Rays Bot Drop

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

okay so i wanna start making bots but i need ideas bc i am STUCK. I was thinking of taking a page from @zweigish ‘s book and basing them off of an album of songs… but idk

ps should i post here when i eventually make them…?

actually craving more vamp!artrick

-bambi

hellooo bambi my love !! sorry this took so long i got super busy but yes ofc the world is your oyster <3 (but bear w me bc i know jack shit abt vampires)

tw: gore, death, violence

patrick hasn't seen art in two weeks. every day, he waits by the corner to walk with art, yet the blonde never shows. he knows art is alive, they still text, but he hasn't seen his friend's face in ages. eventually, he knows he has to confront him, stepping to the front door and knocking three times.

"who is it?" art's voice can be heard, muffled by the door in between them. he sounds.. okay. maybe a little nervous or frantic, but he doesnt sound lile he's dying.

patrick leans his head against the door, knocking his forehead against it. "me. open the door, art."

there's a wet schlck from the inside of the house. "busy! text you later!" he definitely sounds frantic, his words coming out whimpery and rushed.

patrick sighs, knocking again. "art, let me in," he insists, fingers digging into his pockets to wrap around the cold metal key that art had given him months ago- probably didnt even remember patrick had them.

"i said im busy!"

patrick rolls his eyes and digs the key into the lock, twisting it until he hears a click. "im coming in, asshole," he calls out, opening the door to see-

art.

his golden halo of curls spattered with crimson, hands stained red. his face is covered in tears, creating clear rivulets through the blood that was stuck between his lashes. on the floor was a body, mangled from the neck up, just torn up flesh hanging onto gristled bone.

art's hands are shaking, nailbeds crusted with blood. "...i didnt know you had a key," he whispers, new tears forming in his eyes.

patrick's in shock- his sweet, docile, lamb of a friend, covered head to toe in blood, kneeling over a body that patrick could only assume art had killed. "i made a copy four months ago," he rasps out, taking a careful step closer. he can see art's canines- sharp and deadly, gleaming between the plush pink of his lips. "are you- okay?"

it all spills out of art then- the way he'd been attacked a few weeks prior, punched and beaten in the park until someone's teeth had sunk into his neck. he's changed since then, he explains tearfully to patrick, grimy hands gripping onto patrick's shoulders, a crazed look in his eyes.

"i don't know whats wrong with me," he whimpered, fearful gaze flitting to the body on the floor. "i just- i swear i-i blacked out, and when i came to- nana- nana-" he sobs, and patrick sees it now- light grey curls, matted together with blood. his stomach twists, and he has to force back bile.

"dude..." it's shitty. patrick isn't sure what exactly to say. not only are vampires real, but his best friend is one now. doomed to live forever. "...bite me."

it comes out without him meaning to. but as the words sink in, patrick realizes thats exactly what he wants, to live alongside art for life. eternally with his other half, his one true love.

art looks up at him, still wiping at his nose and leaving red streaks. "what-?"

"bite me," patrick repeats, pulling art close and tilting his head, exposing the spanse of flesh. art can hear the blood pumping underneath the skin, patrick's heart thumping loudly. "do it, art."

"pat- i- i don't- i can't-" art's frantic, tears spilling down non-stop.

patrick pulls art forward, wedging his mouth open by shoving his fingers past his lips, exposing his sharp canines. he leans his neck against the point, waiting for art to sink his teeth in.

the blonde can't help it, the tempt of flesh beneath him driving him insane, overshadowing his need for anything else- he bites down. hard.

patrick screams, and art screams along for him.

they've become whole now.

ethel x arttashi… i’m shaking

art come home the kids miss you 😾😾

I’m not an art donaldson apologist bc he has nothing to apologize for

To be loved is to be seen

KOOK!ART HEADCANONS

pairing: kook!art donaldson x pouge!reader

𓇼 ·⠀· art is the kind of kook who seems like he has it all—generational wealth, beach houses on both sides of the island, and the kind of charm that makes moms want to feed him and dads want to mentor him. 

𓇼 ·⠀· beneath the polished image, art is quietly at war with himself. he plays the role well: parties, surfside bonfires, midsummers. but he often feels like a visitor in his own life. especially among the other kooks, who are mostly about image, money, and dominance.

𓇼 ·⠀· you met unintentionally. it was just another night on the beach where he ditched a charity dinner early and took a walk to escape the noise. you were sitting in the sand alone, hair wild from the sea air, completely unbothered by the world around you. he didn’t say anything at first, just watched. something about you didn’t belong and he liked that.

𓇼 ·⠀· you aren’t a kook, not really. maybe you’re a pogue, maybe somewhere in between, but you live without pretense—and that shakes him. you say what you mean, don’t bow to money, and don’t care if your clothes match or your car stalls. you’re all instinct and gut, and he loves it.

𓇼 ·⠀· he starts finding excuses to be where you are, claiming he wants to "experience the real outer banks." you roll your eyes the first time he says that, and he laughs, but he still shows up. 

𓇼 ·⠀· he’ll offer to help you fix your bike, even though he’s never held a wrench. when you invite him to a bonfire with your friends, he’s awkward at first but earns their trust faster than he expected. turns out, under the country club polish, he’s just a boy craving realness.

𓇼 ·⠀· he’s not proud of it, but he keeps your relationship quiet in the beginning. kooks don’t date “down,” and he knows the kind of backlash he’d face if he was seen with you. not just from his friends, but from his parents, who still measure success by marriage prospects and family names. you find out when you spot him at a club event, smiling beside a kook girl his mom has been pushing onto him since they were thirteen.

𓇼 ·⠀· when you you call him out? he doesn’t deflect. he listens. that’s the night he shows up at your place barefoot, hair a mess, eyes soft. no driver, no excuses. he kisses you like he’s never kissed anyone before. and from that point on, he doesn’t hide you again.

𓇼 ·⠀· he’s not the type to fight someone at a party or key someone’s car. he's a little too timid for that. art protects you with his presence—an unspoken signal that you're off limits. he won’t start drama, but he’ll stand in front of you when someone sneers, and he’ll shut down his kook friends with quiet, lethal words when they make offhand comments about pogues or “people like you.”

𓇼 ·⠀· he listens to your stories, your opinions, your anger. when you rant about the class divide or how kooks ruin the natural beauty of the island, he doesn’t try to fix it or argue. he just takes it in. 

𓇼 ·⠀· sometimes he looks shaken, like he remembers you go against everything he was ever taught. other times, he looks like he finally understands why he’s always felt like something was missing.

𓇼 ·⠀· the first time he invites you to a party, you're hesitant. kooks and pouges don't mix, it's basic logic. but he promises he'll be by your side the entire night—a promise he keeps. he holds your hand and introduces you as someone important. the kooks don’t know how to handle you, and you don’t care. you notice the way art watches you the whole night—protective, proud, maybe a little in awe. you fit into his world like a storm rolling into a sunny day—unpredictable, powerful, and impossible to ignore.

𓇼 ·⠀· art starts talking about leaving outer banks. not because he wants to abandon his life, but because for the first time, he sees another way to live. you challenge him. you make him think. he confesses he doesn’t want to take over the family business. he wants to start something of his own. maybe a surf shop or a nonprofit for underprivileged kids on the island. something that means something.

𓇼 ·⠀· one night, you’re lying on his family’s yacht. the stars gleam above, his arm rests under your neck, and he whispers that if you asked him to run away with you tomorrow, he would. you believe him.

𓇼 ·⠀· art is composed in public—shy, poised, a master of masks. but behind closed doors, he’s something else entirely. he leaves notes in your bag with maps to secret beach spots. the notes are always something along the lines of "MEET ME HERE AT MIDNIGHT AND WEAR THE SUNDRESS I BOUGHT YOU. PLEASE. -A." when you fall asleep on him during a movie night, he doesn’t move—even if his arm goes numb. he brushes hair from your face gently, like you're some beautiful sacred being and he's worried he'll break you. you call him out when he’s too guarded, and he lets himself crumble with you, because you’re the one person he doesn’t need to impress.

𓇼 ·⠀· by the end of summer, the kooks don’t really know what to make of him anymore. he still dresses like one of them, still shows up at parties and fundraisers—but he’s different. he speaks up more. he pushes back. he spends more time in the cut than in figure eight.

𓇼 ·⠀· people whisper. some say he’s throwing his future away. some say he’ll realize far too late. but when he looks at you—sun kissed, salt laced, free—he knows he’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @nozhdyved

you would be correct.

and if i said patrick zweig is a taco bell bowl and art donaldson is a chipotle bowl.....?

now playing:

wait guys hear me out… death of a party girl is SO patrick after he lost both art and tashi in one day. i like to think that he turned to partying and that scene to take his mind off of it, definitely spiralling downward sometime before we see him again in 2019

DO WE SEE MY VISION.

i wrote about design for living & challengers in relation to each other last year for an unpublished essay on threesome movies. in celebration of the upcoming watchparty, here's a paragraph:

Challengers is surprisingly close to Design for Living in narrative. A threesome past haunts the principals, two talented men are inspired by the patron Mother who does not do the same work, the trio fail at monogamous relationships before finding three-way unity. Both Gilda and Tashi end up in convenient marriages that represent their dissatisfaction not only romantically, but in their identities and careers as well. This similarity in particular illuminates why both these films work where some others with similar premises don’t. Polyamory isn’t the point, it’s the setting. The domination of monogamy impacts all facets of life. A woman’s conventional role extends past fidelity. She is expected to sacrifice everything for her husband: her individuality, her labor, her spirit. Gilda and Tashi both succumb to then fight against this loss — the polyamory is almost incidental. It’s only evidence that they are no longer victims of patriarchal exchange.