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The armored warrior strode into the keep, massive greatsword at the ready.

"Lord Helma-"

"FINALLY!" I cut him off, not caring what he had to say. "Do you have any idea how LONG I have been waiting for this?"

"Waited? But you.... you're the king. I'm supposed to depose your tyrannical reign." He seemed genuinely confused now, the point of his sword resting on the ground.

"Kid, the aristocracy made me nothing more than a figurehead about 25 years ago. Took them 15 years, but they managed. I 'took too much power away from them', so they pulled some legal bullshit to strip most legislative power from me." I stood up, grabbing the heavy case at my feet as I did so.

"But.... the quarry accident... my sister?" His tone was more questioning than anything.

"Yeah, kid, it was a real tragedy, and I'm sorry it happened. Do you know why it did? Cause they kept me from passing workplace safety laws back in 742. Said it would 'impact their profit margins.' Then they pulled their little legal coup, and here we are. Duke Carwen led the entire thing. Same Duke Carwen who exports stone to those artisans in the north." He shook his head, then dropped the ceremonial crown on to the steps. "There ya go kid, I'm deposed. You're free to do whatever you want. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm retiring."

Then he hefted the case onto his shoulder and walked past the confused stonemason who had started this whole rebellion, closing the door behind him with a loud bang.

The king, after hearing the prophecy about a child fated to depose them, decided to just let the events play out without interfering.

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The ringing in Maia's ears was intense. She'd been blown off her feet by the poxburster. Slime coated her red prisoner jumpsuit, but she'd been lucky enough to have thrown a hand over her face before the disgusting thing exploded.

"What do we do with her?"

"Nothing, the poxers will be here to feed soon enough." The man who'd been in the cell across from Maia had donned a helmet in the shape of a twisted skull. He and his compatriots took off without another word, leaving Maia stunned, slumped against the wall of her cell.

She may have sat there for minutes or days. She had no idea. All she knew was that she had to move. Poxwalkers would be arriving soon. That's what the traitorous bastard had said. She knew the horrors of the walking pox. Had faced the plague zombies before. She had to move. Slowly, she managed to drag herself to her feet, her head spinning. The deck beneath her feet bucked wildly, forcing her to lean on the wall to stay upright. The cell block around her was in uproar, but the sounds of the other prisoners was drowned out temporarily by the roaring in her ears.

Once her head had cleared a bit, she began eyeing the bars closest to where the explosion had been. If it had been enough to break open the other cell, maybe it had weakened her own.

She began to try the bars. Pushing and pulling, left and right. When it didn't work, she'd take a few steps to the side and try again, looking for some weak point she could leverage.

At some point, she became aware of the sound of wet, wheezing breathing approaching from the hall the Explicator had come through. The sound was getting louder and louder, and the screaming terror in her head grew louder in proportion. She slammed herself against the bars. Once, twice. She couldn't get much leverage against the vertical beams.

She glanced back at the hallway. Twisted grins met her eyes as dozens of poxwalkers stumbled towards the cell block, with a handful looking at her directly as the staggered along. She slammed her shoulder into the bars again and again, panic rising. Both her attempts and her prayers getting more frantic by the second.

*I will not die here! Not like this!* she screamed internally as she hammered the bars again and again. She felt something give way. The plascrete cracked and tumbled into the opening in the floor, splashing into the Tancred Bastion's sewer system.

She stepped back, keeping away from the entry gate as rotting arms reached through, poxxy arms trying to grab her. She glanced over to see that some were already being crushed through the bars by the weight of numbers and their insatiable need to reach new victims for their accursed plague. She did her best to block out the screams of prisoners less fortunate than herself, but her mind conjured images of their gruesome fates as the screams rang loud enough to turn her blood to ice.

She gave the crossbar directly above the broken plascrete a solid kick. The cracks widened significantly. She kicked them again. And a third time.

Then she heard a wet splat as a body landed next to her. She stomped on its head as the poxwalkers hand reached for her foot, cracking its skull and spilling its brain matter over the floor. She braced herself for one more kick, putting everything behind it.

The bars swung open with a screech as they twisted on their one good bolt. The other hung loose as the plascrete broke away entirely, crumbling off and splashing into the filthy water below.

Without hesitation, she dropped through the gap, splashing down atop some biological material she had no desire to identify. Then she took off, leaving the screams of the dying behind as she sprinted upstream, looking for an exit.

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Superman and Lois started out as a fun schlocky superhero show for me to watch in the background while I worked on other projects. I'd have preferred it stay that way, but they decided to make some *really* weird writing decisions in the final season that kicked on the Writer's Brain™️, so instead we're reimagining the entire series.

Now I'm not going to be rewriting EVERYTHING, at least not st this time, but one thing really drove me nuts.

Jon shouldn't immediately control his powers!

Jon is the golden boy. He's the archetypal popular jock, complete with dickhead friends and a position as the starting Quarterback.

They spent multiple seasons without him having powers and showing Jordan struggling to control his. Then Jonathan gets ALL OF THEM in under ten seconds and is in full control of them after a commercial break. That's just boring and removed all of the interest from the character. He had a whole storyline that was immediately dropped about learning his place in a world where he would never be as amazing as his superhero father and brother. There's a lot I could say here, but I'm getting lost in the weeds.

I think the writers needed to do one of two things.

Fully commit to Jon's lack of powers and the road that puts him on. Or

Give both brothers their powers at he same time.

Now I personally think the second option has the most interesting plot at the start.

Change nothing about how the series starts, but when the popes come down, nobody can react fast enough. But the brothers are completely unharmed. Fast forward, Clark tells them who he is, and they begin to train. Jordan is learning a lot faster than Jonathon is. Like, he's almost in full control within a handful of episodes. He loses it every now and then, but he is never forced to stay home from school or anything. He's the one having to make excuses for Jon, who goes from the most popular person at his Metropolis High School to a frequently absent nobody at Smallville High. Whenever he gets overwhelmed, Jordan has a way of talking him down again. I'd make this happen probably three times before the confrontation between them.

Eventually, the two get into an argument, with Jonathon being almost hysterical and taking it out on Jordan because he never seems to struggle while Jon has lost everything to his powers showing up.

To which Jordan replies:

"You think it's easy? What, you think I haven't had to work for it? The panic attacks, getting overwhelmed by lights and loud noises, that's all new to you, but I've ALWAYS had those!"

While watching, it occurred to me that all of their super abilities are things that could easily present as symptoms of anxiety. Jordan is literally already positioned as having mental health issues, with anxiety being specifically mentioned. And the writers do next to nothing with it. But if you make Jordan the prodigy, with Jon's golden boy life falling apart, their positions are flipped for maybe the first time in their lives, with Jon finally understanding how hard it had been for Jordan before now, and Jordan not seeing his prevoous anxiety issues in the same light as he watches his brother spiral.

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At this point, I've been very slowly working on this for a few hours, and I've kinda lost it. I may update and add more to this later, but I'm gonna post it now.

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I try to only post my original scenes or whatever here, but this was just too important not to share, especially as a survivor who uses these themes a lot in my writing.

Do you guys remember how kidnap fantasies were popular on wattpad because young girls and queer teens were both made to feel shame at the thought of their own sexualities, so the fantasy of being kidnapped totally against their will was a way for them to engage with a romantic or sexual fantasy without feeling morally in the wrong for doing so? Added bonus that the fantasy involved being whisked away from repressive environments like home or school, right?

Finding out that Bram Stoker was in a sexless marriage and that scholars believe that he very likely was closeted gay puts the entire book into perspective as to WHY it reads EXACTLY like a self insert wattpad Dracula kidnap fic:

“I TOTALLY love my wife and would never do anything that an upstanding Good Straight Working Man wouldn’t do but oh nooo, big strong man with broad back and strong enough arms to carry me back to bed like a princess trapped me and claimed me as his, completely against my will 👉👈 But he protects me against the bad evil sexual women (who I assure you, I am TOTALLY sexually attracted to, as any straight man with a choice would be) but trust me, I do NOT want ANY of this. What’s that? The Count is not capable of feeling love? Would be a shame if I had the special ability to change tha-”

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Oh, to be a fanfic cryptid, appearing and causing big emotions only to never post again, lol

Everyone talks about the sadness you get when a fanfic isn’t finished on a03. But no one gets the pain I get when I read the best masterpiece in the world just for it to be some fuckass one shot 😫💔

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The crack of lasgun fire rang out. Two, three, four, five shots.

"Rager down!" Maia shouted, without taking her eyes off the incoming hoard.

Liara rocketed forward, screaming praise to the God-Emperor as she swung her Eviscerator, cleaving the poxwalkers as they staggered forward, their makeshift weapons raised. She was joined quickly by Pidge, the massive Ogryn swinging a cleaver the size of his comrades through the enemy. Anything not immediately torn in half by the force of it was thrown aside, their bodies broken. Easy cleanup for Sarine, who's Force Sword tore their flesh like paper.

As the Psyker of this particular fireteam, she had more insight into what exactly these things were. Yes, the others had a general understanding. They were the bodies of the citizens of Atoma, twisted beyond belief by the Blight. The Inquisitor's lackeys insisted they were dead, bodies puppeted around by a disease.

But Sarine knew more. It wasn't just a body. The damned souls, screaming in agony and fear and despair, were anchored to the bodies. They could not pass into the Immaterium without the bodies being killed. And they were forever lost to the Emperor's light. Their souls were tainted by whatever it was that infected them, something the Dregs referred to as "the Grandfather."

The sound of a net gun snapped Sarine out of her rhythm. She heard the grotesque giggling of the Trapper as he rounded the corner. He gave a shocked start, as if he didn't expect someone to have already noticed him. Sarine reached into the Warp, her arm outstretched, palm out, projecting a barrier between her and the disgusting cultist. Then, as her rage boiled over, she clamped onto him with her mind. In one smooth motion, she slammed him into the floor, grabbed the Vraks pattern autogun that hung near her hip, brought the barrel up just high enough, and pulled the trigger.

Slug rounds exploded from the barrel, twelve of them slamming straight into the back and head of the Trapper. Sarine knew it was overkill, his head looked like a burst melon after the first three, but she didn't care. She could never take enough retribution from these cultists for the souls of Atoma.

"The Trapper will trouble us no longer!" She called out, turning back to her team.

"You alright?" Maia asked, loading a fresh power cell into her Kantraal pattern lasgun. It was only then that Sarine realized she'd been screaming.

"I'll be better back aboard the Mourningstar. Let us go." Sarine replied, the rage in her voice replaced by a sad note. She dropped the autogun, letting it hang from the strap over her shoulder again. It bounced against her leg as she walked, sword in hand. As ordered, she removed the heads from any bodies that had fallen. Assurance that they couldn't mutate and rise again. The cacophony of screaming souls had quieted ever so slightly. But it would never fade entirely from this place until the work of the Cult was expunged from the city.

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She lay on the couch, several pillows giving her soft incline to support her head. In one hand, she held a short glass. Geometric shapes molded into the clear walls distorted the appearance of two large cubes inside, suspended in amber fluid. In her other hand, hanging over her head, she held a phone.

She'd spent hours scrolling the photos. A trip to a zoo, a pier, a mission, a theme park. Hundreds of images featuring the same two people. One, a beautiful woman who made her heart lurch, the other a man altogether alien and far too familiar.

The idea of calling her reared its ugly head again. What would she even say? "Hey, by the way, your ex-boyfriend died about two years ago now! Just thought I'd call to say sorry about everything that happened!" Yeah, that would go over so well.

She scoffed as if it would break the thoughts loose. She took a sip of the liquid amber, feeling it burn all the way down her throat.

Well, she thought, dryly. At least the bastard had good taste in bourbon.

But she could never shake the feeling that something had to be said. She'd been here a dozen times before in the recent months. Usually not with the bourbon, but always with the same intrusive thoughts. Amends had to be made. Or at least attempted. An apology was in order, whether it would be accepted or not.

She downed the rest of the glass and slammed the little green button before she could think about it anymore.

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The Essengast

Of all the misconceptions common among those trusted with knowledge of the Great Enemy, the idea that the Prince of Pleasure is limited to sexual deviance is one that must be dispelled It is the master of pleasure and excess in all forms. There are numerous examples of other senses, feelings, and emotions being weaponized. Most prominent among them may be the Noise Marines of the Emperor's Children, twisted heretical Astartes who blast the holy warriors of the Emperor with sonic cannons.

Lesser known, the corpse-eating court of Malcarum, the Essengast. They began as a hunting lodge of affluent nobles, searching the wilderness of the pleasure world for rare game creatures and bragging around great fires as servants prepared a banquet following each hunt.

Eventually, war came to the system. Malcarum was forced to industrialize quickly. Great hive cities rose, poisoning the water, polluting the atmosphere, and collapsing the ecosystem.

But the hunts continued.

First, it was the megafauna of the underhives, sump-kroks, and spiders the size of tanks. Then, the mutants, the parodies of humanity that fled down-hive rather than accept judgment. Eventually, the lower hives became the hunting ground. They began to hunt the people of Malcarum.

Somewhere along the line, the banquets stopped being enough for them. They would eat until they were forced to purge, then eat some more. Then, the purging slowly vanished. Now, they never had quite enough. They would still be hungry when the embers smoldered in the pits. The hunger continued, compounding until they felt on the brink of starvation, nothing able to satisfy their excessive appetites. They began to kill indiscriminately, consuming the flesh of their victims without pause. Reports indicate they stopped intentionally killing altogether, preferring to track their prey and devour them alive wherever they fell.

The Sisters of the Vermillion Flame are said to have led the cleansing of Malcarum. By then, the nobles had devolved into mobs of twisted ghouls, their pale, corpse-like flesh stretched taut over their emaciated frames, their bones growing disproportionate to their bodies, spines erupting through the skin.

Their apparent extinction has not stopped the reports of small, bestial humanoids attacking people across the sector, though no substantial proof has ever been offered up.

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I wrote this as a bit of justification to incorporate a handful of Flesheater Courts models into my fledgling Slaanesh Daemon army. I wanted to go for a bit of a cryptid feel, but I think I lost the plot a bit and missed the mark on that one.

If you like this story and want to create them yourself, great news! They're really simple. Just take Flesheater Court Ghouls, raise them slightly off the base (for height, they're slightly shorter than daemonettes), and paint them as if they were Slaanesh Daemons. If you're feeling really fancy, mix up a little green stuff, stand them up straight(ish), and sculpt in a distended stomach as if they've been eating recently and haven't digested anything yet. I'm trying to use Wrack weapons to add blades to the bones they carry and potentially some Kroot character dressing (they carry slabs of meat and knives carved from bone) to flesh them out a bit, pun intended.

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The creative juices haven't been flowing so well lately, been too hung up on one particular piece, and it has done me no favors, lol. So I'm thinking of writing some character profiles just to get something written again. Keep in mind, these are still subject to change, so if you're someone reading this in the future and see something that doesn't sound much like the character you've read about, any profiles i write are just a snapshot of their development at time of writing.

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The steel tray clattered to the table, the tools inside rattling. With practiced ease, Maia pulled her lasgun off her back and disconnected the strap. In less than a second, she had it folded and placed above the tray, out of the way.

She began the Holy Rite of Disassembly. Her hands worked almost automatically, removing the charge pack, the side panel, the barrel shroud, and a variety of internal components. Her lips never stopped or even stumbled through the litanies, calling each piece by name as she removed them.

As she reached the emitter, she removed the heat sinks and examined them closely. Inadequate cooling would lead to expansion of the focusing crystals, causing inaccuracy and underpowered shots. Seeing nothing, she gave them the usual once-over with the cleaning cloth before setting them gently inside the tray, alongside the other components.

Next, she very carefully removed the focusing crystals. She held each up to the light in turn, checking them for imperfections, such as occlusions caused by subpar heat management. When she was satisfied, she produced a special cloth from the partition that occupied the upper left corner of the tray. She carefully wrapped them in it, using it to wipe away any trace of her fingerprints, then set the crystals inside the box.

Next was the receiver, a small box above the pack-well. It was well past her own abilities, its inner working being incredibly complex. It was exclusively the territory of a Tech-Priest, but she could at least clean and inspect the housing.

As she flipped the box over, something finally stopped her muttering. Her ring finger had landed in something cold and wet. She lifted it gently. A line of thin coppery slime stretched between her finger and the receiver/charge pack connection point.

"Hadron, found the issue." Maia called out, wiping both her finger and the box in her hand with the cleansing cloth.

The tech-priestess swung around. A mechadendrite snatched the piece from Maia's hand. She swung around to her own workstation and began her own rapid breakdown. Minutes later, she returned, placing it gently on the tray with the rest of the components.

"Try to avoid more biological matter inside your weapon, Guardsmen." Maia thought she heard a bit of respect, but it was impossible to be certain through the mechanical modulation.

Maia pulled a censer from a hook above her head, gently waving the delicate orb over her weapon, reciting the canticle of cleansing as the incense drifted down to purify the lasgun. Afterwords, she began piecing it back together, reciting yet more litanies as she did so.

When she was done, she reattached the strap to her rifle and slid it over her shoulder again. She took a moment, steadied herself, then left the shrine to the Omnissiah.

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Hi! This is my first post and I'm going to use it to give an overview of the kinds of things I intend to post here, since launching straight into the insanity doesn't feel right lol.

I do a lot of writing, frequently around a variety of fandoms, but original works aren't uncommon when I get a good idea.

Favorites include:

Fallout

Warhammer 40k

Devil May Cry

RWBY

Percy Jackson