#trying something new...

[tacobacoyeet]

WHITE COLLAR .

Tashi Duncan, Art Donaldson, and Patrick Zweig were never meant to be criminals.

They were meant to be icons—flawless, untouchable, transcendent. The prodigies of the court. They were supposed to be the kind of legends etched into history books and Wheaties boxes, draped in gold and immortal praise. Together, they were the wings, the sandals, the laurel crown of Nike herself—divine symbols of strength, speed, and victory.

But fate, as it often does, had a different trajectory in mind.

Tashi's career ended in a single, brutal snap—an injury that never quite healed, physically or otherwise. Patrick spiraled beneath the weight of expectation, his once-electrifying talent drowned out by inconsistency and a reputation he couldn’t outrun. And Art, sweet, unshakeable Art, lost the one person who ever made the tour feel like home. When his grandmother died, something essential inside him went quiet. He didn’t walk away from tennis. He simply stopped showing up.

The three of them could’ve faded then. Could’ve let the world move on without them. Could’ve become cautionary tales whispered about in locker rooms and bar corners. But they didn’t. They wouldn’t. Being forgotten was never going to be enough.

The spark came from Patrick, as it often did. He was crashing in another woman’s bed—charming, broke, and always a little too clever for his own good—when he noticed the vase. It stood on a pedestal near the window, backlit by city lights. Porcelain. Imperial yellow. Eighteenth-century Qing dynasty. The kind of thing you see once in a lifetime, if you're lucky—or reckless.

While she was in the bathroom, he did a quick google search. Qianlong era. Estimated value: nine million dollars.

That night, Patrick did something he never did—he scheduled a second date. Then he called Art. Then he called Tashi.

The plan was stupid at first. Then brilliant. Then inevitable.

Ten years later, they were infamous.

The trio had become the most elusive white-collar criminals on the international stage. They slipped through countries and identities like water, leaving behind only splintered champagne bottles, forged documents, and the distinct scent of audacity. Their work was seamless, often beautiful, always just out of reach. They didn’t chase greatness anymore. They stole it—paintings, diamonds, tax codes, ancient artifacts, entire reputations.

And despite the dossiers, the witness statements, the surveillance photos and whispered confessions, not a single case ever stuck. No court ever held them. No handcuffs ever locked.

But there was you.

The head of the FBI’s White Collar Crime Division in New York. Unshakable, relentless, methodical. You’ve built an entire career on patterns no one else sees, on connections no one else believes in until it’s too late. You know them better than anyone else alive. You know their methods, their tells, the rare moments they falter.

They know you, too.

You’re not just a threat—you’re a problem. The kind they can’t buy, charm, or blackmail their way out of. They laugh about you sometimes, over drinks in villas under fake names. But lately, the laughter’s been thinner.

Because you’re getting closer.

And this time, they feel it.

tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream

[bubblesthecow]

Watching Star Wars in chronological order is so funny.

Obi-Wan Kenobi really took one look at R2D2 in the middle of the desert and said “No, Luke, I’ve never seen this fucking droid in my life. Looks like a real bitch though. Not that I’d know. This is my first time meeting the asshole.”

No one in that whole franchise was Gatekeep-Gasslight-Girlbossing quite like “Ben” Kenobi, regular human-man.

[chiptrillino-art]

(ID in ALT text)

"got your nose"

[obsob]

i am a being capable of immeasurable love and whimsy print!!

[gibbearish]

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[stemmmm]

more people gotta try this shit where bill has not improved and will not change but he's just chilling so its fine probably. its great

[wallycet]

[wagoogus-jr]

[marciaillust]

your design of me

[cannednoodle]

Ferryman and stowaway

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Whatever the result is, I will attempt to recreate it as a drawing!

[bunnieswithknives]

As much as I love angst I think it would be funny if he just didnt give af

[lucabyte]

even dogs pass the mirror test

[jeonwonwoo]

GILMORE GIRLS — 4.17: Girls in Bikinis, Boys Doin' the Twist

[nuperflore]

"You stabbed me.."

You managed to wheezed out as you're holding the katana by the blade that has stabbed through your stomach.

"You actually STABBED me!"

Laughter is the only thing you can managed to react. Truly this is the finale of your measley life. No more negligence, no more staying in the shadows, you'll be free and it's all thanks to the robin in front of you.

"Wha.. no! I didn't- I mean-"

He couldn't find the correct words. He can't even find it in himself to bring the blade out which will cause more bleeding and death by blood loss.

Stop laughing! He cried out yet couldn't find a voice to sound it out.

You couldn't. You couldn't stop. It keeps pouring and pouring out from your lungs. You should speed up the process because he clearly would like that. EVERYONE will clearly LOVE that. Especially when they won't even come to your rescue. They will instead rush to HIS. HIM. IT'S ALWAYS HIM. IT'S ALWAYS DICK. IT'S ALWAYS JASON. IT'S ALWAYS TIM.

And it's always Bruce.

Never you.

The horrible sound of removing the blade snapped out the remaining family and they immediately on instinct try to disarm the ones holding the katana. It's too late now. The blade is out. The wound continues gushing out a waterfall of blood.

Long awaited Part 2.

[trilliath]

honestly shout out to the dead dove: do not eat creators, the darkfic authors, the people who can unflinchingly stare into their darkest desires and curiosities and give them life enough to share with other people. It's absolutely so much harder than it looks to pull off