It was, as thieving jobs go, a usual one, all things considered. A quick jaunt down into a dungeon that really ought to have been cleaned and rented out as a bread-and-breakfast for dwarves by now, a nimble shimmy past spiked traps and poisoned chalices, and a handy prick-and-poke with a passel of kobolds, and the Prince of Thieves was into the famed Treasure Chamber of Empress Amrilda at last, a scant three bells since he'd finally gotten around to checking it off his to-do parchment.

The chest at the center of the room was large and sturdy, its fabled treasures secured neatly behind adamantine locks, although curiously shifty as Prince Lockwood's footfalls broke the silence in the room. Treasure chests weren't supposed to wiggle, faintly. Given the storied contents of the chests, vibrate, perhaps. Maybe even shudder with ominous intent, if they were the sort that sprouted tentacles when you tried to open them. But no, his cousin down in Hancolm's Run had a thriving business in selling that sort of chest to satisfied housewives, and to the trained eye of the Prince, it was hardly that sort of chest.

No, it seemed to be made of sturdy oak, cool to the touch, its many locks and latches coming undone under the deft workings of experienced fingers, the chest-high timbers of the chest grimed over with ivy and punctuated by holes bored into it at discreet intervals. One lock, and another, and another, and, at last, the faint clunk of the last bolt sliding loose was music to the thief's ears. Now there was only him, and the treasure, the fabled and handily-resellable stash of amusements from the legendary empress waiting inside. All he'd have to do was tell some wayward elf an item gave a nonsense "plus-one" to stuffiness or bendiness, and he'd be a wealthy, wealthy man.

The lid swung as wide as the Prince's dreams, opening onto -

"Oh!"

With a squeak, the contents of the stash revealed themselves to be a mound of sturdy, suspiciously cucumber-shaped ornaments, a brace of knobbly things that buzzed after all these centuries, and a pair of the dingiest-looking manacles that the Prince had ever seen. And, of course, a chestnut-haired lass, all three feet and change currently stuffed to the hilt by one of the treasures, the telltale black garments of a fellow thief folded neatly into a corner of the chest.

This, the Prince decided, was finally interesting.

What happens when a master thief meets his match in a treasure who happens to be the small, mischievous perpetrator of a previous break-in? Hint: lots of fucking.

As always, I'm always open on all my prompts, or simply to hear what you have to say!

Kinks: Lightheartedness, silly fantasy smut, size differences, butt-stuffing, Morgrim's Gloves of Shadow