#gone series fan art

[cheekypenguu]

caine soren from the gone series by michael grant (design by the incredible artist inkskxtch !)

ITS THAT ONE SCENE WHERE HE'S IN THE CHURCH IN BOOK 1!!!! AAAAH!!! gee i sure hope that cross above him doesnt fall or something thatd be wild asf

[raygunsunny]

[velaversal]

BuddyBuddy

stream hero

[smallearthboundfindings]

One for the nothing more than mildly interesting category, let's talk about Ness's shoes. Fan art reference, you see.

Some of you may know that Ness (and Paula by extent) had different models in the states, but one of the things that changed was Ness's shoes. Here they are.

[Id: An image of Ness's American model, cropped out to only show his shoes. They are red sneakers with white laces and soles, and have white, orange-rimmed circles on their sides.]

Check out that distinctive circle pattern. Isn't that rather distinctive of Converse shoes, specifically. Here's some for comparison (source):

[Id: An image of a Converse brand shoe. It is a sneaker in a patchwork pattern and mostly blue with red and green patches, and white soles and laces. It too has a white circle on its side, this time with a blue star in the middle.]

It's funny they gave him a specific brand to rep, gives me real Sonic the Hedgehog Soap shoes energy, but there you have it. Another fun fact, though stated once before, this one more solidly canon due to being from the Japanese release, Ness's shoes are canonically a little beat-up according to this line from the lyrics to Smiles and Tears, more on those and how I got them in this post.

"My favorite baseball cap rests on my head

My worn out sneakers, faded white and red."

Beat-up (probably) Converses... Thank you, Ness.

[doodlingwren]

It's again that time of the week where I have to go and report the spam and/or porn bots from the tags I follow because every time I see one of their posts on my dashboard I die inside a little bit

[waltzofthewifi]

Made it to the C’s!

Traced off one of the older covers.

ID start: digital art of a teenager from the chest up. He has pale skin, brown eyes, and wind blowing his black hair. He is wearing formal clothes tinted green. End ID

[sevenmothz]

Truly wild being a fantasy fan now where Veilguard didn't overly impress me, but also Baldur's Gate 3 didn't either lmao.

[h0wlthew0lf]

erm..what the scallop!!

hi hi hello!!! uh so I'm finally posting my world Shattered Fate on tumblr!! so uh to sum it up, its a world of mine ive been working on for years now that has almost all of my ocs in it including my sona Howl!! Please ask me about it if you would like, and ill probably ramble about it alot here so yeah!!

The characters below are all from Shattered Fate btw!

[darkmatilda]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 1!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, mention of mental issues and addiction of the victim, reader is kinda morally grey

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 6k

𝐚/𝐧: HUGE THANKS to my beloveds from the server who have been listening to me yap about this fic for the past few days!!! a few of my dear girls show up here as characters, in this part it’s @esote-rika i hope you like the role i chose for you <33

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄

You hadn’t dreamt about it for almost a year now.

Before, that image had returned to your dreams regularly. A small, wooden vacation cabin in the woods—far enough from the bustle of the city to feel like a retreat, but close enough to avoid the unease that comes with complete isolation. An operation that had required you and your then-partners to meticulously study the owner’s weekly routine, gathering as much information about him as possible. There was no pressure of time—it was a place for vacations or lazy weekends, not for everyday living.

You had no trouble breaking in without even damaging the lock. You had your methods. The owner was due to arrive soon and discover that the painting in the small living room was gone. You wondered if he even understood its historical value. Wealthy people often liked to fill their properties with expensive works of art to catch the eyes of their guests and dazzle them with their price tags. But they rarely cared about the context or the circumstances of their creation. Often, if the artist was foreign, they could barely pronounce their name.

You liked labeling every person you robbed as ignorant. It gave you more motivation.

Your partners had immediately located the painting, while you started looking around the interior yourself. There could be more valuable items—jewelry or antique furniture. Once, during a robbery, you had been about to retreat when you found a hidden door leading to a basement, which turned out to be practically a vault. That year, you booked your dream vacation.

This time, you were heading down the stairs again, shining your flashlight ahead. The beam of light didn’t fall on a bust, a leaning painting, or an Art Deco dresser. It illuminated the battered face of a woman, bound as though she weren’t a living being, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

The waitress set a plate of pancakes in front of you, but you suddenly regretted ordering them. Your stomach was still in knots after seeing that image again in your dreams. You’d gone out for breakfast because you had no plans for the day and didn’t want to spend it entirely cooped up in your apartment. You adjusted yourself in the leather booth. The place had a 90s vibe, with its black-and-white checkered floor, red seating, and curly straws poking out of milkshakes topped with double whipped cream.

A cop slid into the booth next to yours with a sigh, ordering waffles with bacon. Out of habit, you tensed up slightly. As a member of the criminal underworld—a thief and active dealer of antique goods—you weren’t a fan of even fleeting interactions with people who carried handcuffs on their belts. You much preferred gold bracelets.

"...abandoned body parts of an unidentified woman were found along the shore of Neabsco Creek in Prince William County. This exceptionally brutal crime immediately sparked panic within the local community, following a series of murders that had occurred here just two years earlier. It was right on this riverbank that the limbs of the last victim of the killer were found before his capture…”

“The Waterside Butcher,” the cop to your left muttered, mouth full of waffles. “I don’t know if you heard, but that guy’s a real piece of work. Fuckin' psycho. But it ain’t him now—they got him locked up good.”

Thank you for sharing that unsolicited nugget of information I didn’t ask for, officer, you thought, as you remained silent. You didn’t want to engage in any confrontational interactions with the police. In fact, you couldn’t physically speak—you had a chunk of pancake stuck in your mouth, swelling up like a soaked sponge, and you had to spit it out onto your plate.

The cop shot you a look of disgust before turning his attention back to the waitress, bragging about his knowledge of the crime details. He even mispronounced the killer’s name. Robert Miller, not Roger. The man whose vacation cabin you broke into two years ago. The one whose basement you found a woman imprisoned in. The one you reported to the police, even though that meant exposing what you’d been doing in his house. Your case quickly ended up in the hands of the BAU profilers, who used your testimony and connected it to a serial killer they had been hunting for a long time, one who always dumped his female victims along the banks of water sources.

They even offered you a deal. Your testimony, and in exchange, you were only charged with one burglary, one attempted theft. They completely ignored the dozens of others that had happened before.

So, it could be said that you helped them catch The Waterside Butcher.

The cop was right about one thing. Thirteen murders, and he was locked up for the next few lifetimes. So, it had to be either a copycat or...

But if someone like that escaped from prison, would the public even know about it?

Your nightmare hit again. Right on that night. A bad feeling?

Your phone rang.

"Hey, Mrs. Hemingway," you greeted your older neighbor from the floor below, the one you’d swapped numbers with when you were helping her settle in after her hip surgery and taking care of her poodle. You were surprised she was calling you. "Everything okay?"

"Sweetheart, I told you to just call me Erika," she said gently on the other end, her voice carrying a note of tension. "I’m just calling to let you know you're flooding my floor again. Haven’t you fixed that sink yet?"

"Shit," you muttered under your breath. "I’ll be there in a sec. Sorry, Mrs...Erika, that this happened again."

You left the almost untouched pancakes on the plate and walked out of the restaurant, heading toward your building. You’d been moving around a lot because of your line of work, and this place had been home for maybe three months now. For about two weeks, something strange had been happening with the sink in your kitchen. You’d return late at night to find the floor completely flooded, leaking down to the apartment below, where Mrs…Erika lived. It happened every few days, almost regularly. After the second time, you hired someone to fix it, but he said everything was fine with the faucet. Either you kept forgetting to turn it off, or…you just couldn’t come up with a better explanation.

Oddly enough, that wasn’t what occupied your mind on your way back to the apartment.

Your thoughts were consumed by the murder case. You couldn’t help it; everything related to it made you uneasy. During the trial, you’d heard all the details of the crimes he’d committed. You’d seen photos of torsos of women, abandoned in various places, along with their legs and arms. You’d listened as the handsome profiler explained the psychology behind it all. How he lowered his voice with a comforting care, assuring you there was no chance he would ever get out of prison. You nodded, having no reason not to believe him. It was him who proposed the deal you took – keeping your earlier crimes under wraps in exchange for your testimony.

You made a mental note to check in on how Rebekah was doing later. You were the one who saved her, though you didn’t particularly like using that word—after all, you’d ended up there by accident. You kept in touch, but it was hard to call it friendship. You were bound by the situation in which she almost became just another limbless victim. You didn’t have much in common, but she had struggled a lot after that event, and you wanted to make sure she was okay. It was kind of like womanhood. 

The first thing you did when you got back to your small but quite stylishly furnished apartment in a nondescript neighborhood was to turn off that damn sink. And then, you offered a heartfelt apology to Erika. In return, you promised to walk her poodle for a week.

“No need, darling,” she assured you, standing in the doorway of her apartment. She was an elegant woman, a fashion enthusiast. Dressed in a gray plaid skirt and a cleverly cut blouse with a tie at the neckline, large black earrings dangled from her ears. Sometimes when she went out, she wore a matching black bowler hat. Behind her, the poodle was frantically wagging its tail, excited to see you. “The doctor recommended I get plenty of walking. I take Coco out every day at eight for an hour. Just the cost for the flooded ceiling is fine.”

You agreed, silently promising yourself that you’d order her a massive bouquet of flowers in the coming days. But for now, you headed back to your apartment, walking straight to the bedroom where you kept a locked chest of drawers… and inside, an album of photos. And within those photos, a substantial amount of cash. Since your income didn’t come from legitimate sources, you steered clear of banks like the plague. You counted out the sum you planned to give Erika—more than she probably expected. But before you could lock the chest again, your fingers automatically grabbed the album. It wasn’t just money in there; you liked to capture moments in photos, and you had plenty of them. You always took them with you when you moved.

The first page showed several pictures from your early childhood, chubby cheeks, dreamy eyes. You quickly turned the page, then another…

Your fingers clenched tightly, even though your mind hadn’t fully processed what you’d just seen. You shook your head, thinking it was just your imagination playing tricks on you.

A photo of a little girl on her first bike. Her face should have been expressing joy, a toothless smile. Instead, all that was there was white, emptiness. A cut-out section.

With furrowed brows, you continued flipping through the album, almost in a trance. If every photo had missing pieces like that, it would’ve been easier to understand. But this was just one photo out of hundreds, one little girl without a face…

A graduation photo. You should have been smiling, hugging your friends. But your face was missing. Your breath caught in your chest. A trip with friends—your face cut out. A beach day, devoid of your face. Not every photo had been altered, but almost every stage of your life captured in that album had at least one case like this. It was as if someone was trying to erase you completely.

You stopped at the point where you had stopped taking as many photos. The last few were from your previous relationship. It hadn’t lasted long, but you had particularly enjoyed taking pictures of Spencer Reid, the profiler who had worked on your case. His brown hair, wide eyes in surprise because he hadn’t known you were sneaking up on him with the camera, the dimple in his cheek when he smiled, filled several good pages. There weren’t many good photos. He looked amazing in spontaneous shots, but in posed ones, his smile was always awkward, stiff.

That photo wasn’t one of your favorites. It had been taken by some stranger during your little vacation in Rome. Spencer had been wearing a light linen shirt, his arm wrapped around your waist. You remembered exactly how you’d stood on your tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, only to cringe a moment later—having just slathered him with sunscreen, you tasted that bitter aftertaste in your mouth. A smile flashed across his face at that, and he adjusted his arm around you, smoothing your heat-fluffed hair behind your ear. So many perfect angles for a picture you could have stared at for hours, but that stranger had only snapped one. You both looked like an engaged couple who had never spoken to each other before, and to make matters worse, it looked like the family expected six kids from you both.

Your face had been cut out of it.

You slammed the album shut and tossed it into the drawer. A gust of wind blew the money meant for Erika onto the floor, but you didn’t care. What did you care about? There was nothing in your mind. A temporary, filling emptiness, growing with every beat of your heart.

Your body moved toward the window on its own, discreetly peering behind the curtain. A black car pulled away from the driveway, followed by a red one, and then a gray one. Could it be…?

No, you hadn’t looked at that album for several days. At least not to review the pictures. They might have been damaged before, and you only noticed it now. You didn’t know which version of events scared you more.

The voice of the news anchor played in your head like a true-crime podcast, describing a recently discovered body with far more gruesome details than in reality. The return of The Waterside Butcher, the one you helped catch. A break-in at your apartment (you hadn’t done it yourself, had you, in your sleep?) almost at the same time?

A twist of fate? A stupid coincidence?

For a moment, you paced around the apartment, thinking. Robert Miller was a serial killer of women, whose capture had been made possible by a woman who broke into his home. If—purely hypothetically—he escaped prison, wouldn’t he be driven by a certain kind of hatred directed specifically at her? A desire to destroy her, more important than anything else?

But that was absurd. You hadn’t cut ties with the case, but surely someone would have informed you if he had escaped. Though…Spencer had been your source of information, and you hadn’t spoken to him since your breakup, over a year ago. You hadn’t been in touch at all since then. So maybe…?

You realized you were standing in something wet. The floor was still flooded from a tap that had been left running.

For the second time this week.

The self-turning sink, this tension, this dream, the cut-out faces, the next murder.

Another brutally killed woman left on the riverbank.

The thought was improbable, yet it refused to leave you alone. It was far more likely that you were dealing with some deranged copycat—after all, it wasn’t uncommon for serial killers to have their admirers. However, that prospect didn’t fill you with nearly as much dread as the idea of being in the crosshairs of this particular man. 

You had to find out if there was even the slightest chance that he was out there, free.

*

“Hands up and turn around, slowly.”

Quick disclaimer—you and Spencer Reid didn’t break up on the most peaceful terms.

Aiming at your head was a bit much, though.

Without a hint of fear, you calmly closed the cabinet in his kitchen, from which you had just taken out a package of brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tarts. You immediately shoved one into your mouth, chewing the sweet bite while staring into the eyes of your ex, who was pointing a gun at you from about four steps away. His hair was longer than you remembered, and there was a trace of stubble around his mouth that caught you off guard. Or rather, how good he looked with it.

“I preferred your old place,” you declared, leaning back against one of the kitchen cabinets. Another bite of Pop Tarts, and a crumb fell onto your clothes. Oops. “Do you even have a microwave here? I could warm this up.”

“How did you get in here?” he asked, clearly irritated.

He still hadn’t lowered the gun, and you were starting to suspect he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see you.

“It’s always how did you get in here?” you sighed, rolling your eyes. “Never what’s up? how are you? your hair looks amazing, did you know that? and that outfit?”

"You wouldn’t be yourself without all that pretentious talk, huh?" he scoffed, finally easing up a bit. His stiff posture, caused by holding the gun, relaxed, and after a beat, he lowered it and tucked it into his waistband. He accidentally pulled back part of his black blazer, revealing a dark purple shirt underneath.

You shoved the rest of the snack into your mouth, wiped your hands off, and swallowed.

"I’d be boring without it. And you wouldn’t be yourself without this overdramatization, right? Aiming at my head like I’m some criminal..."

"You broke into my apartment," he interrupted, folding his arms. It was evening, and if you hadn’t turned on the light before coming in, the place would have been drowning in cold darkness. A little of it slipped through the window that wasn’t fully covered. "I think that’s a pretty good reason to point a gun at someone. So what are you doing here?"

"You were right," you said softly, helplessly spreading your arms. "The path of crime doesn't lead to anything good. I should have listened to you, thrown it all away, and become a model citizen."

Spencer gently nodded, listening to your words. Then, he let out a laugh.

"And seriously?"

"Was I not convincing enough?"

"Did you get yourself into something again and need someone to cover your back? Because there's no better alibi than the words of an FBI agent?"

"Stop acting like I ever forced you into it. You did it on your own."

"Because I didn't want my girlfriend ending up in prison."

A tired sigh escaped you, not expecting it to take just three minutes from the start of your reunion to begin bringing up things from your relationship. Well, the fact that you even got together two years ago still seemed incredibly absurd and enigmatic, especially to outsiders. Let's be honest. An FBI agent and a criminal caught during a break-in for theft. Then, still a criminal, though with good intentions.

You couldn’t help that you didn’t see an end to that career, and you were pretty sure Spencer secretly hoped you'd give it up. During the less than six months of your relationship, you felt as though you were constantly on the police radar, even though he’d never turn you in. What’s more, once or twice, he vouched that you were somewhere else when you weren’t. To put it simply, he gave you a fake alibi.

That was roughly when everything started falling apart, as it slowly dawned on him that he couldn’t change you. Things got even stormier, and one day, after one of the many unpleasant exchanges of words at that stage, you just walked out, slamming the door behind you, and you hadn’t seen each other until now.

 End of the story.

"Listen," Spencer began after a moment of silence. "You broke in here for a reason, and I highly doubt it’s to reminisce. I should just tell you to leave, but out of some remnants of respect for you, I’ll let you say what this is really about."

"Oh, look at you, how gracious," you scoffed bitterly. Remnants of respect. He was right, though. You hadn't come there to reminisce; you were only interested in getting an answer to one specific question. You cleared your throat. "I’m assuming you’ve heard about the discovery on the shore of Neabsco Creek?"

Spencer took a step forward, furrowing his brows slightly. He still kept more than a necessary distance, as if you were the one pointing a gun at him.

"Your assumption is correct," he replied slowly, cautiously. "I just don’t understand the purpose. Do you have any information related to the case?"

Although it didn’t quite fit the topic, the corner of your mouth twitched.

"Are you hoping I’ll help you catch another serial killer?" you asked, immediately shaking your head. "No, I don’t know anything that could be useful to you. But I do have some bad feelings about it."

You saw him gently press his lips together in thought. Almost immediately, he understood where you were going with this and gave a slight nod. His eyes were still analyzing you carefully and distrustfully. You also noticed how carefully he chose his words, as he always did in the presence of someone who could mean trouble.

"Spencer," you said his name for the first time during this conversation, pausing for a moment to think about how it felt on your tongue. You’d almost forgotten. "Is Robert Miller still in prison?"

 "He murdered thirteen women, of course he’s still in prison," he replied with conviction. "And he’ll stay there forever. The body we found... the modus operandi is the same, but only because we’re probably dealing with a copycat."

 "Copycat," you repeated. "And not an accomplice?"

"He didn’t have an accomplice. We figured that out during the investigation."

 "Are you sure?"

 "What exactly are you getting at?" he asked, his voice tinged with genuine confusion, his brow furrowed deeply.

You set the Pop Tarts box down on the counter. You’d thought about it a lot. Few knew about your involvement in the investigation, it hadn’t been made public, just like the exact circumstances surrounding the capture of the suspect. He, however, knew. He’d seen your face in court, heard your name. The entire previous day you had been obsessed with the fact that he probably had the right to correspondence in prison. He might have found a way to inform his potential accomplice about your identity, convincing him to take revenge on his behalf.

"Someone's stalking me," you said casually, as if you were telling him about what you had for lunch that day. "It started right when that murder happened. Just before the body was found on the shore. Someone...cut my face out of photos in my album."

Spencer stood still for a long moment. A look of concern briefly flashed across his face, but it was quickly replaced by something else—skepticism.

"No offense," he began, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "but are you sure it’s not just someone from your circles?"

"Even if it is, so what? I'm still being stalked."

"Then, that’s not my problem”

Okay, that was cold.

“If someone from my circles wanted to kill me, they’d just do it. They wouldn’t be sneaking into my apartment, cutting my face out of photos, and turning the water on in my sink. The Waterside Butcher, as the media's calling him,” you tried to sound calm and logical, but your heart began to race as the memory from the dream you’d had two days ago—and the one that came to you last night—hit you. This time, however, you hadn’t found Rebekah in the basement of the house, but yourself. “Something’s not right. I can feel it. You guys should look into this. I mean, BAU. But not as a copycat. As someone connected to Miller."

You could see Spencer mulling over your words. His jaw tightened slightly as he processed what you said.

“Are you getting any real threats?” he asked. “Or is it just a busted sink and…”

“It’s not busted! Someone’s turning it on!” you cut him off, irritation creeping into your voice. “And not just someone—a serial killer I put in prison.”

“And who’s still there.”

You could feel yourself losing track of your own thoughts. Well, you’d barely slept the night before, and your brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders.

“Or his accomplice,” you corrected yourself.

“Or?” Spencer picked up on it, raising an eyebrow.

You shrugged, frustrated by his calmness.

"Well, sometimes you catch the wrong person," you said uncertainly.

Spencer exhaled deeply, briefly staring at the ceiling. You didn’t see the seriousness, the readiness to act, that you’d expected when you showed up at his apartment. There was no declaration that they would take another look at the case, maybe reach out to Miller again and try to get more information from him. The thought crossed your mind—if something like this had happened two years ago, would he have reacted with more urgency?

“I interrogated him two years ago,” he began. “Personally, for many hours, even days. He confessed to everything, nothing in his behavior suggested he was trying to manipulate us. He had a motive—he selected his victims based on their resemblance to his mother, whom he also murdered by pushing her off a boat during a family trip. At the time, it was considered an accident.”

As he spoke, memories of the courtroom and the police station resurfaced, when everything was just starting to come to light. And as he slowly moved closer to you, probably unknowingly, you also recalled the first time you really interacted, when he drove you home. You weren’t innocent, but that day, you had heard some truly horrifying details of the crime, and you felt a distinct unease. For the first time, you talked about something other than the investigation. I’m like Robin, but not like Hood. I rob the rich, but I don’t give to the poor you said, making him laugh.

"Our profile didn't include a partner. Trust me, we've handled plenty of cases where there were two or more perpetrators, but this isn't one of them. One person is responsible for this," he continued, trying to catch your eye, making his words more direct, wanting to make sure they reached you. "If someone's stalking you, it's probably not even connected to this case. And normally, I'd recommend you report it to the police... but I get the feeling that's not really an option."

You scoffed, because he was right.

"Highly unlikely they'd do anything about it. You know, the faucet could always be broken, and the photos...that can be explained away," you said, sitting up suddenly.

"Are you calling me paranoid?" you asked sharply.

"You always have to label things so harshly," he muttered, shaking his head. "No, I’m not saying that. I’m just suggesting that the previous murder and the media panic could have influenced how you're perceiving things, making you more susceptible to suggestion. Your mind has connected it with past traumatic events and added..."

"So, you're saying I'm paranoid. Just in scientific terms," you shot back.

Spencer sighed in frustration.

"Call it whatever you want."

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence, a rush of angry words pushing at the back of your throat, but you realized they didn’t make any sense. Why had you even assumed from the start that he would believe you? Leaving aside the fact that your argument was admittedly a bit stretched, the truth was, you weren’t the person he chose to trust anymore.

You briefly lowered your gaze, letting out a sigh, then lifted it back up as you got closer. Spencer tensed, almost moved to pull away, but quickly realized you weren’t threatening him. You simply reached for his purple shirt, slipping something into the tiny pocket on his chest.

"My current phone number," you explained, tapping that spot on his chest. "In case you find out anything. Oh, and one last thing. Do you remember what shape my birthmark is?"

He tilted his head, surprised by the question, the sudden shift in topic. Without waiting for an answer, you pulled at your shirt slightly, exposing a patch of skin just below your collarbone.

"It’s in the shape of pi, like you once pointed out." It hadn't reminded you of that at all before, just a vague shape, but ever since he'd mentioned it, you'd seen it only that way. And from then on, every time he kissed you, he'd always lingered at that spot for a moment longer—it was his personal, favorite point. You let go of your shirt, and Spencer immediately locked eyes with you.

"I just wanted to make sure you remembered," you added, before turning to leave. "In case I end up dismembered on some shoreline and they need to identify my body."

Spencer’s mouth fell open, unable to say a word.

"You knew it very well," you added casually as you made your way out.

You didn’t need him to escort you. You had gotten there on your own, too. 

*

Three days later, when poor Erika was flooded once again, you decided to take action. You contacted the right people to have the locks in your apartment changed and to secure the place in a way that would make breaking in nearly impossible—at least for an average burglar. You knew, however, that someone with the right skills, like you, could still get in. With difficulty, but it was possible.

You also made sure to refresh your knowledge of handling a gun. 

And you called Rebekah.

You didn’t like scaring her, but you preferred her to stay vigilant. If someone was targeting you, they might just as well try to go after her too. The problem was, she wasn’t answering your calls, despite you trying every hour throughout the day. Shortly after being freed from the murderer’s grasp, she hadn’t taken up any work, and since you were doing relatively well, you had been supporting her financially. Recently, however, she had managed to find a steady job, and that could explain why she wasn’t responding.

Spencer was right about one thing—you were slowly becoming paranoid. That’s exactly why, later that evening, you decided to head over to her address to make sure everything was okay. It wasn’t just about outside threats anymore. It was simply that… Two years was a long time, but not when it came to rebuilding a life after being abducted by a serial killer. Those years had been especially hard for her—there was the added struggle of addiction—and you just wanted the reassurance that she hadn’t done anything to herself. At least then, you’d be able to sleep more soundly—as much as the circumstances would allow.

Her apartment was located in a truly awful neighborhood, on the second floor of a stairwell covered in graffiti. You knocked on the door several times, pausing between knocks, trying not to panic or come across as aggressive—you didn’t want to scare her.

"Rebekah, are you there?" you called out when no one answered.

You spent a moment leaning against a spray-painted cock on the wall, letting out a sigh as you reached into the pocket of your jacket. The lock on her door was a simple one, requiring only the most basic tools—tools you carried out of habit. You made a mental note to send someone over to replace it.

Even if she wasn’t home, you wanted to take a look around and gauge how she was doing based on the state of the apartment. It wasn’t exactly ethical, but sometimes our surroundings say more about us than words ever could. Besides, there was a good chance she’d never even know you were there.

You stepped inside, calling her name again. The light was already on. Her jacket was hanging on the coat rack, suggesting she was home—but it was also possible she’d just worn a different one. You slipped a wad of cash into the pocket of her jacket. She’d find it later and probably think she’d just forgotten it was there.

The interior had dark green walls, and the apartment consisted of three rooms: a modest living room, a tiny bedroom with just a bed and wardrobe, and a bathroom you’d never been inside before. When you glanced into it, your face reflected in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. You looked really sleep-deprived.

Finally, you headed to the bedroom, clinging to the faint hope of finding her asleep in bed. The fact that all the lights were on worried you—if she’d gone to work, she would have turned them off. Anyone mindful of their wallet would’ve turned them off!

The bedroom door creaked softly as it closed behind you, leaving just a narrow gap that provided a sliver of a view into the living room, specifically the apartment entrance. That was when you saw it swing wide open.

At first, you wanted to leave the bedroom, assuming it was Rebekah and that you could greet her. But it wasn’t the petite, feminine figure of your short friend—it was a tall man, or so you guessed from his stature, despite the hood obscuring his face. Instinctively, you leapt back from the partially open door, making sure you were out of sight.

Heavy footsteps cut across the apartment, heading, by the sound of it, toward the kitchen area. There, they paused for a moment.

You didn’t even try to convince yourself it was some friend of hers dropping by for a visit. Deep down, you already knew—instinctively felt—who it was. And that thought paralyzed you so completely that, despite the gun tucked under your jacket, you quietly slid open the wardrobe door and squeezed yourself inside.

The door creaked as it moved, and you cursed silently.

Whoever it was, you hoped they were too focused on whatever they were searching for to have heard it.

You listened closely to the footsteps in the room next door, your mind spinning with one relentless question: Where was Rebekah in all this? Was she at work, completely unaware that someone was in her apartment during her absence? You tried to recall the last time the two of you had spoken. Certainly not in the past few days—perhaps not even in the past week.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breathing to quiet, to steady.

Theoretically, her apartment could’ve been empty for days now.

But who was this man?

The footsteps suddenly grew louder. The bedroom door creaked open. You drew in a sharp breath and froze, halting your breathing altogether. You had no idea how much the tight, dark confines of the wardrobe muffled sound.

The footsteps stopped.

You could only imagine the figure standing in the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the room, taking in every detail. Did he sense someone else might be here? He couldn’t know for certain. But it was possible—likely even—that he subconsciously felt another presence, much like you did in your own home every single day.

Fragments of the nightmare that had haunted you over the past few days came rushing back. It felt as if you were descending those stairs into the basement again.

And then a smell wafted through the air—faint but distinct.

It was the same scent you’d inhaled back then.

Two years had passed, but you still remembered that mixture of dust, decay, and sweat.

Were you really smelling it now? Or was it just a cruel projection of your terrified mind?

The footsteps began to retreat.

You listened with your eyes closed, straining every nerve to track the sound. Your legs felt weak, and it took everything in you not to slide down the back wall of the wardrobe.

The sound of the apartment door slamming shut echoed through the silence. Even then, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

And then your phone rang.

The sudden, sharp sound shattered the fragile quiet, making you choke on a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Your fingers acted on their own, quickly answering just to silence the noise.

“Hello?” someone said hesitantly, your name hanging in the air like a question. “...It’s Spencer. I’m calling because... something’s happened. And you need to know.”

No.

You tilted your head back, squeezing your eyes shut as if that could block out the reality creeping in.

The silence on your end must have encouraged him to keep talking. You heard the faint sound of him swallowing, the nervous gesture twisting your stomach into knots.

“Robert Miller escaped from prison”

You pressed the phone to your face, even though it was already on speaker. Words tangled in your mind, refusing to form. Spencer said your name twice more, his voice edged with concern, before you finally forced yourself to speak.

“You need to come here,” you croaked, your voice barely recognizable. “Please.”

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony

@heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @nachrosas @angellic4l @awordsmith

[jiminomenon]

assistant! reader going viral and capturing the attention of model! karina’s fans

pairing: model! karina x assistant! female reader

word count: 843

summary: when karina posts a mirror selfie, y/n unintentionally steals the spotlight, sparking a viral reaction. as fans focus on her assistant, karina struggles with unexpected feelings of possessiveness and jealousy.

from my series: the devil wears prada

it all started with a selfie.

jimin had been in one of her moods, insisting on taking the perfect photo for her instagram. “y/n, set up my phone,” she said, handing over the device. “i want a mirror selfie, and make sure you get my good side.”

y/n, who had long since mastered the art of dealing with jimin’s diva moments, sighed but obediently propped the phone up on a nearby shelf, angling it toward the full-length mirror in jimin’s dressing room. “your good side is literally every side, jimin. just smile already.”

jimin pouted but struck a pose, her perfectly styled hair catching the sunlight. as the timer counted down, y/n stepped into the frame to adjust the angle, her unimpressed expression clearly visible in the mirror behind jimin.

“let me see,” jimin said, grabbing the phone. she frowned at the photo. “ugh, you ruined it! delete it and take another one.”

y/n rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. she assumed that was the end of it—until the next morning, when she woke up to a flood of notifications on her phone.

“what the…?” y/n muttered, scrolling through her social media. her inbox was full of messages, and her follower count had skyrocketed overnight.

“good morning, sleeping beauty,” jimin said, sauntering into the kitchen with princess in her arms. “why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“did you… post that photo?” y/n asked, holding up her phone.

jimin blinked innocently. “which photo?”

“the one where i’m in the background!” y/n said, turning the screen to show her. the photo had gone viral, with thousands of comments and likes. most of them were about y/n.

who’s the assistant?? she’s so pretty!

karina’s assistant is stealing the show 😍

someone get this girl a modeling contract!

jimin’s smile faltered for a split second before she shrugged. “oh, that one. i didn’t think anyone would notice you.”

y/n raised an eyebrow. “really? because it looks like everyone noticed me.”

as the day went on, the comments kept pouring in. fans were obsessed with y/n, dubbing her “karina’s pretty assistant” and even creating fan accounts dedicated to her.

jimin, meanwhile, was not handling it well.

“why are they so obsessed with you?” she grumbled, scrolling through the comments during a break in her photoshoot. “you’re not even doing anything in the photo.”

y/n smirked. “maybe they just have good taste.”

jimin glared at her. “this is my instagram. they’re supposed to be talking about me.”

“well, maybe next time you should make sure i’m not in the photo,” y/n said, clearly enjoying jimin’s frustration.

by the time they got home, jimin was in full denial mode. “it’s not that i care,” she said, flopping onto the couch. “i just don’t understand why they’re so interested in you.”

“maybe they think i’m cute,” y/n said, shrugging.

jimin’s eyes narrowed. “you’re not that cute.”

y/n laughed. “says the person who’s been sulking all day because i’m getting more attention than you.”

“i’m not sulking!” jimin protested, crossing her arms. “i just don’t like sharing the spotlight.”

“uh-huh,” y/n said, clearly not convinced.

later that night, jimin found herself scrolling through the comments again. she told herself it was just curiosity, but deep down, she knew it was more than that.

the truth was, jimin didn’t like the idea of y/n being in the spotlight—not because she was jealous of the attention, but because she didn’t want to share her with the world. y/n was hers. her assistant, her confidant, her… well, she wasn’t sure what else, but she knew she didn’t want anyone else to have her.

“stupid comments,” she muttered, tossing her phone aside.

“still obsessing over that photo?” y/n asked, walking into the room with a cup of tea.

“no,” jimin said quickly. “i just… don’t like people assuming things about you.”

y/n raised an eyebrow. “like what?”

“like… that you’re available,” jimin said, her cheeks turning pink. “or that they can just… have you.”

y/n blinked, surprised by the intensity in jimin’s voice. “jimin, are you… jealous?”

“no!” jimin said, too quickly. “i just… you’re my assistant. that’s all.”

y/n smiled, setting down her tea. “you know, for someone who’s not jealous, you’re acting pretty possessive.”

jimin opened her mouth to argue but stopped when y/n sat down next to her. “look,” y/n said softly. “you don’t have to worry. i’m not going anywhere.”

jimin looked at her, her expression softening. “promise?”

“promise,” y/n said, smiling.

the next day, jimin posted another photo—this time, a selfie with y/n clearly in the frame, smiling this time. the caption read: “my assistant. hands off.”

the comments exploded all over again, but this time, jimin didn’t mind. after all, she’d made her point.

y/n rolled her eyes when she saw the post but couldn’t help smiling. “you’re such a drama queen, jimin.”

“maybe,” jimin said, smirking. “but you’re still mine.”

[zineobiology]

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The Zine O’Biology is a unique Star Trek Zine boldly going where no one has gone before!

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[ellipsus-writes]

Each week (or so), we'll highlight the relevant (and sometimes rage-inducing) news adjacent to writing and freedom of expression. This week:

Inkitt’s AI-powered fiction factory

Inkitt started in the mid-2010s as a cozy platform where anyone could share their writing. Fast forward twenty twenty-fuckkkkk, and like most startups, it’s pivoted hard into AI-fueled content production with the soul of an algorithm.

Pictured: Inkitt preparing human-generated work for an AI-powered flume ride to The Unknown.

Here’s how it works: Inkitt monitors reader engagement with tracking software, then picks popular stories to publish on its premium app, Galatea. From there, stories can get spun into sequels, spinoffs, or adapted for GalateaTV… often with minimal author involvement. Authors get an undisclosed cut of revenue, but for most, it’s a fraction of what they’d earn with a traditional publisher (let alone self-publishing).

“'They prey on new writers who have no idea what they’re doing,' said the writer of one popular Galatea series."

Many, many authors have side-eyed or outright decried the platform as inherently predatory for years, due to nebulous payout promises. And much of the concern centers on contracts that don’t require authors’ consent for editorial changes or AI-generated “additions” to the original text.

Now, Inkitt has gone full DiSrUpTiOn, leaning heavily on generative AI to ghostwrite, edit, generate audiobook narration, and design covers, under the banner of “democratizing storytelling.” (AI? In my democratized storytelling platform? It’s more likely than you think.)

Pictured: Inkitt’s CEO looking at the most-read stories.

But Inkitt’s CEO doesn’t seem too concerned about what authors think: “His business model doesn’t need them.”

The company recently raised $37 million, with backers including former CEOs of Sony, Penguin, and HarperCollins, proving once again that publishing loves a disruptor… as long as it disrupts creatives, not capital. And more AI companies are mushrooming up to chase the same vision: “a vision of human-created art becoming the raw material for AI-powered, corporate-owned content-production machines—a scenario in which humans would play an ever-shrinking role.”

(Not to say we predicted this, but…)

Welcome to the creator-industrial complex.

Publishers to AI: Stop stealing our stuff (please?)

Major publishers—including The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Guardian, and Vox Media—have launched a "Support Responsible AI" campaign, urging the U.S. government to regulate AI's use of copyrighted content.

Like last month's campaigns by the Authors Guild and the UK's Society of Authors, there's a website where where you can (and should!) contact your representatives to say, “Hey, maybe stop letting billion-dollar tech giants strip-mine journalism.”

The campaign’s ads carry slogans like “Stop AI Theft” and “AI Steals From You Too” and call for legislation that would force AI companies to pay for the content they train on and clearly label AI-generated content with attribution. This follows lobbying by OpenAI and Google to make it legal to scrape and train on copyrighted material without consent.

The publishers assert they are not explicitly anti-AI, but advocate for a “fair” system that respects intellectual property and supports journalism.

But… awkward, The Washington Post—now owned by Jeff Bezos—has reportedly already struck a deal with OpenAI to license and summarize its content. So, mixed signals.

Still, as the campaign reminds us: “Stealing is un-American.”

(Unless it’s profitable.)

#WarForever

We at Ellipsus love a good meme-turned-megaproject. Back in January, the-app-formerly-known-as-Twitter user @lolt64 tweeted a cryptic line about "the frozen wastes of europa,” the earliest reference to the never-ending war on Jupiter’s icy moon.

A slew of bleak dispatches from weary, doomed soldiers entrenched on Europa’s ice fields snowballed (iceberged?) into a sprawling saga, yes-and-ing with fan art, vignettes, and memes under the hashtag #WarForever.

It’s not quite X’s answer to Goncharov: It turns out WarForever is some flavor of viral marketing for a tabletop RPG zine. But the internet ran with it anyway, with NASA playing the Scorcese of the stars.

In a digital hellworld increasingly dominated by AI slopification, data harvesting, and “content at scale,” projects like WarForever are a blessed reminder that creativity—actual, human creativity—perseveres.

Even on a frozen moon. Even here.

Let us know if you find something other writers should know about, (or join our Discord and share it there!)

- The Ellipsus Team xo

[jumpyl123]

WE FINALLY HAVE A CX-2 FREAKIN’ FACE REVEAL?????

like LOOK AT THIS

HOW DID I FIND THIS, YOU MAY ASK???

ITS QUITE SIMPLE

Last night, Im browsing concept art from The Bad Batch on starwars.com, in HOPES TO FIND the concept for the general clone X assassin for a color reference when drawing them! (all the scenes CX-2 or another clone assassin appears, its in dark lighting so I can’t eyedrop the exact colors that the armor is)

I keep looking and I land in the concept art for THE SERIES FINALE. THE CAVALRY HAS ARRIVED.

And I see THIS.

ITS THE CONCEPT MODEL FOR CX-2’s KIRFFIN’ FRICKIN’ FACE?????

EXCUSE ME??????

I’M SO SORRY, TECH-IS-CX-2 AND CODY-IS-CX-2 THEORISTS/BELIEVERS

I was a huge believer of Tech beings CX-2 while the final season was going on, but I had to force myself to let go of Tech’s survival and accept him as gone because it was doing WILD things to my mental health (and potentially my safety, SORRYYYY) (heck I even began headcanoning my own clone OC to be him to help!)

but just makes me BELIEVE HARDER

I CANT TELL IF IM RELIEVED OR DEVASTATED

LIKE I MISS TECH, I LOVE ANGST, BUT AT LEAST THAT MEANS HUNTER DIDNT KILL HIM, RIGHT??

WHEN I FOUND IT LAST NIGHT I WENT SPIRALING

FELLOW TBB FANS!!!!!! REBLOG THIS!!!!! EVERYONE MUST KNOW!!!!!!

[proxycrit]

I love your au!!! I love how the hylian duo look like gremlins, I LOVE the expressions and sass constantly and the changes to the lore, the worldbuilding and also the emotions (OUCH). I love their relationship with purah and each other and the new champions. I love the depth you gave Yona and her relationship with Sidon and Mipha. I love how link feels comfortable talking to sidon in addition to sign, I don't know if he does that with anyone else but Zelda unless its absolutely necessary (eg: just launched out a cannon and is paragliding down, so hands are busy) (side note: i love how much of an adrenalin junky/gremlin he is!!)

I do got a few questions! Will the pair get the sheikah slate again (so say link has the slate and zelda the pad), and can both slates do the warping and item storage (food, ingredients, armor, weapons, etc) (if so: no WONDER link was so upset! His collection!)

Does link have access to the ultrahand abilities (ik you said not The ultrahand, but what about fuse or ascend or rewind etc?) Where is the mastersword??

Does Link still have the champions' abilities, or did he lose those when their spirits moved on at the end of botw?

I know these are a lot of questions but I can't stop thinking about it!! The last few updates sent me back rereading the whole au and now its just vibrating in my head and giving me no piece

This is long and rambly, just know I am very much enjoying this au! Its silly and fun and touching and cute. Thank you for working on it!!

Oo some notes (also ty for circling my au haha im glad other people fixate like i do)

(Prewarning— i did not finish totk despite putting triple hours in it, so a lot of this story is being written while playing, though i know the big broad strokes thanks to cultural osmosis and video essays. A lot of Familiar Familiar builds from my playthrough with BOTW over TOTK, so the sheikah influence is significantly stronger and I will always choose botw characterization over totk characterization as a result.)

That aside

1. Sheikah slate’s dead. Rest in pieces, link’s rare collectable korok poop. Purah’s extracting as much data as she can to put on the purah pad but you can see the dread in her eyes whenever she has to tell link resurrection is not possible.

2. No idea about the zonai arm powers yet— im thinking about ascend, but the longer i go through this story the less likely ill hand it to him just due to immersion breakage. He and zelda will be getting sheikah gadgets from purah though! Maybe ill have a scene of him wandering through the sky island shrines, but without zelda warning rauru he and sonia wouldnt have prepared anything for the hero of the future. (But i DO love ascension and fuse. Lowkey dislike the building mechanics from a concept art pov because the green glue makes me want to cry, but it’s FINE i GUESS)

2b. Master sword’s chilling in korok forest. Link put it back in this au because of Reasons (part of his and zelda’s characterization in this au is to discard their past roles and embrace the present, not as knight and princess but as hero and researcher. They both have to face the reality those roles aren’t dead, but it’s a work in progress. I may also never address it. This “one off hehe lemme draw some guys” idea quickly spiraled into a web comic series so apologies for the vagueness, because i too am watching them adventure with dread and awe and i don’t know where they’ll go with it. They literally write themselves.

3. Rip champions, their ghosts are Gone (but their influence remains. You go mipha, keep haunting the narrative girl, i love you)

I know that some of these story notes don’t quite match up to what totk states is stone cold canon, but that’s the joy of fan work! Anyways sorry for folks who i have NOT answered asks of— i have a lot of them and I’m much better at the drawing and writing part then the socialization aspect (please feel free to peak in to my zoo enclosure ever so often though. I need the enrichment)

[colorlessjay]

Okay, I'm fairly new/back into the fandom (once upon a time I saw a few series but had noone to freak out about it and I didn't seek the internet for same minded people, so I see myself as an old fan but new to the fandom? Maybe? But that's irrelevant! To what I wanted to say!)

I love your story ideas and your fan art and the time exchange comic you do.

What are your thoughts about Destiel and Angst? Of course with a happy ending but angst nonetheless.

For example, maybe something like this:

It's a hunt gone wrong or maybe a hunt accident, either way Cas dies and it's Dean's flaut. Maybe the hunt was not going according to the plan, maybe it was a whole mind fuckery thing from start to finish. The monster messed with Deans head till he saw enemies in his friends and someone to trust in his enemy. Or it was a good hunt, an easy hunt till Dean gets to the finishing blow and rather than hitting the monster it strikes Castiel.

Either way it happens Castiel dies in Dean's arms. They wait for Cas to wake up again, he is an angel of the lord (more or less) how could It really have killed him? But Castiel doesn't wake up or come back to him in any way. Time passes and Sam gently tells Dean that they should bury Castiel, he deserves the last respect. Dean is furious because he still believes Cas is coming back but in the end Castiel gets a hunter burial with all the respect the two of them can give him.

Then it starts. Dean is still grieving. But he tries to function somehow. I imagine Dean to be an self-destructive mourner if noone is around. He functions in the company of Sam and or Bobby but as soon as he is alone he drinks till he feels numb. He doesn't take care of himself really well, like talking a shower only then Sam say him to do it or forgets to eat if Sam doesn't remind him, it doesn't matter what he eats he can't taste it anyway. He also doesn't sleep well, everytime he sleeps he dreams of Castiel. Castiel holding him, Castiel promising him he is not dead and then he wakes up and breaks down even before he has his first morning coffee.

It's in one of his alone moments that it first happens. Dean drinks out of his beer bottle then Castiel speaks up. "Dean, maybe you should at least eat something before drinking this much alcohol." Dean stops, that sounded like Castiel. But he is dead,is it a hallucination? Is Dean losing his mind? "Shut up. You aren't even real what do you care. " And just as he wants to drink again from the bottle the bottle shatters in his hands. Dean is unharmed but freaking out. He looks around, heart beating violently in his chest. There in the corner of his room is something. It kinda looks like hot air glimmering but in the shape of a being, a bit human, a bit something more that his mind can't quite understand. Obviously Dean freaks out. Goes all salt throwing at the possible Castiel ghost. But it has no effect. Castiel talks him back from his panic attack/freak out session. The next morning Castiel is still there and a lot more visible for Dean. Still unnerved by it he asks Sam and others if they can see Castiel. Noone else can see Castiel and Sam worries more about his brother. But Castiel in the meantime promises dean that he is not dead. He is somewhere unable to return to them but he is not dead. Dean clings towards this promise as if his life depends on it. Not dead!Castiel starts to take care of dean. While Dean looks frantically for an explanation or something, while Sam tries to get Dean to talk with someone, anyone about the lost and how he is feeling and stuff. Dean doesn't want to, Claims he doesn't need it. They fight, Sam is worried and angry and afraid of/for(?) Dean and in the heat of the moment Sam accuses him of having a mental breakdown and the not dead!Castiel is just his imagination trying to comfort him or something like that. Dean denies it. Later he begs not dead!Castiel to prove that dean is not losing his mind. The next time Sam tries to talk to Dean he walks into a whole poltergeist/haunted show, flying objects and banging cabinet doors and stuff. Sam maybe freaks out. Dean asks Castiel to stop. not dead Castiel stops. And sam start to believe that this is maybe more than his grieving brother. He starts to help in a way Dean appreciate way more.

In the end they find out what really happens to Castiel and how to get him back. And as soon Castiel is back and alive and unharmed Dean climbs him like a koala and doesn't want to let go. There are tears and feelings and a kiss. And together they work on deans mental health. Also Castiel promises that this will never happen again just to calm Deans worries.

They get their happy end.

Sooooo..... Thoughts?

My dude, this is comedy central

I appreciate you, I do

But I am not your partner in this

[newtonsheffield]

We know the city sees Kate as the Anthony’s official good luck charm, whats their opinion on his mini me Neddy? Does he have to sit in Tharman or Kate’s lap to guarantee a win? Does the crowd melt when he’s on the Jumbotron the first time or when anthony sticks his fingers through the netting (idk of its netting or a fence) behind home plate to give him a good luck high five?

Here’s the thing: Anthony Bridgerton was a beloved fan favourite even before he met Kate and brought the World Series back to Chicago. He’s a local kid who made it to the Show and wanted to do it there. The seats his wife and family sit in now were the seats he sat in with his Dad. He’s one of them. Ernie Banks might be Mr Cub but Anthony Bridgerton is the Mayor of Wrigleyville.

There’s street art of him on the side of buildings, he’s got drinks, sandwiches named after him. His jersey is not only the most popular in the Cubs store but in all MLB. And people love the story of how he met Kate. They love that she’s one of them as well. They love that Anthony is a certified wife guy. They even love Kate’s Dad, his garage is booming.

The roar that goes up when Kate Sharma is spotted making her way to her seat after missing the first few weeks of the season is wild. Anthony’s had as close to a cold start to the season as he’s ever had and everyone knows it’s because Kate hasn’t been there. Sure, she had a baby eight weeks ago. The little guy’s not ready, they get it. But if Anthony’s known for one thing it’s showing up in a big moment. And he’s not going to have a good game when his wife’s watching. With his son there? The balls might never land.

And they’re right. Neddy Bridgerton has no idea of course that his Dad’s gone 5-5 and got a cycle to boot. But he looks awfully cute when Anthony takes the field and the crowd roars to see Kate in a split screen, Neddy in her arms wearing earmuffs with little bear ears on.