A/N: I don't really have a sensible explanation for this piece, other than it being one of those odd ideas I put together while watching a fairly dull season of show I like. Does that happen to anyone else? Those odd, esoteric combinations of characters who never interacted on screen but you feel would have had compelling chemistry if they did, just occurring to you out of the blue? I just felt like this one of those, a team-up that could've possibly been sexual because why not (also a picture I found of Cal MacAninch strung up by his wrists may have prompted some inspiration). As I've tried to give copious warning towards already, this is a depiction of a very toxic dynamic. Please keep in mind that this story is being told from the POV of Thackeray and he is anything but a reliable narrator. Any flattering portrayal he gives towards Loxley and how he's being treated is his own justification of things and not me trying to imply that anything about this arrangement should be encouraged IRL. As also noted, there is mild physical abuse, manipulation, and a slight hint of dubcon. I didn't mark for rape especially because nothing is stated explicitly and it's a bit vague. ANYWAY. Hope you all enjoy, those of you who can. I left the ending open in case people like this and I feel there should be a continuation. We'll see, yes?
Loxley isn't the sort of man he would've usually taken up with. Then again, it's been so long since he's had any kind of tryst and that makes it hard to recall what sort of man he might have been drawn to at some arbitrary point in time. He decides it doesn't matter, not when the man beside him in this shoddy bar is so powerful and compelling; a Lord, commiserating with him on the brutish selfishness of Harry Selfridge. It's everything he needs in this moment.
Yes, it occurs to him that he might be being taken advantage of. He had heard the stories about Loxley from the gossiping shop girls just as well as anyone, but he flatters himself a bit smarter than to let anyone get the better of him.
The seduction attempt is too delicious to ignore in his fragile state. When Loxley slides a hand over his under the table, across his knee, and brushes his lip against his ear with a whisper of, "Come home with me", there's no other response he can find it himself to give. Whether this is a one-off union for the night or the beginning of something more, Thackeray is caught between an inability to care and a sense of impulsive recklessness. He's just lost his job for speaking the truth to a man who has always refused to see it when it wasn't a convenience. He won't be defeated.
There have been several trysts now between them, each one seemingly more dire than the last. Thackeray feels no small amount of pride in the fact that a Lord, a renowned member of the landed gentry, makes time for him like this. Surely Lord Loxley could have anyone in his bed that he chose, and yet, here he lies, tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets, sharing his cigarettes. Loxley also spoils him with gifts, including but not limited to a much nicer flat in a much nicer part of town.
He thinks he'd be content to just be taken care of for a time. He's worked so very long, in one thankless job after another, each employer just as unable to see the genius in his work. If some wealthy gentleman wants to make him his personal pet for a time, Thackeray can't think of a reason to oppose. He's not some virile 22 year old anymore, after all, he has to take the opportunities that come.
"Selfridge has called me back into his office later this week," he says during some point of the lazy pillow talk when the man came up in conversation (he often did). "He wishes to extend an apology and opportunity to take my position back. He feels he acted rashly."
He scoffs out a laugh as he takes another drag of his cigarette, thinking it's understood between them that the very idea is ludicrous.
"Selfridge humbling himself?" Loxley marvels. "That will be a rare and rewarding sight indeed. Shame I won't be there to relish it."
"Well, neither will I. I'd sooner scrub infirmary floors than work for that man again."
Thackeray is more than a bit incredulous that Loxley seems to assume he'd go back after everything.
Loxley turns over on his stomach with all the elegance of a cat, runs his fingers through Thackeray's hair and offers him a warm smile.
"But darling, you must. I can respect that you have found your peace, but what of me? What of every injustice this man has inflicted? Harry Selfridge thinks himself entitled to everything. In his depraved mind, he can never be wrong. He shafted blame for every incident that he or his favorites committed onto you. He never understood your vision."
Thackeray can feel an old, petty anger start to surge in him again. Where he was once content to let Selfridge and his offensively gauche store fade from memory, he now starts to regain that need for some sort of vengeance.
Loxley caresses his cheek, runs a finger lazily over his lips as if recreating his image on canvas.
"Should we really let a man like that go untested? Or, my sweet, will we be the ones to deal the retribution Selfridge deserves one hundred times over?"
Thackeray already considers himself convinced, but Loxley is intent to sweeten the deal with kisses down his chest, stomach, going lower still…
He grips the sheets and gasps in disbelief. He didn't think Loxley would condescend to administer like this, he was fine to keep doing it himself, he would've never expected-!
When the Lord's mouth wraps around the length of him he's immediately devoid of all thought. Loxley holds him in his sway as he never has before. They lock eyes as he continues his ministrations, his gaze implying an expectation of an answer. Thackeray manages a pained, "Yes-! Yes, you're right-...! I'll go!"
Loxley pops off long enough to pet Thackeray's face once more and praise him with a purred, "There's a good boy."
Coming back to Selfridge's has been less a triumphant return and more a condescending exercise in humility. He feels more useful as messenger of information to Loxley than he does as Head of Fashion again. It's as if Mr. Selfridge has learned nothing of him and nothing of his vision and did he really expect anything else? He can only hope this leads to something satisfying, but he doubts Loxley will disappoint.
He's come to be very fond of Loxley, in fact, more than he would have ever thought possible. He doesn't need to think very hard about why Lady Mae would have given up on such an intoxicating man; women like that are never satisfied. All the better for him, really.
It's for this reason that he doesn't understand why Loxley is so upset the night he sees Mae's wedding announcement in the paper. He drinks and sneers at nothing and the suave, charming man Thackeray had come to enjoy doesn't seem to be present.
"Nevermind all of that, let's just go to bed," Thackeray encourages after dinner. Loxley doesn't even look at him.
"Go to bed then, if you're tired."
If there's one thing Thackeray can't abide by, it's being ignored. He is not about to be cast off like a glove, not when he knows the cause of this absurdity.
"You let her rule you when you act like this. What do you care? She's an ungrateful harpy, sponged off your riches and title, slept around with the whole of London-"
Loxley leaps from his chair like a coiled snake, grabs Thackeray by the wrist so hard that it hurts, and throws him against the nearest wall. For the first time, Thackeray is afraid of him.
"Who do you think you are to speak to me of my marriage?" Loxley growls through his teeth. "Do not assume that a place in my bed gives you license to pry into my personal affairs."
Thackeray has known fear before, moreover when being berated by Selfridge (though he is loathe to admit it). But even those moments held no candle to this; he is shaking, sincerely afraid of what Loxley will do next to prove his point. For once, the pride that so commonly has him standing up for himself in confrontations is nowhere to be seen.
His silence and open display of fear seem to assuage his Lord. A serpentine smile appears, he relaxes his grip on Thackeray's wrist and draws a finger across his lips as he has done before- now, however, it is far more predatory than seductive.
"Besides," Loxley muses. "I can think of far better uses for that...over zealous mouth of yours."
Thackeray shudders.
"I don't think I'm in a mood any longer to oblige. Perhaps if you hadn't been so coarse-"
Loxley hisses, "It's not a request," and lunges in to bite and suck at his neck, leaving marks that will be evident tomorrow even with a cravat. That's no doubt intentional.
Thackeray's body betrays him (the evidence to which Loxley wastes no time reaching down to seize through his trousers) and he is disgusted with himself. This isn't how it's supposed to be.
"If you value that nice little flat and your position in that store, I suggest, dear heart, that you get on your knees," Loxley whispers into his ear. The shivers that run down his spine are no longer those of desire. "You have quite a bit to atone for, don't you?"
Thackeray knows when he's been bested. Most defeats he can accept gracefully, and this will be no exception...though the keen fear that races through him now is new. He has begun to realize that this is this no longer some fun, exciting affair with a powerful, seductive man, and perhaps it never was. He is beholden now, trapped under Loxley's will as is anyone that comes to serve a purpose to him. Why did he think he would be made some exception?
Even so, he kneels down and Loxley cups his chin.
"Mind you don't forget, Thackeray," he says, running his thumb along the other man's lower lip. "You are and always will be mine."
The possessiveness in his dark eyes and the finality of his voice makes it impossible for Thackeray to think otherwise.
Things are never the same after this night. It's as if some dam has broken and any reservations Loxley had about his depravity are now gone. He treats Thackeray as he pleases, sometimes well and other times he doesn't acknowledge the other man is human being.
Thackeray stays for reasons that aren't even very clear to himself. He doesn't care much for his job at Selfridge's, nor even for the flat, no matter how much Loxley holds both of these things over his head as if they're of some great consequence. Watching Selfridge himself flail against Loxley's attempts at bringing him down are not nearly as rewarding as Thackeray had hoped. Oddly, he finds himself pitying the man, agreeing with his reluctant lover that Selfridge's downfall is inevitable even if they aren't the ones responsible.
He recognizes that Loxley is conniving and dangerous and ambitious to a frightening degree...but all of these things Thackeray admires despite himself. At the heart of things, he can see that they are not so different. The both of them are selfish, Thackeray only unapologetically so after learning how to be from Loxley.
When the long scheme is up, Thackeray is certain Loxley will be done with him. He no longer lives under any delusion that this relationship served a deeper purpose than bringing Harry Selfridge to ruin- which was only halfway successful in any case.
"I plan to hand in my resignation soon," he says. "I can't stand another moment in that place...and I don't see much use to it now."
"Indeed," Loxley replies, more to his newspaper than to Thackeray.
"I suppose you'll be wanting me out of the flat. You needn't worry. I plan to go back to Paris once everything's packed."
Logic and common sense states he should want out of this situation by any means possible, as soon as possible...and yet he hesitates as if to hope that he won't be seen off so soon.
"Without me, you mean?" Loxley tsks. "How very rude."
Thackeray gapes a moment in confusion.
"I-...I had merely assumed our...arrangement had come to an end."
Loxley finally looked over his newspaper.
"Did I say it had come to an end? Ah...I see. You think you were merely a means to an end. A temporary pastime, perhaps."
Thackeray says nothing because, yes, that's exactly what he had come to think. Loxley throws the newspaper to the side and rises from his armchair with a mildly exasperated sigh.
"I no longer recall my initial intentions," he confesses, though probably a lie. "What I do know is that I rather enjoy your company. I think we're of like mind, don't you? There are not many who understand the virtues of working in one's own favor. It gets so very dull."
Loxley comes to stand before him, a few inches shorter, though it does nothing minimize his presence. He runs his hands over Thackeray's chest, shoulders, peppers his jaw and neck with deceptively innocent kisses.
"Do you wish to leave me?" he asks into the delicate skin.
In any other context Thackeray might have thought the question a purposefully misleading one, but given that he's just willingly offered up all that Loxley had threatened to take, given that the long scheme to oust Harry Selfridge has gone belly up...and Loxley still stands here with an open offer, well. Thackeray finds himself reconsidering everything.
The time to make a choice is nigh. Though he realizes he risks a lot in staying by Loxley's side, he considers that not taking any risk at all is far too boring to even be considered. What awaits him next, otherwise? Another average department store with no appreciation for a sophisticated artistic eye?
Loxley, despite everything, is excitement and uncertainty and a kindred spirit (among so many others that he despises and despise him in kind). He doesn't think he wants that out of his life- not yet, anyway.
"No," Thackeray admits, being so bold as to caress Loxley's cheek with the back of his hand. "Not so long as you'd have me."
Pleased with this, Loxley kisses him slow (a promise of things to come later), then pulls back to say very matter-of-factly, "Paris, then? I believe you mentioned something about that."
"Yes. A...somewhat half-baked scheme to revive my career. I hadn't thought it through."
Loxley hums in his throat, contemplating.
"Sounds rather boring. I was thinking more along the lines...of wine, candlelit dinners, walks along the Seine….oh! Perhaps we can pay Mae a visit if fortune brings our paths to cross."
Thackeray grimaces at this. He doesn't like hearing that woman's name now, even less so than before, even less so when it is Loxley mentioning her.
"You can't tell me she didn't get under your skin," Loxley baits him, having noticed his displeasure. "In all the years of your time at that store, I can't believe she didn't do something worthy of reproach."
Thackeray understands a bit better now- a revenge scheme, the same as they had conspired on with Selfridge.
"She insulted my work, attempted to make a fool of me. I admit I've never let it go."
"Nor should you. Nor need you."
Loxley takes Thackeray's arm under his own as if to escort him to a ball or a gala or some such thing. Thackeray almost believes they have gumption to walk down the street this way together, almost wishes they could.
"To Paris then, dear heart?" Loxley smirks.
Thackeray grins back, mischievous and elated.
"To Paris. Allons-y!"