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“Explain,” Mercer Frey commanded. Vex obeyed.

"He's been flashing a lot of money..." she began. "He bought a house for Gods' sake. That's... twelve thousand septims, at least." Her voice grew lower and quieter in confession. "I haven't sent him on jobs. I know he's hardly sold a thing to Tonilia in two weeks."

Mercer had removed some gold from the treasury in the past two weeks. Dujon couldn't have gotten in there, at all, not without him noticing. He allowed himself to relax again-- though only marginally. Vex's report continued.

“Look, maybe I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions... but I'm wondering where he's getting this money from. Why he isn't giving the guild a cut...” And then Vex's voice trailed off all together. Abruptly. Gods, he really didn't have the patience for this...

“You were going to say something else weren't you.” The Guild-Master sighed, though he was beginning to lose interest again. This really was something Delvin or Brynjolf could deal with. “Spit it out Vex, and let me get back to my work.”

“I don't think he should be here!” the outburst drew the attention of Thrynn and Niruin over by the Treasury doors. “Arrogant little fucker, like you wouldn't believe." Vex lowered her voice again to a quiet hiss. “Ever since Maven asked for him, personally. And he's been strutting about the Flagon like he owns the place, and lazing about when he should be doing jobs and making crazy-money bets with Delvin! You should have heard what he said. Calling the Cistern a dump—”

“It is a dump,” Mercer scoffed. The Guild was falling apart, there was no denying it. A few new thieves might be able to keep it afloat a little while longer but in truth? The Guild was on thin ice. And when it broke, Mercer would be long gone, with the Eyes and all the treasure he could carry.

“Yes, but you don't understand,” Vex's frustration reached it's height. “He was talking today--in the Flagon--about when he became Guild-Master. When he became Guild-Master! And we all laughed at him, and said 'Watch you don't say that in front of Mercer' and he got all up himself and said...” she trailed off.

Mercer rose an eyebrow. Vex began talking again. “Look I think that sort of arrogance left unchecked is going to harm the Guild more than it will help. And I'm not just being bitter about the Goldenglow job. Delvin thinks so, too. He just said some crap about how you were past your prime--"

Woah. Wait a minute.

"--could beat you blind-folded--"

...past his prime?

"--hands tied behind his back--"

Vex carried on, fully into her rant. "I mean... yeah fucking right. Right? ...Mercer?"

The mood had changed visibly. It took Vex a few moments to realise, but when she did... well there was nothing more to do than seriously consider making a run for it. Undeniable was the way Mercer stiffened at her blasé mention of Dujon's insults, and his slowly whitening knuckles. Vex would have left but the Guild-Master's flinty eyes fixed her with a stare that possessed a paralysing quality. Maybe it was his pride, or perhaps it was the influence of the Key feeding his paranoia, but Mercer didn't appreciate hearing that particular part of the report.

The Guild-Master's voice was little more than a growl. “He said what? ”

///

prologue is literally just flimsy set up for the kink-fill. should be up soon-ish~ I mean the tags should give you a clue :p

*anon pulls up chair and starts to eat popcorn* I'm intrigued and wish to learn more.

...past his prime?
This line made me giggle. XD

I'm enjoying the set-up so far, A!A. =D

Awesomesauce.

*sets up camp and noms popcorn*

Hahaha yeah Mercer, past your prime

Surely you're going to
Prove everybody wrong
Aren't you?!
:D :D :D

(As you can tell A!A, OP is all kinds of excited!)

"Who is it?"

Had there ever been so satisfying a sound to the Guild-Master, as his knock upon Dujon's door? Not for some time. Nor had there been so satisfying a play of conflicted emotions upon someone's face as when Dujon answered. A mixture of confusion and worry, that Mercer was surprised by. Everyone had the man down as a proficient, even charming, liar. Of course, you'd never hear a bad word against him escape from Brynjolf's lips, who apparently appreciated Dujon's cheek. See, Mercer accepted there was cheek, a certain shtick that some might find appealing.

But there was cheek... and then there was an unforgivable level of rudeness; a level that couldn't go unpunished no matter how lucrative the thief.

Dujon was a short man... young, clean-shaven. His golden hair, dark and slightly damp, was plastered to his face, as if he'd just washed. His hand moved to push the wet hair from his forehead and make himself more presentable. The movement stopped, the moment Dujon matched a name to the figure lingering ominously in his doorway and panic was evident in his dark brown eyes. Mercer wasn't sure if he gleaned that from the Key, or his own intent focus upon the boy. Either way it was satisfying.

Mercer figured he had to give some credit to the boy, for how quickly his cock-sure smile returned to his lips, like he knew Mercer's card and how to play it to his advantage. But there was no denying that the smile, whilst charming, was limp, a little contrived-- certainly not as dapper as it might have been. Good.

Also interesting to note was how the Breton's voice changed. Mercer remembered it rougher, when overhearing it in the Cistern, more arrogant in public... and now, here was a smooth, cloying tone when addressing his superior; probably a futile attempt to assuage the older thief's temper, an almost palpable feeling.

“Uh...” Dujon began. “I mean...” and settled for, “Mercer!” another worried smile. “How... How did you know I live here?”

“Guild secret,” Mercer drawled back, pushing past Dujon's nervous form and into the house proper. For all of Vex's accusations of Dujon's secret wealth, Honeyside was a quaint and cosy place. You might have liked to raise a family there, if it wasn't situated in Riften. The lack of valuable objects on show, meant little to Mercer. It simply meant that Dujon was craftier with his septims than given credit for. Probably had them all squirrelled away somewhere, with his skooma stash and any other things he wanted kept from the Guild. Said thief was hovering behind him anxiously, dithering by the door as if he was loathe to close it. With such a nervous expression on his face, Mercer almost thought it would be a shame if his high-set cheekbones were to come to harm, or if his long straight nose was to be broken. Almost. Violent retribution would always outweigh a pretty face, in Mercer's book.

“You going to offer your Guild-Master a drink? Or are you just going to stand there.” Dujon dithered, as if contemplating an escape. Amusing.

“Close the door.”

Dujon closed it, and some foreboding sense must have swept over him for he suppressed a shiver, as if cold. He turned from the door, and watched the fire cast a merry light across Mercer's face, a culmination of rough, sharp angles only heightened by the lengthening shadow. Juxtaposed against the warm flame, were the Guild-Master's eyes that gleamed liked shards of steel.

He offered Dujon a slow, cheerless smile. Closed lips without a hint of teeth, and yet undeniably threatening. Not a smile at all, but the expression of something predatory about to strike. Satisfaction. Dujon found himself attempting to smile back, and failing quite miserably.

“You might be able to guess why I'm here, I think,” Mercer's voice was slow, and husky.

Dujon attempted his smile again, but it came out as little more than a grimace. “You got a job for me, Mercer?”

The younger thief swallowed cautiously, and Mercer watched the way his adams apple bobbed. He watched beads of sweat begin to form on Dujon's forehead, the way the man licked his lips and how they remained slightly parted. With the help of the Key, Mercer could just about hear the tell-tale fluttering of Dujon's frantic heart.

"I have questions," Mercer replied, enunciating each word sharply so it was like the slash of a dagger instead of a sentence. Dujon flinched at the rough, gravelly effect of it. "That you need to answer."

No reply.

"Things like..." the Guild-Master drawled. "How much are you willing to bet that you could beat me blind-folded ? And: do you really think you can make a tidy little profit under the Guild's nose? You little shit. And then have the gall to insult me?"

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Dujon's eyes widened ever so slightly. The Key told Mercer of a slip in his heart beat, of the hand in the boy's pocket thumbing a punching-dagger. According to a hesitant Vex, Dujon wasn't nearly as gifted with a sword as he was with his tongue, but was a decent enough brawler. A bit of probing had revealed that the lippy bastard carried a couple of punch daggers on his person and a garotte masquerading as a bracelet, as well as a heavy brass ring that could pack quite the hit. All of those threats were easily neutralised, in Mercer's opinion; in fact he looked forward to goading the boy into a fight.

Because Mercer Frey had a blade. A long, sleek dagger. One that drew the eye with its sharp, almost invisible point and its glossy black surface like a shard of midnight. It sat easily in Mercer's hand, as if there it had always belonged. A blade he drew from its sheath, accompanied by that gorgeous sound of metal; one that made other people sit up and listen, or a survival instinct kick in.

Like a shadow in the corner of his eye, Dujon noticed the dark, pointed blade immediately. How it was twirled delicately between the Guild-Master's fingers, black like the void. So fine was the point, so sharp and so cruel-looking that it was barely visible unless it caught the firelight just so. A dagger made with the sole purpose of slitting a throat.

“Dujon,” The Guild-Master's voice was cold, simple and gave no clue to his intentions. It took a long time for Dujon, with all his desperate survival instinct, to pull his eyes away from that lethal-looking weapon. “Tell me. Do you know what you've done wrong?”

Mercer himself, felt a mixture of emotions and none of them the potent fear that was bubbling in Dujon's gut. He felt amusement over the way Dujon's eyes kept twitching to the ebony blade and then away again. And he felt lust, for he knew the little thief was about to lie to him, and that would warrant punishment. He felt annoyance, because Dujon was almost imperceptibly backing away as if to make for the other door. Did he really think Mercer so stupid? Cowardly, arrogant thing. A person always showed their true colours, with the threat of death so close.

“Stop moving,” he growled, in a tone that signified boredom more than anger. "Answer."

"Mercer--"

“Guild-Master,” Mercer enunciated sharply, each syllable like the slash of a knife. He leaned forwards to close the gap between them-- that knife between them-- and Dujon's eyes widened in fear and disbelief. He reeled back so quickly that he crashed into the wall, white-hot pain blooming along the back of his scalp. No way to move forwards, and no way back. Forwards was a slit throat.

Mercer felt nothing but amused by the thief's attempt to steady himself. He could almost feel the joy of the Key reverberating through him, at his successful display of dominance. “You call me Guild-Master. Not Mercer. You don't have the right .”

“Oh shit,” Dujon managed in a low hiss, clamping his eyes shut. He tried to focus on his breathing, on making himself limp to provide the off-chance that he might take Mercer by surprise and make an escape. Escape to where? He scoffed at himself. And what does Mercer know? Was the punch for the man's hurt pride, or Dujon's other transgressions? Already he could feel sweat, fear and panic-- every fibre of his being on edge.

His head smacked against the stone again when Mercer feinted with the dagger. More stars. More of that sharp agony rippling over the back of his scalp, sore from his sudden flinching, sore enough to make Dujon hiss in pain; his breathless protest little more than a crude running of swear words and gasps. Mercer's laughter was slow and deliberate, sick bastard.

“Oh shit,” the Guild-Master confirmed, solemn and silky-voiced. “Now. Let's take a wander through the house, shall we? And you can tell me how it is you came to own it."

///

character count cut off the last sentence. I will put up more tomorrow... couldn't be bothered with more flimsy set-up, I suppose. Besides I see Mercer as a more of a Do than a Wait-And-See character. :p hope OP enjoys it so far~ and thank you for all the comments

Not the OP but loving it! Can't wait for more!

Your Mercer.

Unff.

Passer!non is passing by so many brilliant fills today.

The line "He closed the gap between them-- that knife between them-- and Dujon's eyes widened in fear and belief."

And the line "Forwards was a slit throat."

I was like SHIT. Seriously thought for a split second that he was going to get stabbed. Like-- whywouldyouevercrosstheguildifMERCERranit?! Fool child.

Picturing Dujon as some ridiculously preppy blond tbh. Looking forward to seeing Mercer teach him who's boss~ :')

Oh and the bit the character count cut off. I liked that bit too. :3

hi my name is OP excuse me as i melt into a puddle of goo
mmmmm yes please guildmaster

*stands up*
Hi, my name is Passerby Anon and I wasn't Mercersexual until today.

Yah know, 7 am is a little too early in the day to need a fresh pair of undies. (And some time in my bunk) But Mercer, oh, my. That low, gravelly voice. Uhhhhhhmmmm. Plus you did a wonderful job picking up on Mercer's pure, unadulterated menace. The man is Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know- just the way I like 'em!

Please PLEASE please keep it coming, A!A.

Shit
Anticipation is killing me

Dujon's thoughts raced a mile a minute, as he groped in his mind desperately for some sort of plan. With precise, measured steps Mercer Frey forced him-- knife at his throat-- to walk towards the chest by his bed. Should have kept going south, he told himself, breathing slow through his teeth as if it might help with the pain and the terror. Gone down to the Imperial City. This time, he was ready for the Guild-Master's temper and managed to fling out his and steady himself when Mercer threw him against the chest.

“Open it,” the Guild-Master commanded. He had the sort of voice that always got what it wanted; and expected nothing less. Dujon lowered his gaze to his right hand where a heavy brass ring decorated his middle finger.

The ace up his sleeve. If he could, he would have kissed it. It was a dented, tarnished thing; had cracked a few skulls before now. There, a splash of dried blood. The skulls of bigger men than Mercer Frey, he told himself arrogantly.He curled his hand into a fist, and slowly moved his arms as if to open the chest. Made his shoulders limp, as if he'd gone submissive.

“I'm waiting,” said Mercer. Dujon heard the smugness in the older man's voice. Saw red, and struck.

He whirled around, adrenaline lending him strength and speed. Up Dujon went with a growl, swinging his arm in a wide, practised arch. He aimed his punch, just so, so that the ring collided with the Guild-Master's temple and sent him sprawling backwards with a grunt of surprise. A lethal hit, coupled with a mixture of pleasure, pride and panic. He'd just landed a punch, a good one, on Mercer Frey.

The Mercer Frey. Quite by chance, though he was loathe to admit it.

Seize your chances, where you can Dujon. Without another minute to congratulate himself, the Breton sprang forwards with his left fist ready to drive itself into the other thief's stomach. Fighting was something he excelled in.

Wait!

No. Too late.

Suddenly an iron grip bit down on his wrist and twisted. When Dujon cried out, the cruel hand twisted further. Then, Mercer's other hand gripped the front of his shirt and threw him against the wall.

Far too late.

For the third time, Dujon felt his head crack against something and stumbled over the chest. Spots of black in his vision. Fear clogged up his lungs and made it hard to breath. Cornered again. Stupid, stupid, stupid--

“I can't tell if you're a simpleton or just suicidal,” growled Mercer Frey. Again that beautiful, deadly dagger with its almost invisible point. Dujon tilted his head sluggishly, dimly aware of the bright red blood that oozed down the side of Mercer's face. It was satisfying to see the Guild-Master's hair so rough and ruffled and his face paper-white with rage.

“I'll make things simple, shall I?” Mercer intimated, like he was letting Dujon in on a little secret.

Faster than the younger thief could see, there was a flash of black and a thin, slicing sound. A moment of dull confusion. Then, pain. Blossoming in a sharp little line down the side of his face. Blood ran quick down his cheek. It was a shallow cut, a little stinging sensation if anything. But it was meant to humiliate. The hurt was just a pleasant side-effect.

“A little incentive,” that coarse, dangerous voice. “Every time you disobey me, little thief...”

The knife twirled expertly over its master's fingers. More of that dull fear, coupled with resignation.

“I draw blood. Understand?”

Dujon blinked.

“ Understand?”

“Yes.” he spat. Another cut, and a hiss. "Yes, Guild-Master!"

Dujon closed his eyes so that he didn't have to look at Mercer's disgustingly satisfied expression. Cunt he growled in his head, viciously. Dujon, pretty, too-proud creature that he was, did not take kindly to humiliation. You crazy, jumped-up, cu--

“Good.” He kept his eyes clamped shut. They felt strange, as if he had something in them. With disgust, he realised that the humiliation-- being cut by the blade, and so easily over-powered-- was threatening to bring tears to his eyes. He shut them even tighter and tried to ignore Mercer's rough fingers as they gently stole the brass ring, his pride and joy, from his hand. Mercer stripped it away, and with it went the last of Dujon's resistance.

He was curious, and opened his eyes just a crack once the horrid, teary sensation subsided, and saw the traitorous ring adorning Mercer's right hand. Then, he lifted his gaze and saw the Guild-Master's stormy eyes staring back at him.

“No sin without retribution, so the Gods say,” Mercer drawled. He raised his fist casually.

Dujon felt a weird emotion. It stirred in the pit of his stomach and drifted through his body. Some part of him was glad for the humiliation. Some tiny piece of self-loathing...

Mercer's hand-- the ring--collided with his nose.

Something crunched.

Someone swore.

Blood gushed.

Blackness.

***

A!A swears to every god there is that the next instalment has the sexy-times she's shamelessly kept everyone waiting for.

I. Am. An. Awful. Person. And an even more awful A!A. Sorry, sorry, sorry! :'(

You updated :o

the anticipation A!A. Stop teasing me!

Also, I like the brief mention of Dujon's "self-loathing". I think it'd make for a brilliant bit of angst/dom+sub ;)

He had the sort of voice that always got what it wanted; and expected nothing less.

I love this line! I think it really captures how I see Mercer.

Also, don't apologize A!A. As far as this anon is concerned, all this delicious cat and mouse is part of the sexy-times. =D

I sob when I realize this hasn't been updated.

I sob along with you when I realise this is probably not going to be finished.

WHYY, CRUEL A!A, WHYYYY DO YOU HURT US SOOO

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