest, it was no fun apparently, to hurt people who wanted to be hurt. The golden-grey light was fading, illuminating only half of Tom’s face. Abraxas kissed him again. This time tasting the tooth-rotting sweetness of Tom’s tongue and the richness of his shadow stained lips. Tom complied to Abraxas’ unspoken demand without enthusiasm.
“Come on, Tom,” he said, knowing perfectly well how much Tom hated his name, how agitated and irritated it made him, how forceful and demanding.
Abraxas dropped his mouth to Tom’s neck, he sucked at the pulse. “I’ll leave a mark on you if you don’t stop acting like a corpse,” he murmured, mouth wet on the gentle throb, making obscene noises that filled the room. Tom hated marks, especially on his neck. It was too obvious, showed the world his weaknesses. “What it’s going to be Tom?” he said, unnecessary drawing out the syllable. He sucked harder, feeling the way Tom tensed, torn between standing his ground and stopping Abraxas branding him so vulgarly.
“Fine.”
Abraxas stopped, “you took your time. For a moment, I thought you weren’t going to break.”
Tom glared but said nothing, he knew Abraxas had just as many clever retorts as he did, and there would be no point wasting breath on such triviality. Tom lay on his back, eyes covered with his hand. His cheeks were dusted with a flush that curled down his neck and spilt onto his shoulders. Abraxas kneeled above him, delighting in what little power Tom sacrificed to him.
No matter how many times they did this, Abraxas’ hands still shook, anxious to touch Tom, to leave searing fingerprints on his skin and kisses that would stain his lips for weeks. People could always see those stains, but no one ever knew what they were, and no one ever dared to ask. Tom, for his part, never told. To show affection for things was to show weakness, and that filthy word was not allowed into Tom’s carefully constructed existence. Tom was not weak, Abraxas knew that Tom was one of those people who burn their names into history, sear themselves in the memory of millions, so much so that their essence lives on long after their physical existence is over.
Abraxas paused to watch the slight tremble of Tom’s hands and the heaviness of his breath. They were the only vulnerabilities that Tom would ever show. Abraxas wished he knew what Tom thought behind those closed eyes: did he think, uninterrupted by the reactions of his body? Tom had always lived beyond the physical, bodies were weak, minds were not. One day a body would crumble, everybody knew that, but minds, ideas, concepts, they could live on. Or perhaps, as Abraxas secretly dreamed, Tom embraced the physical, embraced the ache Abraxas knew he felt. He wished Tom was overwhelmed by the physical, that the short moment where he was so at mercy to his own body rendered him dazed, overcome with something inside of him, that, for the first time, his mind became clouded chaos. But Abraxas knew he would never know what Tom thought of the treasonous body he inhabited, the one that betrayed him whenever Abraxas touched him. He knew because Tom didn’t let him, or anyone, inside his mind, and no matter what he did Abraxas would never be allowed access. He could, would, had pledged his soul, but Tom still refused, citing something obscure and unfair. Tom was too clever to reveal all his secrets, too clever to let anyone see his true weaknesses, his true fears, the true sickening colours of his soul.Abraxas kissed his collarbone, the secret place that no one saw. He ran the tip of his nose down Tom’s sternum, lips trailing just before. He paused, forehead against Tom’s chest, listening to the fast rhythm of Tom’s pounding heart.
Lying with Tom was sacred, not frivolous, not trivial, not like being with the nameless, and faceless, and colourless, and tasteless apparitions that continuously floated through Abraxas’ life. There was an intimacy between them, an understanding, and it was beautiful; however, tainted with lies it really was.
Tom removed his hand and looked up at Abraxas, who promptly met his gaze, chin pressing into Tom’s skin. He waited, expecting Tom to say something, anything. He didn’t. Instead, he just watched with dark, glazed eyes. Abraxas felt his breath quicken and the heat swirling stronger in the pit of his stomach. Tom, as a rule, did not watch him. He let Abraxas do whatever he wanted while keeping his eyes closed and a shaking hand, arm, pillow, or any other paraphernalia covering his flushed face.
Abraxas continued to watch him in silence, half-hoping Tom would lie back and cover his eyes and they would never talk about this again. The other part wanted Tom’s eyes to stay on him for eternity, watching, learning, understanding what Abraxas did to him.
Abraxas felt his cheeks burn. He looked away from Tom, focussing intently on the freckles that decorated his skin, but he could still feel Tom’s intense gaze, harsh on his head.
Abraxas brushed his lips across Tom’s chest, kissing the scattered freckles.
“What am I to you?” Tom asked unexpectedly, eyes never leaving Abraxas’ face. Abraxas faltered, it was a nasty trap, whatever he answered, Tom wouldn’t be satisfied. A lover would be too intimate, a rent boy too crude, everything in between too stained with tenderness to really describe their interactions.
“I – You…You know exactly what you are to me.”
It was Tom’s turn to smirk and he reached out his hand, brushing it lightly against Abraxas’ hip. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like to hear you clarify it every so often.”
Abraxas swallowed, loud in the silence, considering what buzz Tom was getting out this because he was almost certainly getting some high out of making him so uncomfortable.
“You’re very special to me, Tom.”
“No, I’m not. You just like to think that to make yourself feel better about what you do to me.” Abraxas should have told to be quiet, should have done something vulgar to make his pretty words clog in his throat, but he hadn’t, he’d stared gormlessly and let Tom keep talking.
“You need to think that you love me, so you don’t feel bad about mindlessly fucking me whenever you get bored.” Abraxas did his best to look offended, but he couldn’t help but love it when Tom’s tongue was as sharp as a razor, wounding, slashing, cutting whoever he fancied, which usually happened to be Abraxas.
“Don’t bother with your sad little eyes. You know I’m right, I’m always right,” said Tom as Abraxas pushed him harder against the bed and straddled his waist, curious to see how far Tom was willing to take this outburst. He had them every so often, whenever he felt Abraxas had overstepped an invisible line. Abraxas supposed he should have seen it coming: the glaring, the cutthroat remarks, the static that hung suspended around Tom. He should have seen that Tom was boiling over, then he could have got a better view, after all, there was something wonderful in the way Tom couldn’t articulate what he was feeling.
Tom wasn’t good at feelings, he didn’t know what to do with them, how to react when he felt them bubbling in his chest. Abraxas found it sweet, in a twisted sort of way, knowing that for all his brilliance, all his painful perfections, Tom was still at mercy to something deep inside of him, something Abraxas had no doubt Tom would eventually conquer, but for now, he could take advantage of the sloppiness that came over Tom when he was like this. The irrepressible irritation that made him so impatient, so careless, so much more willing to let Abraxas do things he never would have dreamed of.
“You love to do everything to me that you’re not allowed to do to your posh pureblood friends,” said Tom, “you love to pretend I’m corrupting your innocent pureblood heart, when we both know, you secretly love everything I make you do. We both know I’m your filthy little secret, the one you really don’t want anyone to know about. So why continue the charade, Abraxas. Why pretend that you love me when we both know you don’t mean it. That you’ll just go and find someone else as soon as I’m gone.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Tom,” said Abraxas his body resting heavily across Tom’s.
“That sounds vaguely threatening,” said Tom, voice no more than a mumble against Abraxas’ ear,
“Well you like threatening, you like intimidating, you like always being on the edge, don’t you Tom? Pushing every single boundary, never being soft, never being gentle, just being cruel.”
He could feel Tom’s smile against his neck. “So what if I do, Malfoy? I’ve never heard you complain.”
“Maybe you just don’t listen,” he said tilting his neck to let Tom maul gently at it, using just enough teeth to make him hiss indecently. Then Tom pulled away, “but you’ve used me enough today,” he said going to move away. Abraxas kept his hands firmly on his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” Tom asked, his voice not yet dipping into dangerous territory.
“You said yourself, you’re mine to do as I please with. You’re in my house, Tom, by my invitation, you wear my clothes, you sleep in my bed. You are exactly what I want you to be, and right now I want you here.”
Tom paused before slowly a smirk began to spread across his face, “you’re finally becoming interesting Malfoy,” he said leaning in to kiss him again. “Finally learning how to put that pureblood tongue of yours to good use.”
“Oh, I’ve always known how to use it, Tom. I just never thought I would need to use it on you.” He paused for a moment to look at Tom. He was, for once, the one lying defenceless on his back, legs parted to accommodate Abraxas between them; one hand tangled in his hair, the other trailing suggestively down his stomach.
“Is this how I pay my debt, Malfoy, by letting you do whatever you want to me, over and over again.”
“I presumed you’d already worked that out, Tom. The more effort you put in, the more you get out,” said Abraxas, hands already jostling Tom onto his front, smooth hands always against his skin, touching the vulnerable flesh, leaving fingerprints no one could deny.Tom groaned, his muscles clenching. Abraxas leaned over, nails scratching a little too hard, “for once in your life, Tom, relax. I’m not stupid, I’m not going to hurt you.” He twisted Tom’s head, kissing his dry lips. He could feel the tension slowly begin to ebb away, Tom’s shoulders slumping forward, breath sticky, just letting his emotions guide him, not bothering to fight the rational logic that had always shown him the way; just feeling with every inch of his body.
He was beautiful like this, so rare was a creature that was so in control, and yet at such mercy, so violent yet so needy, so vicious yet so pliable. Perhaps Tom was finally starting to understand how pureblood politics worked, finally starting to understand how much more he could get if only he were willing, and how willing Tom was.