#Obelisk Female

[msb-lair]

Clutch #3637 - Lamellar/Ossifer

Mated On: 2024-07-09 # of eggs: 3 Hatched On: 2024-07-14

Progeny:

Hatchling 9676 (Sandy) - Obelisk Female, Brown Savannah/Soil Safari/Ivory Ghost, Unusual - 15,000 on 2024-08-23

Hatchling 9677 - Obelisk Female, Clay Savannah/Hickory Safari/Flaxen Ghost, Common - 15 gems on 2024-08-28

Hatchling 9678 (Felicia) - Obelisk Male, Umber Tapir/Tarnish Safari/Ivory Ghost, Uncommon - 15,000 on 2024-08-26

Comments: Yet again, hatched out on the right day (yesterday), and then neglected to post until now. And yeah, more fossil dragons.

[crystalcourt-halo]

Bought this girl the other day, I do not regret it. <3

[ancientegyptdaily]

Hatshepsut raised her obelisks in the Wadjet Hall [Karnak] as part of a larger series of renovations to this area, including the erection of wooden papyri-form pillars and a wooden roof. She commemorates the addition of these obelisks to the temple on her red quartzite bark shrine, the “red chapel.” Inscriptions on these monoliths recorded the celebration of her jubilee festival in her 16th regnal year. The obelisks were covered with small scenes of the queen (depicted as a male pharaoh) making offerings to the gods. The southern obelisk has fallen, but its upper section is on display near the sacred lake. The northern obelisk still graces the temple today.

Measurements: The northern obelisk stands 30m high. The southern obelisk (now fallen) would have stood to the same height.

Construction materials: rose granite

SOURCE: Digital Karnak

[primrose-fr]

With my new additions I decided to do a group photo with all my Sphinx characters!

Half of these characters actually haven't met each other yet but heck it group photo time.

[hor-wod-flir]

Those two are an absolute favorite pair of mine ❤

[heath-hen]

Hatshepsut, 1458 BCE

[golddragon-fr]

why do all the new breed's female poses slap SO much harder than the males actually

[empyreal-suite]

female obelisk

1 week old

wisteria cherub / cyan flair / olive basic

unusual eyes

SOLD

[scryingworkshop]

[msb-lair]

Clutch #3648 - Enkeh/Ankah

Mated On: 2024-07-20 # of eggs: 3 Hatched On: 2024-07-25

Progeny:

Hatchling 9708 - Fathom Female, Caramel Jupiter/Avocado Stripes/Sand Firebreather, Dark - 15 gems on 2024-08-22

Hatching 9709 (Mandarin) - Obelisk Male, Clay Jupiter/Thicker Safari/Stone Firebreather, Rare - 15,000 on 2024-08-11

Hatchling 9710 (Fallow) - Obelisk Female, Sand Jupiter/Jade Safari/Dirt Firebreather, Common - 15 gems on 2024-07-29

Comments: 

[stackslip]

CAN YOU ELABORATE ON TLT BEING A HOMESTUCK FANFIC‽‽‽‽‽

i'm exaggerating a bit, but taz muir was a well known homestuck writer who wrote under the username urbanAnchorite. her fic the serendipity gospels is one of my fave fics ever, but was never finished and it's only by book 2 of tlt that i figured that the clear allusions to it in book 1 weren't just cute little nods but that she'd expanded on some of the ideas/concepts and worldbuilding of the serendipity gospels. to name a few:

the ninth house cult is heavily based on the juggalo church muir wrote/expanded upon in TSG, from face paint to the rituals and a lot of the accompanying prose

act 2 of TSG takes place mainly in a spaceship that serves as "cathedral" of the juggalo cult, and is described to be covered in bones that have been painted in many colors--which is close to the description of the mithraeum

act 2 also features the two main characters being much younger people mentored/manipulated into horrible acts by an old man who is thousands of years old and bickering with his other thousand year old friends/enemies, who seem to share knowledge and understanding that neither the two protagonists do but also deeply resent one another. hard to not read a parallel to john and the lyctors here!

to elaborate on this bc i just realized it: it is heavily implied in TSG that the dancestors (older people thousands of years old) went through a universe reset and built the empire in the image of their own trauma and anger, which would v much parallel what happens to john on earth and how he "reset" humanity

less of a homestuck thing and more of a taz muir thing: said old man is v much grooming the main female character and making her life miserable during the entirety of act 2

a lot of the story takes place in the background of the trolls' empire being a horrific imperialist force that the main characters were originally very excited to join and become a part of, with one of these characters in particular daydreaming about becoming ground troop for invasion while also holding a terrible secret that would have precluded him of doing so anyway. p neat parallel to gideon's own thing here

act 1 and act 2 of TSG are from two different pov characters, with a drastic shift in prose style and understanding of the situation/world when the pov shifts. which v much echoes how tlt has worked so far. part 3 was barely started before it went on hiatus, but it followed the same pattern.

speaking of, the prose of act 2 of TSG definitely feels very close to harrow the ninth's prose. you can just open the fic and check the first chapter of act 2 and how it's written, and you'll see what i mean. there are differences--the prose of TSG act 2 is more inflected with southern usamerican evangelical speak, i think? i'm not american so i can't quite 200% tell

there is an external armed resistance to the empire's violent imperialism and resistance that was supposed to be the focus in act 3 of TSG, which never happened. nona the ninth did, though, and it follows that structure.

there are also eldritch horrors that threaten the entire universe--homestuck's own horrorterrors--that are in the background of TSG and implied to be an important part of the future plot that we never saw. tlt has the ressurrection beasts

taz muir's worldbuilding around the blood castes in og homestuck that she elaborates on in TSG also somewhat parallels the way the houses function in tlt

iirc there's also worldbuilding around space travel in tlt (such as the obelisks? i think that's the name? and the use of necromancy to power them) that parallels taz muir's own take on how space travel works in the troll empire, using psionics and draining them dry in a similar way

i think the necro-cav relationship 'ideal' is based around how taz also interpreted moirallegiance in not just TSG but all her homestuck fics, down to how its legal implementation and the idealization of it vs its role in troll/houses imperialism and the reality of blurred lines in "expected" relationships. i'd love to hear taz's discourse on troll romance

i also think the necro-cav relationship parallels the other legal pairing explored in TSG--legislacerator and subjugglator.

there are probably more parallels i am missing--i need to reread TSG soon, as i haven't in a while. there are elements i'd say are more like, how taz herself elaborated on the bones of the worldbuilding of homestuck and then made it her own thing, which is rad as hell. other elements are more fun nods, such as gideon's aviator glasses being shamelessly stolen from dave homestuck, and a lot of gtn's prose feeling very homestuckey. it's def not like, just a little rewrite and boom, you get the locked tomb! imo it's more elements of plot and worldbuilding that were interesting enough to develop into something of its own and that taz made into something new, along with other elements of other stories (such as lolita and umineko) being woven into it. part of why i enjoy tlt so much is its "collage" aspect, taking elements taz thought interesting in other stories, or using these elements to purposefully evoke specific feelings/moods to construct or obsfucate certain ideas.

[ghostchems]

a grave date - preview! mary goore x female!reader

a/n: been thinkin on this for a while and finally am writing it. this will be multiple "parts" but all will be posted together as one complete fic. stay tuned! :D

one

One of your New Year’s resolutions is to “embrace the spooky”. You are regretting it now that you’ve decided to take a shortcut through the local graveyard on your way home. The cool air pricks your cheeks, the temperature having dropped drastically once the sun went down. Your hands are shoved deep into your sweatshirt pocket and you keep your eyes on the path in front of you. Another one of your resolutions is to make more time for friends, which is why you’re walking through the graveyard in the first place. One of your closest friends lives within walking distance of your apartment but you’ve barely seen each other over the last year due to busy schedules and lack of effort. Not anymore, though! You’re being social and remembering how much fun it can be to catch up with friends and do activities.

You’ve been a bit of a shut-in — but at the moment, you can’t wait to be back home. Fog clings to the trees and obelisks, dim lights spaced out along your path barely fighting off the dark. There are some urban legends, some completely made up but some based on historical true crime. About fifty odd years ago, a woman was here visiting the grave of her mother and ended up sadly being murdered as she mourned. People talk of sightings, calling her Mother’s Ghost, but that is just a load of local gossip, right?

Right?

“Evenin’! Are ya lost?” You’re just about to spiral when he calls out to you, a lanky arm in the air to catch your attention as you slow your walk to a stop, eyes focusing on him. Oh, lord. He sounded cheerful, polite but your eyes land on his face covered in blood, throwing several red flags up in your brain. You sputter, blinking to make sure what you’re seeing is real.

“I’m trying to get to Hitchcock Ave.” Finally, the words come out in one quick breath. The man comes closer, the faint light allowing you to see him more clearly. He’s lanky, has long legs and skinny arms complete with a sleeveless, ripped t-shirt.

“Ah, you’re already on the right track.” He’s standing about an arms length of you now, scratching the back of his head. You should be afraid of this man but there’s something about his demeanor and the kindness in his voices make you decide to at least hear what he has to say. “If you go a lil’ bit further down the path til’ you reach the crypts and then make a left, the Hitchcock entrance is straight ahead.” He gives you direct eye contact with his cool green eyes while also using his hand to point along with his directions. You don’t say anything, silently digesting his words. His eyes roam your features and his full lips start to tug into a small grin. He lifts his hands up in surrender. “Promise I’m tellin’ the truth. If you have any trouble, you come right back here and I’ll bend over so you can kick my ass.”

You snort. You can’t help it! In no way were you expecting him to say that.

“Alright, alright. Thank you.” You smile at him and his grin only grows. He waves you off as you continue down the path. There are a few times you look back to see him lingering in the same spot, seeing you off at least until you reach the crypts. Who the hell is he? Was he just hanging out in the cemetery? Is he a ghost? You follow his directions and end up right on Hitchcock like he said and something about him helping you out makes your heart flutter.

Still, a strange feeling comes over you for the rest of your walk home.

[windsweptinred]

"Notable predecessors of the Raven are Lucien, who was the first Raven, and Aristeas of Marmora, Jessamy, Francois, Jehuda, Vivien, Ming-Ti, Dechtire, and Hatshepsut. After Matthew, Daniel enlists Tethys, a deep-sea creature who had dreamed of the surface world,to serve him as a White Raven."

Wait, wait, wait, back up.. Hatshepsut. THE Hatshepsut! Egyptian female Pharoah BAMF. What the flip did that relationship play like?!

Dream: Hatshepsut tell Lucienne...

Hatshepsut: You may address me as Your Majesty or Ruler of Rulers.

Dream: I am your Master..

Hatshepsut: I've felled lesser men then you, you stroppy little sand kitten!

Dream: You will address me with respect!

Hatshepsut: You'll earn it you scant shadow of an obelisk.

Dream:.... Would the Foremost of Noble Ladies be inclined to deliver a message to Lucienne?

Hatshepsut: With greatest possible respects, from one monarch to another... Go f**K yourself... Sir.

Can we get her out of the Raven retirement home to be Hob's raven? The actual savagery of that tag team would be beyond the realms of brilliant!

Dream: Hob, my guiding light. I know I said you could choose any raven. But must it be that one?

Hob: Are you joking Dream, she's a feminist icon. A wonder of her times. It's truly my privilege and honour!

Hatshepsut: Thank you for your humbling words most kind and wise love of the Dream King.

Dream: Greetings Hatshepsut

Hatshepsut: If it isn't the very essence of Ras rays himself! Descended from on high to illuminate my life once more with his bright and glorious disposition.

Dream: (Looks at Hob) Are you smirking?

Hob: (Blatantly smirking) You wound me love. Ofcourse not.

Hatshepsut: (Identical smirk in Egyptian girl boss raven.)

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

Look! Up in the Sky!

Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia x Reader

Description: It's hard, making a name for yourself as an investigative journalist in a city as big as Metropolis. It seems like everyone and everything is against you, just because you weren't born and raised in Metropolis. But you're determined to make it. When a run-of-the-mill article turns into a hostage situation with armed criminals, you're not sure you'll be making it out of this situation alive. Can a run-in with Metropolis' own Superman light the flames of your passion once more? Or are you destined to pack up and go back home?

Disclaimers: DC canon-typical violence. Armed gunmen. Some language.

Warnings: Like most of my fics, this fic features a Female!Reader

Word Count: 3313

Author Note: Hiya lovelies! I've been thinking about this fic for a long time. I started writing it sometime early this year and never actually got very far. Several rewrites later and here we are!

First and foremost, I want to dedicate this story to the beautiful @sarahsmi13s, since it is her birthday! Vinny! Happiest of birthdays to you! I hope the upcoming year is bright and filled with as much joy as you've brought to me!

Second, I feel like I am permanently obligated to thank @horseshoegirl for being the Comma Queen she is and making sure my ramblings are well-written and actually make sense. This fic wouldn't be possible without you, Lucky!

This is going to be a multi-part story. Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

AO3: Cross-posted here!

Wattpad: Cross-posted here!

My Masterlist

"I'm sorry, he what?!"

The mumbling on the other end of the phone makes you even angrier and more frustrated than ever. The frustration isn't new to you, not at all. It's part and parcel of being one of The Daily Planet's investigative journalists. The other thing the Planet appreciates in its journalists is people who have a nose for stories. You think you have one. Which is why everything is telling you that Peabody is prevaricating because he's trying to hide something.

"I understand your position, Mr. Peabody, but your contact is my biggest informant. If we don't have his testimonial, we'll never be able to publish this article on LexCorp."

There's more irate, increasingly loud yelling spilling down the speaker, but you could care less. You've been working on this article for months, carefully building layer upon layer of evidence, crafting the perfect hard-hitting expose. You're not taking his bullshit at face value anymore. Your mind is whirling as you lean back in your chair. Peabody is still spilling excuses into your ear, not that you care. Maybe you’re a little rough and brusque with Peabody as you hang up, but something about this situation is pinging in your head.

Your office is a bright space, all white walls, glass panes and metallic accents. From up on the 68th floor, Metropolis looks like a heaving anthill. Across the cityscape, another skyscraper glints tauntingly at you. You know Luthor is wrapped up in this. Okay, sure, corporate espionage isn’t exactly his deal, but who else could it be? You’ve carefully counted out every other potential culprit. Only Luthor is left.  Turning around, there’s an unholy rage in your countenance as you glare down at the twisted mess taking over your walls. There are newspaper clippings, articles, string and scribbled notes all over the walls. Just looking at it is sometimes enough to give you a headache. But you desperately need to get to the bottom of this situation. There must be a reason why all roads seemingly lead to Lex Luthor’s shining obelisk to his ego. You wouldn't be surprised if Peabody is clamming up because someone is blackmailing him.

Before you can further dig into the LexCorp situation, a whistle rings out through the air. You're the newest investigative journalist at the Daily Planet. It means you have the smallest office with half-broken heating and air conditioning, which nobody else wanted. It’s also the office furthest away from the bullpen.

The editor-in-chief of the Planet, a gruff, peppery older man named Perry White, only calls all of you together if there is something big brewing in Metropolis. You have to shove your way to the front of the circle loosely gathered around Perry. You're short, so you couldn’t see over the crowd if you tried.

“Alright, alright, settle down you lot.”

Perry's voice is gruff, carrying the tones of a person who grew up in Metropolis or one of its boroughs. Of course, most of the office hails from Metropolis. Sometimes you think your upbringing in the cornfields of Iowa has something to do with your distance from the other journalists on staff. After all, despite living in Metropolis for the past five years, your voice still holds the slightest twang. You can dress like a Metropolis professional, walk like one, and talk like one, but everyone makes it abundantly obvious you will never be a citizen of Metropolis.

The hazing is par for the course. You’ve seen more than your fair share in the three months since you started at The Daily Planet. The source of your struggles is, you’re sure, one person. She’s standing at the other end of the circle of reporters waiting with baited breath as Perry doles out assignments.

Natasha Trace.

She gets all of the best assignments from Perry, just because she’s his niece or something like that. The vindictive smirk she gives you as she accepts the latest city hall press conference is proof. Your own assignment is a little more dangerous, 300 words on the newest homeless shelter opening in Southside. According to the mayor, Southside isn’t dangerous anymore, but you don’t believe him. Perry quotes the same thing every chance he can get, especially because he sends reporters out to Southside pretty often. It’s all part of the Planet’s “For the People” reporting strategy. Every day, you hear people talking about another mugging or shooting or what have you. So you’re under no assumptions that Perry and Natasha are giving you an assignment they want you to succeed in.

You're cursing them more and more the next day when you're kneeling with a puddle of spilled tomato soup seeping into your sensible dark trousers. It was just your luck that masked gunmen waltzed into the shelter in the middle of your interview, wasn’t it?

 It was also just your luck that one of them had sent a spray of bullets into the air the moment hands went up. Cue some well-deserved screaming and a near-stampede for the doors, and you’d been pushed to the floor. So now you’re crouching in spilled soup with your hands up, trying and failing to moderate your breathing.

What the hell does a soup kitchen in Southside have for a gang of armed robbers, anyway? It’s not like it has much money. After all, this is only one of a string of new food shelters opening up in Metropolis. They’ve all been funded by the government, and they’re all supposed to be as clean as can be. Supposed to be, anyway. Obviously something isn’t right in the state of Denmark.

What’s just as interesting is the sight of the photographer you’ve been sent to the shelter with. Mickey Garcia is one of the Planet’s best. He’s got an eye for taking those photographs nobody else can. You’re not sure why Perry sent him with you. Usually he’s buddy-buddy with Natasha. He’s probably wishing he were with Natasha at City Hall right now. You know you are. But he doesn’t look scared or worried. He’s just kneeling in the soup next to you, hands up with his head cocked to the side and eyes staring into the distance.

It’s almost like he expects the police to come roaring up. Just as the lead invader turns his head, there’s a rush of wind and you see an imperceptible smirk on his face before he disappears between one blink and the next. You can smell ozone in the air, bitingly sharp, but it seems like nobody else notices but you.

Who the hell is Mickey Garcia? You almost wish you were hiding behind one of the tables. Because then you can pull out your notebook and start writing. Instead, it seems like all you have is your eyes and ears. How did he disappear so quickly? Metahumans aren’t exactly new in the world (or well, at least in the country). You remember reading about metahuman related events across the country. After all, everyone knows about Gotham City’s Bat. But recently there have been more and more reports. A meta-human in red-and-gold streaking through Central City. Villains with the power to freeze anything in its tracks and heroes with the power of the seven seas and beyond. And of course, everyone has seen the fluttering blue cape of Metropolis’ own metahuman.

So where does that leave you? Wishing for Superman, as you’ve heard him called, to save you? You’re not even sure he’ll show at all. There have to be a million other things happening in Metropolis more important.

“ALL OF YOU ON THE FLOOR!”

You’re not on the floor long when a hand grabs you by your hair and yanks you up.

“What do we have here?” A greasy voice growls the words into your ear as cold metal presses into your temple. “A little reporter eagerly waiting for a scoop?”

You shudder, your skin crawling at the hunger in this man’s voice as he traces his index finger up and down your throat. Your press badge thwaps against your chest with every movement.

“P-please.” You’re trembling in earnest, teeth chattering. “These people are innocent, th-they have no money. They’re here to get some food. The only money the shelter has is for food.”

His cackle chills you to the bone. “Oh, you’re so naive, you sweet little thing.”

“We’re not here for the shelter’s money. We’re here for the city’s money.” He grins, blowing his foul-smelling breath in your face. “And if the city doesn’t cough up the goods, we’ll just take you in exchange.”

“And what if he comes to save us?”

You’re not sure who asks, but it sparks a rising tide of questions. People are shouting the questions out, and the men grow angrier and angrier. From your new vantage point with a barrel pressed to your temple you can see how uneasy they actually are. Their fingers tighten around the weaponry, paling at the joints as they grip at the metal. The more people ask, bolstered by the sounds of the sirens outside and the crackle of voices through bullhorns, the angrier your captor gets.

“All of you, shut up!” It's a roar of sound which leaves your ears ringing. The gun hurts as it presses into your throat. It’s hard to breathe, to swallow, to think. Something tells you you're not getting out of this stand-off alive. Your pulse is thudding in your ears and your chest aches. You hear the tell-tale click and your eyes are screwed closed.

Please. Please. Please. I promise I'll be better. I promise I'll be a better daughter, a better employee.

You're not sure who you're praying to, but you’re praying nonetheless.

There's so much I haven’t done yet.

It shouldn’t be so sad, thinking about how pathetic your life is - how empty it is. You're braced to hear the sound of a gunshot, braced to feel pain and then feel nothing ever again. You can feel the silk of your blouse, the expensive one you never wear, sticking to your back as you heave in thready, unsteady breaths.

It's almost anticlimactic, the way it happens. You smell the same sharp ozone scent you did earlier and the hand wrapped around your throat, the gun pressed to the hinge of your jaw disappears. You keep your eyes screwed shut, trying to ignore the yells of pain and cut-off curses as people get beaten up. You keep expecting to feel the acute pain of a bullet lancing through you, burning through your skin. But you feel nothing. You hear nothing, and obviously all you can see is the underside of your own eyelids.

“Miss, you can open your eyes now. It's all going to be okay.” 

You know what this voice is saying as you stand stiff-backed in the center of the room. Your muscles are locked in place and your hands are curled into fists at your side. You're not sure you could move if you tried to.

The hands that hold yours are warm, warmer than they have any right to be. But they feel good, and you can feel yourself relaxing into the touch. When your eyes open, you're not sure what you expected to see. But what you get is Metropolis's own Superman. He is smiling at you, pearly teeth on display, big brown eyes gentle as he talks you out of your panic. You're enraptured by how his dark hair curls just so over his forehead and how his jaw is so well-defined it could cut diamond.

More than anything, you wish you were still holding your notebook and pen or a dictaphone or anything. If there was anyone you want to interview here and now, it's him. But something is bothering you about him. He looks oddly familiar, something in the turn of his cheek and the fall of his hair.

Your statement to MCPD takes the longest. Long after all the other hostages have headed home or been shuttled to other shelters in the city, you stand, ignoring the way tomato soup is crusting on your clothes and how your fingers ache. Maybe your statement wouldn’t have taken quite so long if you weren’t trying to interview your interviewer back. In any case, by the time your throat is dry and aching, it’s late, approaching midnight and the only person left other than police personnel is Superman.

“A-are you okay, Miss?” 

You blink at his words, because he sounds oddly bashful, and that is a look you never expected to see on a superhero’s face.

“I’m fine.” You grin, the motion only halfway genuine. “I'm just about to head out. I'm sure a superhero like you has better things to do, other people to save and whatnot.”

“U-um, no actually.” He tips his head to the side, using his hand to fix his already immaculate hair.

“Do you always wait around at crime scenes to walk a gal home?”

“W-would it be alright if I walked you home?”

Your questions collide in midair against each other. You huff out an exhausted laugh, but he just blushes a little, golden cheeks flushing as his eyes twinkle at you.

“N-no. I don’t make a habit of waiting at crime scenes to walk girls home. Guess that's something only for you.”

Now it's your turn to battle hot cheeks. You can't even fan your face off because you don't have a thing to fan yourself with. Flapping your hands makes you feel stupid. So instead, you let Superman lead you out of the shelter and onto Metropolis’ streets. The city is alive with the sound of cars and ambulances. Someone has a radio on their window playing music. It feels like you're in an entirely different place.

“So, what about that walk home?”

He smells good. For the first time you notice how good he smells, this Superman, now that your nose isn't clogged with the smells of spilled tomato soup and sandwiches. You want to spend time with him. You want to forget what is waiting for you in the morning, how angry Perry is going to be when you didn't get a scoop on the shelter or any pictures that you know of. Maybe if you spin the Superman angle to this? It doesn't feel right, exploiting this man when he's so clearly doing it to help people. You also don't want to stop talking to him yet.

“Sure.”

Honestly you wish you'd clarified, because when he said walk, you thought he was actually going to walk with you. Instead he sweeps you up in his arms and shoots up into the sky. You scream the whole way, hands scrabbling for purchase against his suit, finally settling for an arm around his shoulder. You're shaken and shivering when he finally stops moving.

“Shit, sorry.” 

You grumble into his broad chest at the cheeky apology. 

“Just thought you'd want to see the city how I see it.”

When you finally screw up the courage to take a look, your lips part in a gasp. The entirety of Metropolis is laid out in front of you. Lit in gold from all of the lights, you're grinning from ear-to-ear as you peer out over the city.

“It's gorgeous!” There's a pleased smirk on his face. “I can't believe you get to see the city like this!”

“Yeah,” He grins, something soft. “I didn't fall in love with the city until the first time I saw this view.”

“I can see why,” You gasp, witnessing how soft your colossal city looks in the moonlight, how it seems like a world filled with such promise.

“Let's get you home.” There's a blush on his cheeks as he swoops you down, following your murmured instructions like he knows every inch of the city.

You feel a little bit like a princess when he sets you lightly down on the doorstep. He's still floating in the air, the navy blue suit he's wearing clinging to every muscle. Now more than ever something feels familiar about him. He stays outside your door watching with the same smirk on his face, his head cocked to the side like he's waiting to hear your deadbolt slide home.

You're a little giddy when he flies away, and you curl into your bed like you're in a dream. You sleep well, for the most part, not half as traumatized as you expected to be after being held hostage at gunpoint. At least, until you jolt up in bed, your hair a mess around you and growl, “Garcia!” 

He'd disappeared when the police came to the shelter with their bullhorns and their posturing. You'd smelled the same sharp ozone-tinged scent in the air when he'd disappeared and when Superman shot into the room. But there is more too. The shape of his face, the way he smiled, the almost compulsive way he pushed his hair off his face. He acts just like Garcia does, too.

What is the likelihood your first encounter with Metropolis' own Superman would give you insight into his alter-ego? After all, nobody would suspect that quiet, bespectacled, sweet Mickey Garcia, a photographer for the Daily Planet, is Superman. Nobody, it's obvious, but you. Forget your conspiracy board on LexCorp and their shady dealings. Right now, an exclusive interview with Superman seems like just the ticket to rocket you into fame.

But you can’t let on that you know. You spend the day typing up a lackluster article on the shelter opening, your eyes peering over your computer every time you hear footsteps coming your way. The people walking past you never stop by, not even to chat. You're practically sprinting for the door when you see Garcia, chunky headphones around his neck.

“Hey, Garcia!” 

He turns and looks oddly surprised to see you. 

“You got a sec?”

“Y-yeah, of course.” 

His stutter is adorable. You have to remind yourself he is Superman. 

“I wanted to take a look at the pictures you shot yesterday. Obviously the opening wasn't what we expected, but it should be an interesting public interest piece anyway.”

When he's sitting in the chair next to yours, fingers flying over your keyboard as he shows you all of the photos he took as well as a few of the aftermath, you're questioning your gut instinct even more. How is it possible he got pictures of the police helping people, interviewing you, if he was Superman? 

It's nice, working with someone who smiles at you instead of spitting insults out behind your back.

“This looks great.”

There's a smile on your face as you look at the finished article. 

“Yeah, not bad for an article about a shelter opening turned into a hostage situation, right?”

“Y-yeah.”

You turn, and rest your arm on his forearm. You let your reporting instinct take the driver’s seat. When he's relaxed, maybe you'll get some answers out of him.

“I completely forgot to ask! How are you holding up after yesterday? You know what Perry always says, ‘We're a family here at the Planet!’. I was terrified when those gunmen burst in.”

You prattle on and on, seeing his face change, almost fall, when you mention Superman. 

“You know, he's awfully handsome, Superman is. He took me home, made sure I was alright.”

You grin, wickedly, though you know for sure nobody here in Metropolis knows you well enough to tell.

“And then he blushed.”

All of your suspicions are proved true when Mikey Garcia blushes the same way Superman did.

“You know something? Superman blushed just like that when he was showing me Metropolis how he sees it.”

There's panic in his eyes now. You're just fast enough to block him at the door, arm flung out to stop him from walking past you.

“So…. How long have you been Superman, Mickey Garcia?”

Taglist:

@sarahsmi13s @desert-fern @horseshoegirl @teacupsandtopgun

@roosterforme @cherrycola27 @kmc1989 @chaoticassidy

@shanimallina87 @a-reader-and-a-writer @dakotakazansky @seitmai

@shinycupcakebaker

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN ON AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR ON TUMBLR BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN AO3, ON WATTPAD, OR TUMBLR, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

[hor-wod-flir]

These and more new hatchlings are currently available in my hatchery "Wrench in the Gears".

Til today 23:59: servertime every hatchery dragon is -10% if paid in treasure! Just answered in the thread to claim the discount!

[glassstarz]

FILBUS AND GOMEY

By:Me

Okay... So how do I put this... 😐uhh ok so I made this thing or series for you guys! So you can ask My OC and some of Doctor nowhere's characters ‼️

𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗕𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗟𝗨𝗗𝗘𝗗:

•The flesh bed

•Phen-228

•Locust

•the boy and the bath/guilty

•The headless macrocosm

•The obelisk of enlightenment

•Jip

•Filbus

•Gomey (my OC)

𝗔 𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗙𝗢 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗧'𝗦 𝗚𝗢𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗡:

So if you don't know who Gomey is she is Filbus rival and Gomey used to be apart of Filbism untill she wanted to make her own religion but Filbus wouldn't allow it. So Gomey and Filbus had a fight and after that they parted ways and as soon as Gomey left Filbism she finally was able to make her own religion and her religion is called Gomeism!! Gomeism is like Filbism but instead of chairs it's clocks!! And now everyone is raped up in the drama between Filbus and Gomey ‼️

𝗜𝗡𝗙𝗢 𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦:

Flesh bed:

Nickname(s): Flesh boi/Bed boi

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/They

*********************

Phen-228

Nickname(s): the boiled one/boiled man

Gender:Male

Pronouns: He/Him/His

*************************

Locust

Nickname(s): T.O.E/Thumper/Lover

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/They

*********************

Guilty

Nickname(s): bath child

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him/His

*************************

Headless macrocosm

Nickname(s): Icabodys/ickys/Headless boi

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him/His

*****************************

Obelisk of enlightenment

Nickname(s): Obee/light/Obela/Miss.Enlightenment

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

****************************

Jip

Nickname(s): sunny/sun child/Shopkeeper

Gender: Male

Pronouns: They/Them

**************************

Filbus

Nickname(s): Filbert/Filb/the chair guy

Gender: Male

Pronouns: He/Him/His

*************************

Gomey

Nickname: Gome/Mey/the clock lady

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

***************************

𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗦 𝗔𝗡 𝗔𝗨 𝗗𝗢 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗔𝗡𝗬𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗢𝗨𝗦𝗟𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗜𝗦 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗙𝗨𝗡 ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

Just go here to ask the question

Please do this I need to get my drawing motivation back pls help