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magpie-to-the-morning · 2 years

Text

Forbidden Fruit

RATING: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: The Thief x Fem!Reader

Word count: 2.2k

Tags: Public nudity, explicit consent, breast worship, voice kink, fingering (female receiving)

Author’s Note: This story wouldn’t exist without two Kinktober requests! Thank you to @massivecolorspygiant for requesting Table Sex with the Thief, and @nolanell for requesting Voice Kink with him. You are my muses and I’m very grateful.

Thank you also to @radiowallet , who not only betaed this fic and contributed one of my favorite lines (hint: 🎁), but inspired me to attempt the Thief in the first place. If you haven’t read Radiant with Thief!Marcus and his Little Ghost, what are you even doing??

My Masterlist | Kinktober Masterlist

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

A richly timbred male voice curls around you like smoke, the subtle smirk sending skitters down your spine. It’s difficult to see him from your prone position on the polished mahogany table, and if you move or lift your head, you run the risk of tipping the artfully arranged forest fruits and delicate pastries laid over you, exposing your naked body to the guests thronging the banquet hall. You steal glimpses through the slits in your exquisitely molded black lace mask: broad shoulders swathed in silk. Softly curling chestnut hair shot through with strands of silver. Plush, smiling lips, made for secrets - although telling or keeping, you can’t quite decide. Dark, hooded eyes amused with what they see, even through a mask.

His is more daring than any you’ve seen so far. Black leather tooled to resemble scales, the features artfully twisted into an amused smirk, the whole piece adorned with two twisting horns, the very picture of a storybook demon.

Your attention drifts to him again and again, drawn unerringly and unbidden like a moth to a jeweled lantern’s flame. You’re forbidden to have any contact with the guests at this party but as you aren’t moving or speaking, surely it won’t hurt to brush your wings against the tinted glass.

By the time the talk is winding down and the guests have begun to take their seats, you are trembling so hard with suppressed desire that the crystal wine glasses begin to rattle. No one seems to notice. No one except the man in the embroidered silk coat. His lips curve behind the single finger he raises to them as you exchange a furtive glance.

Quiet, he seems to urge. Don’t give the game away.

When you give a barely perceptible nod, his eyes light with mischief, sending a thrill straight to your aching center.

After that, the game is well and truly on.

Some of the bolder guests have begun to lift food from the serving platter of your body, but with such tentative giggles that you nearly roll your eyes at them, something not even your shapely mask would disguise.

Not your demon.

While the others count themselves brave for lifting a vol-au-vent from the crook of your elbow, he is far bolder. One by one, the slices of fruit adoring your chest disappear past his lips with evident relish, his fingers lingering longer with every touch. With an upraised eyebrow, his hand pauses over the final two berries capping your nipples. When you flash him a small, secret smile of encouragement, he swipes them both away with a featherlight touch that has you gasping. When your lips part, he slips one into your waiting mouth. Not to be outdone, you wrap your tongue around his fingers before they depart and watch the darkening flicker in his eyes with satisfaction.

Emboldened, the other guests follow his example. A woman in shimmering beetle green delights in feeding you tidbits from her hand. Someone in a plain black tuxedo comments loudly about how he’d prefer you to any of the dishes on display - though you’re more offended at his inability to dress to the evening’s theme (“Forbidden Pleasures: A Fae Feast”) than his remarks.

Your dark-eyed demon is far, far subtler. No one notices the brush of his fingers against your inner thigh, or the way your legs part, just a little, in silent invitation. By the time you’re nearly bare, the delicacies hiding your nakedness snatched away by greedy hands, his eyes are burning coals beneath his mask.

You were supposed to leave.

The masquerade ball following the dinner party was not for you. You were supposed to wash away the crushed berry juices from your skin, brush off the clinging flakes of pastry, collect your wages, and go.

Instead, you’ve changed into the ball gown that has valiantly resisted wrinkling despite being crammed into a garment bag. Its pomegranate silk glides over your skin like a caress, seemingly willing to forgive your rough treatment in exchange for a night out. You arrange your hair in an artful twist and slide a new mask over your features. You scarcely recognize yourself in the baroque gilt mirror before you, and it seems impossible that any of the overfed, self-satisfied guests with pockets deep enough to be here will recognize you.

Well, with one possible exception.

Hope thrums in your chest, mothwing soft but heartbeat strong and with a final glance in the mirror for courage, you set out to find your demon.

“There you are.”

The velvet tones of his rich voice settle around you like a cloak even before you turn to face him. His eyes dance as he takes you in, from the six garnet drops at your throat to the ruby colored gown shading to black by the time it pools at your fight like liquid darkness. A knowing smile kindles on his features not hidden beneath black leather.

“Hello, Persephone.”

A delighted laugh catches in your throat. “I didn't think anyone would notice.”

“Oh, I noticed.” He’s closer now, his breath fanning across your cheek. The embers you’ve scarcely managed to bank flare to life in your belly and it’s all you can do not to reach out and pull him into a dark alcove then and there. “I haven’t been able to stop noticing. What are you doing, slumming with these people?”

With a jerk of his artfully tousled head, he dismisses the glitterati around you, already half wasted on champagne and designer drugs, utterly blind to the wonders of their own riches. With a thrill, you realize the man standing before you doesn’t count himself as one of them, not even aspirationally.

Curiouser and curiouser.

“I’m working,” you tell him, savoring the vagueness of the explanation.

With a roguish wink, he answers “So am I.”

Intrigued, you arch an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you do, Sir Demon?”

Leaning in so close you’re enveloped in his scent (tobacco and clove, amber and spice), he whispers “I’m a thief.”

Startled, you pull back to search his gaze. There’s humor there, but you don’t think he’s joking, not about this. If anything he’s… waiting. Curious to see how you’ll respond, urging you to play along.

For a moment, you wonder if mingling in crowds like this to steal from them is as lonely as serving them can be.

Coming to a decision, you put your lips almost to his ear and murmur “And what is it you intend to take tonight, Thief?”

Holding out one gloved hand, he says “Let me show you.”

He draws you into the hushed stillness of a library, empty aside from the sleeping books lining the walls, their gilt titles all but glowing in the starlight shining through an enormous plate glass window. It’s a massive space, all vaulted ceilings and shadowy stacks, an abundance of a different kind of wealth on full display.

The Thief looks on as you run a hand over the spines of the books in a gentle caress.

“Take one.”

Your fingers falter over a midnight blue spine stamped with silver stars but you shake your head, your throat suddenly thick with longing.

“I’m pretty sure they’d throw me into a literal dungeon for even trying.” The smile you attempt doesn’t quite reach your eyes but you shake it off, not wanting to spoil the magic of this one, stolen night with him.

“Well?” You prompt, the lightness back in your tone once you’ve turned to face him. “You haven’t told me what you’re here to steal. Is there a safe in here, or, ohh, is there treasure in a -“

He muffles your words with a kiss. It’s light at first, the brush of his mouth against yours, one palm cradling your jaw.

“You,” he breathes when you come up for air, starry-eyed and wondering, though not completely surprised. His thumb traces a line down your lower lip and comes to rest at your chin. He holds you in a terribly gentle grasp, his eyes searching yours as he asks “Will you let me?”

“Yes.” You both smile when your answer nearly trips over his questions in your rush to get his mouth back on yours. You’ve been aching for him for hours and oh, his kiss is as deliciously decadent as you’d hoped, rich and heady as rich red wine.

You don’t even try to suppress your moan when his tongue slips past your lips, grazing yours in a hungry glide that sends you gasping for more. He obliges, one broad hand at your hip, the other settling at the nape of your neck, the better to tip your mouth to his so he can drink you down. He licks into your mouth, drawing moans from you with a passion that leaves you trembling.

For all his evident skill, his is a barely controlled hunger and you wonder at his restraint in keeping it leashed this far. You’re not faring much better, truth be told. Your arms are wound around his neck, your chest straining against the confines of your corset. His warmth seeps into you but it isn’t enough. Your body screams to be closer, to press skin to skin and let him ravage you completely.

“I wanted to take you right there on that table,” he groans, the curve of his nose pressed to your cheek. You didn’t even see him remove the mask, it’s simply gone, leaving his face bared to you. “And now I can’t decide if I liked you better naked and on display for me or wrapped up so pretty like a perfect little present.”

His fingers trail down the laces at the back of your gown and drift until he’s cupping your backside, pulling you close enough to feel how badly he wants you. When you hitch one leg up to grind closer, he’s quick to run his palm up your thigh, holding you at his hip and groaning when you roll against him.

“Unwrap me, then.” You barely recognize the sultry sound of your own voice, but the Thief rewards your boldness. With a flick of his wrist, your laces are undone and with a conjuror’s flourish, he tugs your bodice down, exposing your straining breasts to his wicked mouth.

“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he purrs, laying you down on a solid oak table. With one broad hand splayed across your collarbones, he lowers his head. Already burning for his touch, the scorching heat of his tongue, you tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, urging him on.

But oh, he makes you wait.

He trails light, teasing kisses over your breasts, chuckling when you whine and clutch at him, greedy for more.

“Patience,” he tuts. “I want you as ravenous for me as I am for you. Do you have any idea how badly I want you? Getting my hands on you, stealing you away - it’s all I’ve been able to think about tonight.”

His low voice throbs between your legs, the throaty purr enough to leave you soaking for him. You score a momentary reprieve when he finally wraps his lips around your peaked nipple and sucks hard, all the while kneading and pinching your other breast beneath his agile fingers. You gasp and shudder for him, your breath hitching when he mirrors the actions on the opposite sides. But as exquisite as his mouth is, you need more.

“I do want you,” you whimper helplessly. “This is all I’ve wanted since I heard you in that banquet hall.”

This earns you an amused glance as he pauses, his chin between the valley of your breasts. “Oh? You like my voice?”

The strangled noise you make at that ridiculous question is enough to give him his answer.

“Alright, treasure,” he soothes, and you can feel him grinning in the dark, his jawline scraping against your heated flesh. He’s already standing between your legs but he nudges them wider, pushing your skirts up around your waist in one smooth motion, the better to stroke one hand up your quivering thigh. He sighs with pleasure when his fingers reach the dampened scrap of silk between your legs and he pushes it aside to cup your wet heat, parting your folds and rubbing circles around and around your swollen clit with practiced ease.

“I’m going to make you come telling you all the filthy things I’ve been going out of my damn mind thinking about.”

He bends over you then, his broad form covering yours, his hand trapped between your bodies as you clutch desperately at his shoulders, his fingers working furiously to drive you to a fevered state of need.

Bringing his lips to your ear, he drops his voice to a subterranean rumble that rolls through you like thunder and says,

“And then… I’m going to do them.”

—

#The Thief x Reader #The Thief x F!Reader #The Thief x Fem!Reader #Casillero del Diablo #if marketing people are seeing this #yes I do indeed buy this wine bc of Pedro and I am not alone 🤣#but also please look away #Emma does Kinktober 2022 #Fic #My fic

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