>If that doesn't work just look in the archive for 40k Writefaggotry post.
So I'm not the OP from the prior thread I'm one of the Writefags and I was hoping that OP would make another thread for this but alas I'm taking manners into my own hands.
Storythread is nice however that's for general so for any other Writefags who have Warhammer 40k or even Fantasy itches to scratch here you go.
Follow the rules of the board people. If you have smut you cannot refuse to share I'd suggest giving a link to AO3 post instead or other writing blogs.
Oliver Price
I guess I'm starting.
They were stuck there in the bunker... half of the regiment wounded as the orks just kept coming. Commissar died when a Kommando got behind the line. Half of the regiment was green and those damn Kommandos... it was terrifying to deal with smart orks. They had been there for days... and it was a game of saving shots that they could not afford to save.
The Vox was going out as they kept calling out for help but more than likely they were left to die while the rest of the regiments prepared for the assault to come once they fell. Too many close calls... too many bodies rotting in the bunkers which smelt of blood, sweat, piss, shit, and just miserable fear.
They would be with the Emperor soon they had that comfort... as their bullets and shots dwindled to near nothing... but hope fluttered in their hearts as the vox barked to life.
"3rd Regiment are you still there." Frantic hands gripped the caster as voices calmed trying to not sound so desperately in need.
"Y-yes. The Commissar is dead... commanding officers dead... Who the fuck is in command now? Dead and wounded and just so many greenskins."
"Affirmative. We're on our way." They said on the other end.
"Affirmative... Wait who is coming?!"
But no answer... and so they stayed and fought with a bit more hope in their hearts for just a few more hours. As the morning brought no relief till eyes went to the nearby hill...
It was like the Emperor sent angels to listen to their prayers as horses rushed down the mountainside. Cries from the other side and not one but two cavalry regiments had answered their call.
Suicidal Krieg rushed their horses into the orks as the Hussar Rough Riders screamed their warcry and men in that bunker began to cry at the sight of the waves the came to save them. And with their own warcries, tired men rushed out of that bunker renewed with zeal they charged their foe.
(Yes I was listening to Sabaton)
Dylan Allen
“Don’t act so high and mighty,” the voice reverberated from behind the omnipresent rebreather.
“The fact we both favor green is not a point of unity between us,” Vulkan replied in a voice that was carefully neutral. He did not turn to look at his brother, but continued to study the holo-map as its information updated. “We are not alike.”
“We’re more alike than you want to admit,” Mortarion replied, matching Vulkan’s cautious toneless in a stubborn manner reminiscent of his dogged infantry tactics. “You hold weapons like phospex and bio-phage at arms’ length with one hand, then you turn around and with the other you wield a flamer with all the zealotry of a Thunder Warrior. You and your legion sing the praises of the fires of Nocturne with no less determination than the Death Guard embrace the mists of Barbarus. Death by fire,” emphasized Mortarion, even as he noted the way Vulkan’s hand was beginning to curl up. “One of the most agonizing ways for a human being to die. Isn’t it more monstrous to talk about how much you love humanity when at the same time-”
“Stop.”
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Michael Robinson
Vulkan had turned about, the movement shockingly swift and fluid for such a big man wearing bulky power armor. He raised his hand, but rather than a fist he held his index finger out towards Mortarion in warning. “Let me explain the difference between us. Yes, a death by fire is one of the most terrible ways to die. That is why the Salamanders treat it with the respect it deserves. Not merely in the way it makes us strong, whether it flies from our gunbarrels or marks our flesh in ritual, but also the way it brings our foes low, as well as the way fire can be shaped and treated to craft works of wonder. My sons are taught to mark in their minds the horror of war and the joy of creation in equal measure. We do not revel in the killing power, in the pain and suffering we cause, but we recognize its purpose in the greater plan to craft a lasting edifice that will protect the whole of humanity.
“That is the difference between us, Mortarion,” he said, crimson eyes locked to the XIV’s own wolf-gold. “You and yours have embraced the poisons of Barbarus to the point where you have come to believe that every human being not as strong as yourselves is unworthy of purpose. The Salamanders wield the dreadful power of flame only in last resort, when we have failed to find the good ground between once side and another, whereas you have come to revel in your poisonous tinctures and your toxins. You have chosen to set an arbitrary bar of worth and say ‘this high and no lower, or you are not worth consideration’ and that, more than any other thing, is what separates us. You cannot place a value upon a human being, Mortarion. To do so is an act of self-genocide. It is an act of racial suicide.”
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Grayson Gonzalez
“I wonder if the eldar would agree with your precepts,” Mortarion riposted, without even a moment’s hesitation to rally from Vulkan’s onslught.
The comment did not cow the primarch of the XVIII in the least. Instead he raised his chin in defiance. “Is that the best you offer?” he asked. “Whataboutism in regards to my history with the eldar xenos? Have I ever voiced an objection to your crusade to remove the cruel warlords of Barbarus, that the human population might live free?” There was a long moment of pregnant silence before Vulkan shook his head. “No. There is no point of similarity between us, Mortarion, but that we are both primarchs and leaders of space marines in service to the Imperium. That is the beginning and the end of equivalence.”
With that, he bustled out of the room, his hammer held loosely in his offhand. Mortarion turned to watch him go, and though the Death Lord was characteristically silent, in time he raised one hand and gently drew and armored thumb across the tines of his rebreather grille, the slow ticking of the metal a long-held accompaniment to the moments in which he was most introspective.
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author not me
Brody Gomez
Sister Helvicita was compromised in so many ways. Here she was working with Primarch Guilliman! And his... mutant sons... that didn't sound right in her head anymore. As she chewed her bottom lip, of course, she would need to ask her Canoness about the thoughts she was having... Sure craving the Divine love of the Emperor was one thing... but was is wrong to crave it from one of his sons... or... even more heretical... crave it from one of the marines and if you really think about it... they are the Emperor's Grandsons.
Oh, she would need to flog herself later as she was acting like a hormonal young woman again... not like she was terribly old... oh dear Emperor the thirst was real. Such a vile Slanneshi term but it seemed to fit as she was... checking for heresy. She was so bad... watching them do their daily routine but it was so hard not to watch. She was making sure that they truly were not heretical mutants! Even the well spoken of Ultramarines might have a weak-willed mutant in their ranks!
"See something you like?" A voice said in her ear.
She bit back a scream as the world moved by quickly but her bolter was in her hand gently being crushed and her foot against his chin. Her face was a red as she took quick breaths.
Jack Carter
"Why Hello There." The dashing Ultramarine said... wait dashing?! What if she was the heretic?! "Forgive me, Sister, I noticed you were terribly lost in thought and I was making sure you were prepared for an attack. That is what you were doing, right? I mean otherwise one would think of you watching us like the way you were and up here no less, I mean if you weren't a Sister I would think shockingly that you would be thinking of lewd thoughts but you are a Sister so that does not apply, correct?"
"Ah yes... correct." She said slowly as that is what exactly she was doing... was this mutant a psyker as well? Or simply observant?
"Well, now that we've cleared that up shall we move apart and you do not shoot me with your gun?" He said so politely it made her insides a bit warm.
"Very Well." She said trying to sound stern and aloof but it still sounded soft as they separated and she brushed her hands.
"Oh Sister this fell off of you." He said handing her the Bible she was carrying.
"Oh, thank you."
"Courage and Honor dear Sister! Good luck with your training!" He said jovially as she was left blushing and wanting to hear his voice some more.
William Cooper
>40k writefag thread
Free bump.
God speed.
Carson Hernandez
>manners into my own hand >diamond dozen >doggy dog world >Multi-fauceted society
I will add your contribution to the great list.
Learn to write before you declare yourself a writefag
Evan Price
OH MY GOD Did I really type manners into my own hand. >Faceplaming hard Thank's for pointing that out friend though those last 3 I can't find in any of my posts or the other writer's.
But your criticism is noted. I'm still new to typing up stuff on Veeky Forums so I might miss some small mistakes. But thank you for the helpful tips!
