Sorry, Lass

Mercer's fingers slide along the recruit's tongue again, knuckles bumping against his lip but he doesn't withdraw. He stays there, probably enjoying the sight too much. Tears gather along his lashes and his cheeks are bright red, watery eyes staring back up at Mercer.

"Better." He breathes, indulging too much in the moment. The plush warmth of the recruit's lips around his fingers is far better than any of the meaningless flings he's had in years. Mercer wonders if Brynjolf could be convinced to share.

His tongue lolls out when Mercer retracts his hand, swiping at the saliva on his lower lip. His cheeks are bright and Mercer swears his hips roll where he's perched atop Mercer's thigh.

"Should practice more." He sighs as if he isn't just as eager. "I've heard my fair share of Bryn's partners whinin' - 'too big, doesn't fit'. All types of shit."

"Fine." The annoyed grumble is betrayed by his tongue sliding between Mercer's fingers without provocation. Mercer bites back whatever sound it summons and shoves two digits into the recruit's mouth once more.

His eyes flutter closed again and Mercer knows he's focusing. His teeth knock on Mercer's knuckle but he doesn't comment. Mercer's thumb grips his chin, tilting his head back and watching intently at the muscles in his throat working.

"Good job," Mercer mutters absently, fucking his fingers into the younger man's mouth. His whines go straight to the cock Mercer's struggling to ignore, paired with the insistent roll of his hips. He's grabbing the front of Mercer's armor and wrenching him closer while Mercer indulges in the warmth of his tongue.

He feels too good to not fuck at least once. Maybe Brynjolf won't be too mad it he knows it's well intentioned. He's helping, after all. The recruit's eyes meet his and Mercer's startled by the heat he finds there, glazed over and full of want. He slows his ministrations, ensuring that Brynjolf's favorite feels every fucking inch of him in his mouth.

Mercer's desk is a disaster. Spilled ink dries on some important contract but he can't worry about that now. Every sensation has dialed into the sheer pleasure of Brynjolf's recruit moaning around him. Teary eyes stare up at him and Mercer pets back the hair falling into his forehead.

"Slow," Mercer pants through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep up the facade that this is a lesson. "Slower, you gotta let 'em feel it."

Thank the fucking gods his thieves are actually busy. The Cistern is uncharacteristically empty, bunks made and no one snoring in them. The recruit crouches under his desk, his fists in the undone waist of Mercer's pants wrenching him closer.

He feels divine. Mercer's terrified that if his grip on the desk fails he'll collapse. His tongue runs along Mercer's cock, drool running down his chin and those flushed lips awfully soft. The shape of his teeth is fading into a bruise on Mercer's hip and he swears there's a possessive edge in the way the recruit's grabbing at him.

He gazes up at Mercer, sucking in a deep breath as his cock rests against the recruit's mouth. Mercer's never seen anything so arousing. He throbs against the recruit's flushed skin, pleasure entirely stealing his voice as a hand wraps once more around the base of Mercer's cock. He's breathing too heavily, obviously struggling with holding his breath.

"Told you to breathe through your nose." He sounds so fucking weak. Kisses are pressed absently to his cock and Mercer never wants Brynjolf to experience this. The recruit shifts, tongue running along the length of him sending shivers up his spine.

He's a quick learner. Mercer will never admit something like that aloud. He's swift to swallow his cock again with a bruising grip on Mercer's hips. The muscles of his throat contract and he sucks in a noisy breath through his nose as he takes Mercer fully into his mouth. Mercer bites at his lip, swearing that he tastes blood but refusing to finish this quickly.

"Good." He praises, absently petting the back of the recruit's hair. "Keep goin' just like that."

It's all too good. Mercer swears it's just because he's been alone for so long but he can hardly remain upright. He can't fight it off much longer, not when Brynjolf's favorite little recruit is whining around his cock. His hips are rutting against Mercer's boot, cock obviously straining against his pants and the last shred of restraint slips.

"I'm gonna -" he warns, wrenching on the back of his collar. Finishing down his throat feels too fucking intimate, too much like this is something he wants. Instead he watches his cum drip down the recruit's cheeks, catching on the bridge of his nose. He grins up at Mercer, swiping at the cum smeared over his cheek.

"Think I've learned enough?" He snarks but Mercer doesn't have energy for banter.

This guy's a fast learner. He feels good. He's gotten enough tips to not feel embarrassed during his first time with Brynjolf. Mercer swallows bile and pretends he doesn't care.

But he wants to say no. To keep him here, fuck and feel every inch of him until he's had his fill. To claim some sort of ownership over this recruit before Brynjolf has a chance.