#larcenist

[honeymongering]

An updated design of my darling Feardorcha, of whom I have now imposed the title of The Placid Larcenist.

(full drawing under cut for ever so slight nudity)

They are not normally under such a state of undress, but I thought it elegant of them. And revealing of their alternations.

[fr-familiar-bracket]

[art-of-mtg]

Library Larcenist (Core Set 2021) - Mila Pesic

More cards with art by Mila Pesic on Scryfall

[yours-the-author]

Stickmintober Day 11: Infiltrating the Airship

Henry: Marco!

Galeforce: Shut up.

Rupert: *aims with intent*

-------------------------------------------------------------

I didn't have a lot of ideas for this day, but then I remember the Lightning Quick Larcenist "route" and this is what I came up with.

I cannot draw guns or teddy bears, as you can see.

I'll be back tomorrow for Day 12! It has been A Day today.

[peppermintys]

my mark design for my new au!!!

i don’t have a full backstory for him yet but it’s something to do with his mom knowing about sienna’s secret life and her keeping mark away from cesar when they were young (but mark hung out with cesar anyway bc ofc he did)

eventually cesar confesses to mark that she’s gonna follow in her mom’s footsteps and he’s like “can i um. join you” and cesar’s like “YEAH DUDE!!!!!!!!!!!” and they commit crimes together <3

like everyone calls cesar “rose”, they call mark “cross!” unlike cesar, however, and for a more lame reason (/aff), it’s just bc of the cross patch on his coat

they eventually decide to stick with these names and that’s why they have the “c” and the “r” on their belts :))

[almostlookedhuman]

[8biteggplant]

👀 👀

[honeymongering]

Honestly didn’t change much on either of theirs, but can’t wait to see what other frames will eventually be added!

i’m sorry fear i haven’t logged onto your account in so long

Arden || Feardorcha

[zara-renata]

Alike and Cornered Beast: Sylus's POV

Summary:

I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. So I uh wrote it myself. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities.

A/N:

Sylus x gender neutral reader/MC, second person POV (but we don't use Y/N in this house). Brief, derisive mentions of Xavier and Zayne (this is Sylus's POV after all, don't come for me). I love all the LIs, but Sylus has his hand wrapped around my throat and I see him as arrogantly having something to say about the other people who are also interested in his shiny treasure. He has mean thoughts about the other LIs, but he can be mean and we love that for him. Slightly canon divergent if you believe Sylus can't tell that MC is scared and repulsed by him until the shopkeeper informs him. I however believe this man is a little more perceptive than that. CW: violence, cursing, rude language, death, grief, murder, ok this is Sylus hello, non-consensual (non-sexual) touching of MC, metaphors involving hunger and blood, overuse of the word "lovely," but Sylus is a simp and it's mostly his POV so we must endure it. SFW, although clearly there is a thread of desire running beneath the interactions depicted ao3 link here

He doesn’t need the aether core in his eye to know how you're feeling. He can see it in the way your lovely jaw is locked tight, teeth clenched behind soft lips twisted into a tight line. The shudder you’re trying and failing spectacularly to repress, desperate to conceal your weakness: the fact that almost as much as you fear him, you hate him.

Almost from the very beginning, things have been going sideways for Sylus. First, that imbecile having the hubris to believe he could just pilfer what had clearly been claimed as belonging to Onychinus.

Second, the palpable fear that had juddered through you as he had graciously relieved the larcenist of the burden of his pathetic life, only for that fear to flare into bright, barely controlled hate once you figured out that using yourself as bait had succeeded in reeling in the largest predator in the N109 zone.

Third, even when he sauntered close to you, allowing you to drink your fill of his face, no other spark of recognition fired besides that of the leader of the most powerful criminal organization in the region. You didn’t recognize him personally at all, even as he hungrily mapped your face with his eyes and felt the bottomless well of want deepen even further in his heartless chest.

You didn’t remember a fucking thing. And for some reason, you hated him more than his worst enemies. And he had quite a large body count in the worst enemy column of the ledger of his existence.

The fear, he can understand. Onychinus is on the Hunter Association’s Naughty List, and you’re one of the Association’s true believers, a jewel in the hilt of their blade composed of naïve warriors. And like the noble, naïve creature he knows you to be, you firmly believe that any intel they fed you about him and his organization was the pure, unfiltered truth.

But the hate? He muses as he looks down into your upturned face, a face that has been carved into his dreams for weeks now, ever since Mephisto had reported back after scouting the Flux Nexus in the no-hunt zone. Ever since the night he finally found you, stumbling around and battling at the side of your sleepy, cunning rabbit of a partner in the dark wood, oblivious to the real danger perched amongst the leaves, watching through mechanical eyes. His lips twitch in an ironic smile, as he knows he should be grateful to the rabbit for the fact that you’re in front of him now, so agonizingly close. He can see the rise and fall of your chest. The breath you exhale, for him to inhale. All he has to do is let his hand do what it wants—reach out, fingertips drifting softly along the curve of your cheek, your throat, the pulse point that betrays your racing heart. You’re close enough that he could swallow you whole. A good man might be grateful, but he isn’t a good man, and he doesn’t have it in him to be grateful; he only catalogues the threat, and tucks away the thought of the light evolver to be a problem to contemplate, and solve, another day. Right now, he needs to solve the problem of why you hate him on a level that professional distaste can’t explain. The hate he sees in your bright, sharp eyes is personal.

Consequently, he might not need the aether core in his eye to know that you hate him, but he sure as hell needs it to figure out why.

He knows he should wait to use his power on you. He knows that strategically, the best play here is to move slowly, to rebuild your trust, to tease out what he wants from you, to prove to you that despite every instinct that the Association has indoctrinated in you, he is not a threat to you and never will be. He knows all too well that one can’t force trust and forge an equal relationship from coercion, but he doesn’t have the time. Not with the entire Nest on the hunt for his Prey tonight, not with his own house in chaos with Sherman running amok and running up the bill on collateral damage. He needs to know why you hate him so that he can deal with it now, all of it. To borrow the vocabulary of another one of your hapless suitors: now is the time for triage, and after he has assessed the carnage, then he will begin suturing the aftermath. Sylus may be a businessman, but he can appreciate a surgeon’s precision in approaching a crisis. Even if Sylus can’t appreciate the iceman himself, if only for the lingering looks the doctor indulges in when his patient is looking the other way. Sylus files this problem away, like the other, to be solved in quiet solitude another day.

So he indulges in a lingering look of his own, fingers twitching with the need to touch where they’re deceptively, casually resting on his hips. And then: Sylus lets himself look. He can feel the familiar warmth increase within his eye socket, the ember beginning to glow hotter and hotter, until it’s almost unbearable, and then truly unbearable, as it is every time, the price he must pay so that he may see.

A little silver apple on a chain.

A pair of smiling eyes.

An old woman’s hand placing a dumpling on a plate.

The relief of realizing that the danger has dissipated, and dinner is still waiting.

A strong, broad back, shoulders shaking with laughter as a door swings shut.

Almost from the very beginning, things have gone sideways for Sylus. He shuts his eyes, feels the heat and the pressure fade like grief with time, as the power in his aether core goes dormant once again. But you haven’t had time, have you? It’s still fresh, the wound still hemorrhaging. You think that he caused this. You’ve been bleeding for months, thinking it was his hand that wielded the knife lodged in your heart. Or rather, detonated the bomb that incinerated the only family you’ve ever known, leaving a smoking crater where your heart used to be.

Sylus’s mind races, compiling this new information, archiving the whys and hows, constructing and reconstructing his carefully assembled plans and all of the contingencies in between, laughing derisively at himself for not seeing this possibility coming. Sideways is an understatement. Things are well and truly fucked, Sylus thinks, looking into your lovely, livid face.

For a moment, an unfamiliar sensation drifts through his chest. He tests it gingerly, letting it cascade through him before he can identify it: despair. After all this time. Every year, month, week, day, second, breath, he has been carving a path towards you, littered with the broken dreams and broken bodies of others, and now he has finally found you, and what should have been his greatest victory (the spoils? His fingertips drifting up your silken skin, his fingers entwined with yours, home), may have been his greatest loss—a loss that is for once, despite all of his crimes and all of the corpses at his feet, every terrible thing he has ever done, not his fault at all.

He savors this strange feeling for a few heartbeats, indulging in it, pressing into it like a bruise, if bruises would actually remain under his skin. And then he discards it: the unexpected rarely obstructs his carefully laid plans, but nothing about you has ever been expected, has it? If he were the kind of man to resign himself to unexpected loss, like the other men clumsily flitting around you, he’d have been a dead trophy tossed at the feet of an enemy long ago. So the rules of the game have changed. So what? Sylus will adapt, because no matter his fucking luck, he is playing to win.

Because while gazing into the depths of your beloved eyes, Sylus not only saw the why of your hate, but the only thing that could soothe it. Something that you refuse to admit, even to your fundamentally honest self. Something you can’t admit, as you spend insomniac nights training until collapse, as you slice, maim, and end wanderer after wanderer, as you bare your teeth a little too savagely as blood spills beneath your fist and blade. You need vengeance. You need someone to hurt as much as you’re hurting. And not just anyone—the wanderers and criminals that you’ve trained your fists and pistols and blade on do not satisfy the blood-thirst burning through your veins. You need to punish the person responsible for the inferno in your chest. Maybe then you’ll be able to sleep again. Maybe then you’ll be able to not smile again, but at least retract the fangs that have been frightening the people around you for months now. The fangs you feared were always there, underneath the careful façade of the well-adjusted, law-abiding, healthy paragon of a hunter you’ve built to keep the nightmares at bay for years, to show your colleagues, your partner, your doctor and your superiors: Look, I’m harmless and righteous, the perfect tool, love me, love me, love me, please do not leave like everyone else I've ever loved.

And Sylus? Sylus has always, and will always, endeavor to give you everything your damaged heart could possibly desire. He knows that you will not believe that he was not the one who ripped your ‘family’ apart. And he knows that it will take time, time that he does not currently have, to rebuild what has been lost between the two of you. He recalibrates, sweeps aside the despair, and reinforces his resolve. If you want to exact vengeance on the person you think is responsible for all of your indescribable pain, Sylus will give his heart to you on a bloody platter, regardless of the pain it will cost him.

You need someone to hate right now to stay strong? So be it. He will be that for you, until he can locate the actual culprit. As he reaches out, ever so gently trailing the backs of his fingers along your hauntingly lovely face, he tells himself for a moment that he can't bring himself to use something so impersonal as the energy of his evol on you. But who is he kidding--Sylus is many things, but a liar is not one of them. He admits to himself that this is just him finally giving into his deepest desire, as he lets his hand drift from your face to the side of your neck, closing around your throat and lifting. He does not want to handle your precious form with such brute, concise strength, but he needs to hurry, he needs answers and he needs to fix this, now now now and you need him to be the enemy. This is what is best for you at this moment, in this place, and he only ever wants what is best for you, so he plays the part you need him to play:

"From your past to your future...to even all the crimes you'll inevitably commit. After all, you and I...we're the same. True kindred spirits."

As your body goes limp from his chokehold on you, he catches you, cradling your head in his hand, grateful for the strength of his body, the shelter he can provide you as he lifts you in his arms, holds you tightly, your chests finally close again, yours too full of a maimed heart and his missing one entirely, complementing each other, completing each other, even though you’re out cold and it will take so much—too much, too much, it’s already been too much time, you’re finally here, you’re finally in his arms, where you should have been all along—time to be able to have you in his arms like this but with your eyes wide open and fixed on his.

Later, when you wake up, in a dark room with this familiar stranger disdainfully staring you down through crimson eyes, as his evol winds itself around you, as it jerks you onto his big lap, you clench your teeth, you fight the tears of frustration and fury—why do you always cry when you’re angry? Is it not humiliating enough to lose control of the leash on your emotions, without tears spilling down your face to betray you to the object of your rage?­—and you fight desperately against the immovable force pinning you in place.

"I want to kill you myself," you grit out, through the tears and the snot running down your face.

And then this man places your gun in your hand, eyes bright as blood never leaving yours, in answer to the quietest, deepest buried desire of your limping heart that he has driven you to saying out loud. Your hate flares, because how dare he expose you to yourself in this manner? Who does this motherfucker think he is, casually extracting from your own mouth and offering you that which you couldn’t before name in hushed whispers, as if it means nothing to him, as if it costs him nothing, his sharp jaw relaxed, a ghost of a smirk curling the edges of his wide mouth? You fight it, the surge of hunger that chokes your panting breath—you fight it so hard, you’ve been fighting it for so long, ever since the piercing ringing in your ears began to sound that replaced your grandmother’s and Caleb’s laughter, the ringing silence that followed as debris rained down on your useless, injured body. You are not a mindless animal. You will not give in to this voracious want. You and this man holding your gun to his own heart are not the same, and never will be.

“Do you need some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?” His voice is the purr of a jungle cat, his hand, large and just as calloused as yours, envelops your own, with that same bizarre gentleness that you can’t even begin to interpret the why of, his finger drifting along your own, until it slowly tightens over yours. Your mouth says “No,” and you see how his eyes dart from yours to your lips and back again, but the hunger inside you howls as this man presses your finger against the trigger and the sound of the bullet leaving your gun drowns out all of the other noise in the cacophony of your thundering heart.

His big body jerks back, head hitting with a painful sounding thump against his melodramatic throne (ok, so it's just an antique chair, but honestly, where do villains buy ridiculous props like this?), and for an endless moment in time, the hunger is satiated, and a sense of triumphant relief courses through you instead. And then your vision sharpens, as blood the color of this man’s eyes begins to pour through the hole he—and you, we, together—just shot into his fucking heart.

He jerks the gun from your grasp and tosses it with a loud clatter to the concrete floor.

“You—Are you fucking crazy?” You’re moving before you realize it, palms pressed over his heart (a spiteful part of you hopes that it hurts him, even as you are suddenly overwhelmed with the terror that he is actually going to die, before you get any answers, before you get any help, before you’ve accomplished anything at all).

“You wanted to take my life,” he pants. It never hurts any less, no matter how many times it happens. He can feel his flesh knitting back together already, each stitch as painful as the one before. “And so you’ve taken it.”

Despite the pain, Sylus watches you leisurely, drinking in the blood splatters across your lovely neck and chin. My blood, he thinks with satisfaction. He wants to soak you in it. He wants to watch you bathe in it. He shakes his head, tucking that urge away for later contemplation. He is finally in the position to do what he has been craving for so, so long. He has given you what you want. Of course he will always give you what you want. However, that doesn’t mean that he can’t simultaneously get what he wants—Sylus strongly prefers deals when they’re win-win. He has given you what you wanted, and the slate is now clean. Now, it is time to begin negotiation of the highest stakes deal of his life: the acquisition of your body, heart and soul. Back at his side, where you belong.

“Now what? Have you already figured out how you’ll pay me back?”

[pininiu]

Thinking about short hair, also have a leek larcenist

a demon took over me or something idk

the orange proceeded to burn my eyes but giving him a cheap plastic file case he probably had since he was 10 is integral to me

[starchild2807]

omg its been 10 million trillion years!! ill pick 5 characters!!!!! thank you for tagging me >:3!

can't believe i nearly forgot like 3 of these characters lmao FNDK

FOR TAGS,, @meepzer dont feel pressured but you're my bestest mutual,, and anyone else who wants a go feel freeee consider this a tag!

oh man!!! was tagged by my bestest mutual @friendlyneighbourhoodelf for the uhh 5 favorite character thing? so here are my faves and take your pick!!!!

as for tags,,,,,, I think I'll throw an invite to my old friends @starchild2807 , @threesacult , @iamanerd1 (i miss talking w all three of you!!!) and anybody else who wants to give it a try!!!!

[ataraxiaspainting]

Shameless.

Yan Chrollo x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Chrollo is many things; annoying, chatty, selfish, petty. Especially petty.

Warnings: Yandere themes and kidnapping.

Word Count: 700.

“Petty, much?”

The damn devil doesn’t even turn to look at you. Instead, he turns to the next chapter of his book, a book large enough to easily force you or any other ordinary person into a yearlong coma if it hits your head. His humming physically hurts your ears and almost makes their drums burst, you are sure of it. You would much rather listen to his trill sonata from a gramophone and disc that is at least five times your age.

You cannot find the stuffed animal you normally sleep with. You have been looking all day while this clone of the antichrist just sits and reads in whatever the hell that language on the dusty cover is. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had made it himself, it’s only further proof that he is just an old man on the inside. Or at least half; the other part may as well be a toddler throwing a tantrum. 

Maybe less than half, now that you think about it. That plush was a gift from Chrollo to you, after all, a symbol of how adorable you are or something else in that vein that made his face all the more punchable. The bunny made for a good pillow and could be used as a sort of wall whenever the epitome of hell lays on the bed beside you, trying to converse or cuddle with you. 

It certainly yielded better results than biting, kicking, and hitting him at least. Your knuckles and palms still sometimes hurt. Ow. His flesh is made of iron, you know it. Maybe you should dare him to get his DNA tested to ensure that he is indeed human before speaking with you again. 

You could fake an allergic reaction to automatons perhaps. Even though you were never a drama kid in school you think you can still pull it off. 

You can craft yourself an Emmy using what remains of your old art supplies, though that would require having Chrollo cut the papers and cardboard for you. You bet that if he is a robot, he will eventually use up all his battery by chatting away and then shutting down. 

“What are you, a kindergartener?” You move closer to his unholy throne, stomping with each step forward. “Stop acting like you are eight, you swindler, and give it back.”

It would be easier that way if he went unconscious because of his powerless charge. 

If you are feeling particularly sadistic you could use electric shocks on his unconscious tin can of a body until it explodes. It would be a great thing, the sound. Like fireworks, if you avoid getting stabbed by tiny slabs of hot metal.

“Kindergarteners are ages five to six.” You could picture dreaming of it now if you can go to sleep tonight. “Eight-year-olds are typically in the grades second and third.”

“So you do admit to stealing it, then. This trial has now concluded, you have been sentenced to life without parole.”

You can hear a slight chuckle that makes you want to fall down the stairs while playing jump rope. Anything to make sure you never hear it again. “You get points for effort, darling. That wasn’t a confession, I was just correcting your utterly adorable libel.”

“Don’t talk like that to your judge, you larcenist.”

“I see you have been reading the books I have given you.”

You grumble a curse under your breath as you walk a bit closer. “It is amazing what the human mind can remember from a dictionary when there is nothing better to do. I think if I ever see my literary teacher again she’d be impressed. I’d pass with flying colors if I ever had to retake her class.”

At the sight of your laid-out hand, a slight frown appears on Chrollo’s face. “Being polite never hurt anyone, you know.”

You scoff and cross your arms, not looking at him anymore. “It hurts me every time I say anything to you instead of trying to find out how to give you enough papercuts to make you internally bleed.” 

Underneath the table, you can see the rabbit plush, and crouch down to grab it.

“Take this as an act of precaution then; don’t test my limits, dear.” As soon as you look into his eyes, hugging the stuffed animal, you look away as you see what lies beneath the surface once more. 

Nothing.

[peppermintys]

here’s my cesar design for my new au! (she/her and he/him for cesar)

her mom, sienna torres, was a state renowned criminal mastermind, and cesar who grew up around this, decided that she wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps. she, along with everyone else who knows her criminal identity, calls her “rose”, solely based on the fact that she tends to leave rose petals, or even whole flowers, at every crime scene she (and her partner in crime [/p] mark) infiltrates.

he often wears a mask during heists, so no one is aware of he or mark’s true identities, although they also have regular lives living as cesar torres and mark heathcliff outside of their criminal life.

mark, and other reoccurring characters, are works in progress :)

[finaltimelineau]

Hey Henry, I have some questions that aren’t really relevant to the situation at hand but more just things I’m curious about.

So when you fought the RHM in the Betrayed Tineline with your Spirit, we learned that Righteous’s Spirit was name [Time in a Bottle] but we never learned the name of yours, do you know/remember its name?

Also when you punched RHM into an alternate timeline, do you have any idea where he went? I like to think he wound up in the Lightning Quick Larcenist timeline, mainly because it fits the description and I think it’d be funny.

[monkie-kid-oc-showdown]

Yeva (@chuitu)

Chang'e 's adopted daughter, a former Queen of a Siberian monarchy

Has weird magical abilities that are vaguely similar to technology...

The Silver Haired Esper that you all know, the famous door consumer, the undaunted blue blur kid.

Minyi (@vegalocity)

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 6 and a half

Backstory: She's a child detective among the likes of Cam Jansen, Nancy Drew, and Encyclopedia Brown, with one exception- all of her mystery cases somehow end up becoming more deadly than they ever were intended to be. Busting larcenists over missing pets, or would be stalkers over stolen pokemon cards, Minyi just keeps getting into scrapes much bigger than the mystery she willingly took on. Her obsession over detectives and mysteries are all leading to one big case, her father was kidnapped some time before new years, and she's going to find him. Whether he was mutated into a spider-hybrid with green hair or not, she's going to bring him home. Who could say what massive swerve that mystery will take her on, but she's going to be ready when it comes.

Powers: in the 'Post-Season 5 everyone has magic now' world she's developed a power she calls 'starburst' where she can make little stars made out of light that when she throws will explode into 'starbursts' upon impact.

Tech: Marbles, jump rope, yoyo, and miscellaneous toys that can be worked into weaponry with enough creativity

[theoutcastrogue]

Prism: I'm gonna become a book thief. Folio filcher. Parchment pilferer. FCG: A literary larcenist? Prism: Yeah! That's right, when I'm done reading them, I'm gonna set them on fire! Laudna: No, that's an arsonist. Prism: Oh. FCG: Maybe you need to read some more books. Deanna: We got to steal you a thesaurus, baby girl.

— Critical Role C3E64: "Reunited"

Humble suggestions for the Criminal Nerd:

bestiary burglar

codex cracker

compendium cribber

document desperado

grimoire grabber

hardcover heister

leaf lifter

letter looter

library liberator

manuscript moocher

octavo outlaw

page pincher

paper plunderer

paperback purloiner

paragraph picker

scroll snagger

sexto snatcher

spellbook swiper

tome taker

vellum villain

volume varlet

BONUS: anthologist

Some of these would also be formed as *clears throat* exocentric verb-noun compound agent nouns (like "one who picks pockets" is a pickpocket, rather than a "pocket-picker") : liftleaf, lootletter, pinchpage, snagscroll. And these could also be proper nouns, family names (for a certain kind of family, heh) or nicknames or criminal aliases or even tiefling virtue names.