"Every journey begins with a single step".

Multifandom blog where I write and mostly reblog. Adult/20s, MDNI. (originally stargazing-sapphire)

[stargazing-sapphire2]

Pinned Post Updated: 10/10/24

-Call me Sapphire

-18+ blog. If you are a minor, you will be blocked.

-I frequently write for multiple things, although my current fixation is A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

-I frequently post about my OCs and fics. I also welcome any interactions with my OCs and yours, so long as things stay civil

COD OCs List

Fanfic List

Currently reading: Angels of Caliban

[omg1wanttidd1es-sb]

Vulkan is that uncle who, at family gatherings, always ends up with a pile of sleeping kids and babies all over him.

"Of course there's room for one more! No, I'm not moving any of them. Sorry!"

Guess their dads I guess

[drbigsadbabymd-blog]

The Primarchs all represent a different facet of the Emperor, but it was very generous of him to give like five different sons his full blown narcissistic personality disorder. He went "The galaxy needs three guys who love doing homework, two goths, two blacksmiths, a gay one, an even gayer one and a whole slew of dudes who will punch drywall and angry-cry the second someone doesn't make them feel special"

[soraka-in-warhammer40k]

The difference between factions books in 40k is always hillarious.

Space Marine books are rarely ever anything else besides "big man shoot space gun", the literary equivalent of a sloppy action movie you can enjoy with friends while drunk if its well made enough, because that's what they think the audience wants. It is rare for one of these books to ever gain any sort of recognition or fandom relevance.

Ork books meanwhile are the same, but they can give it a new spin through the perspective of the Orks, which makes it hillarious. In a way you could consider Ork-books some sort of meta-analysis of the setting from the view of someone who barely gives a shit about most things commonly seen as important, but is instead heavily invested in their own little perspective. It is weirdly grounding.

But then the most anticipated book ever announced is for Necrons and runs with the theme of "the toxic old man yaoi arc continues" and the book that preceeds it is generally considered the best book they ever pushed out for 40k.

[ghostling]

[psi-phenom]

Fun fact! Ravens and Wolves have a symbiotic mutualistic relationship!

While the wolves feed, the ravens keep watch for and alert the wolves of incoming animals that might threaten them. In return, the wolves leave some food behind for the ravens. In between feedings they’re known to travel and play together.

I learned this a long time ago, sorry I don’t have any sources.

[thatkoalatho]

this came to me in a dream

Blank base here:

Post by @thatkoalatho · 1 image

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 0 · the new silly base that I have gone and done feel free to use it

[omg1wanttidd1es-sb]

Lovely Comission for @loverofbumblebees

Giving vulkan a well deserved vacation 🙏🙏

[drbigsadbabymd-blog]

GUILLIMAN, THINKING TO HIMSELF WHENEVER HE SEES SOME BASELINE SCHMUCK TILLING SOIL ON A FARM:

[unfailingeagle]

Let's kill Space Marines with mama

[lakemojave]

You know that whatever character did those problematic things isn't like. Real, right?

[lakemojave]

You are aware that a fictional character is just a rhetorical construct designed to fulfill a narrative/thematic purpose right? That their actions are written by an author who wants to use them to explore complex ideas and moral gray areas within the safe confines of fiction right? That they aren't a real person who has killed real people right?

[tonguethulhu]

skweezy jibbs is a international treasure

[cnwarforged]

Saw this in the comments lol

[viralfrog]

[elnerdo19v2]

Actually…, yeah 🥹

[bowsersex]

No Scrubs by TLC, music video, 1999

[alexplantewpg]

comic i drew a couple years ago

i wish it was still legally required for every musical artist/group to have minimum one (1) video set in shitty space

[luchicm04]

The noble prime and his squad of suitors

like or reblog if you save/use.

[obieros]

[awesomecoyote337]

I love Transformers Animated because the first season is just this.

[lacetulle]

Tamara Ralph | Spring/Summer 2026 Couture

[8uggestionamplifie6]

A Galaxy of Ghosts—Ch. 1

Premise is from this post.

(Tldr; 40k Roboute Guilliman is yeeted into the 30k timeline by the Chaos Gods, swapping places with 30k Roboute Guilliman. Now, 40k Roboute has to stop the Horus Heresy and find a way back home.)

Masterpost

___

"In the name of the Emperor!"

"For the Imperium!"

All around Roboute Guilliman, battle rages across his flagship, the Macragge's Honor. Droves of vile daemons spew forth from the fabric of the Warp, clinging to the decks like carrion to a corpse. Bolter shots, grenades, and flames streak through the air as his sons fight valiantly against their unending foes.

Another ambush. Over a century into the Indomitus Crusade, the Chaos Gods’ persistent schemes have become tiresome, too frequent to surprise him anymore. Those insidious entities will stop at nothing to halt humanity's march.

But they will not succeed. Roboute swears it. As long as he draws breath, as long as one of his hearts still beats—the Imperium will never fall to their treachery.

Still, it is vexing to have his fleet be delayed for the umpteenth time. Worlds burn while they linger in the Warp. Retreat must take priority.

"Prepare to concentrate fire on my position," Roboute speaks into his helm's vox-caster.

There is a faint crackling on the other end, before Cato Sicarius responds, aghast, "What, M'lord?"

A faint amusement touches Roboute's lips. He repeats, "You heard me. Prepare to concentrate fire on my position. Have the men regroup while I attract enemy attention."

Before his son can protest, Roboute is already striding ahead, leaving behind his likely-frantic and furious Victrix Guard. The Emperor's Sword blazes in his hand with the light of a thousand stars.

Immediately, the nearby daemons turn their attention to him. These few split-seconds of distraction are enough for his sons to safely pull back and start forming ranks. All according to plan.

A daemon screeches and lunges at him. He sidesteps its swipe and drives his power fist through its skull, shattering horns and bones. He hefts the Emperor's Sword and bisects it cleanly, igniting it in golden flames and killing it for good.

The rest of his foes do not falter.

They charge.

Roboute welcomes them. With each step he takes, swathes of Warp-spawn find their eternal damnation at his hands and the Emperor's Sword. If they actually left behind corpses, a mountain would be steadily forming on the decks.

By the time he breaks through to the frontlines, hundreds of daemons have converged upon him. Some swoop down from the air, only to be blasted apart by his sons' supporting fire. Others rush him head-on and are cut down in flashes of fire and light. A few brave ones strike from behind, but their skulls burst beneath his gauntlet before their blows can land.

"Captain," Roboute grunts, elbowing one daemon into mush and skewering another with the Emperor's Sword. "Are the men and weapon systems ready?"

Cato curses something incomprehensible beneath his breath before answering, "Yes, M'lord."

"Then fire at will."

Gunfire descends upon the battlefield, ripping and howling through the air. Daemons fall by the hundreds, screeching and dispersing into plumes of smoke, fire, and filth. All the while, Roboute twists and turns through the chaos, striking down what daemons remain or come too close.

Within minutes, victory nears. His plan has succeeded.

Roboute stands alone on the damaged decks.

Footsteps clang behind him as Cato and the rest of the Victrix Guard approaches.

"Any damages to the fleet?" Roboute calls over his shoulder.

Cato stops at his side and answers, "Nothing major, M'lord."

Roboute nods and exhales, quietly relieved. "Have the fleet prepare to exit the Warp."

Then—his helm's readouts blur into static. Auto-senses flicker. Vox channels fail.

Roboute freezes.

His grip tightens on the Emperor's Sword.

The air ripples.

The Warp constricts.

Gazes, ancient and mocking, press upon him.

The Emperor's Sword flares a blinding warning, but its golden rays are swallowed by encroaching shadows.

A force—many wills working together—yanks him off his feet and away from his sons.

Roboute's hand cleaves grooves into the deck as he is furiously wrenched off his ship. Its shields and gravity systems are rendered useless by invisible powers.

New daemons emerge and swarm him again.

But they aren't fighting to kill.

They are fighting to hold him—restrain him.

Hands, fangs, and claws sink into the greebles of his armor. Scratching. Tugging. Pulling.

"M'lord!"

"Father!"

His sons are shouting and screaming, rushing to the edge of the decks. Their arms are outstretched in a desperate bid to grab him.

But Roboute cannot reach back.

One of his arms still wields the Emperor’s Sword, carving through the daemons in arcs of golden light, while the other has been seized and bitten by a bulky daemon. He cuts it down, but two more take its place. Then, his other side is being mobbed and overwhelmed, buried beneath claws and fangs.

He is dragged ever farther from his ship—towards a jagged wound in the Warp, where space folds and fractures like a kaleidoscope.

Even without any psychic talent, Roboute knows the rift is unnatural and dangerous, far too dangerous—an open sore in reality.

He realizes too late, always too late—what Chaos' goal truly is. Not to distract or delay him and his fleet. Or even to kill.

No, their goal is much worse—to separate him from the Imperium. Just as they did when he was still a babe in his pod, stolen from the Emperor's lab, and, later, when Fulgrim's poisoned blade doomed him to ten thousand years of stasis.

History is repeating.

Some of his brave, foolish sons are already flinging themselves off the Macragge's Honor to rescue him. Their brothers behind them add their fury to the effort, unleashing a storm of supporting fire that scours the hordes of Chaos. His sons recklessly fight and stumble their way to him.

But the moment they come within arm's reach, Roboute stops fighting. Completely. 

The rift is swiftly approaching. Chaos' target is him.

He summons every ounce of his considerable strength, seizes his sons by their power armor—and hurls them back towards the decks of his flagship.

The rift looms now.

The daemons' grips have changed. Where they once pulled, they now push him onward one final time with the full weight of their combined might. They've let go of him.

But any resistance becomes futile as an unseen, unyielding force takes lead and begins pulling him into the rift.

As he crosses its threshold, Roboute swears he can feel a strange counter-force brush past, one that is pushing outward from the rift but isn't directed at him.

Then, he's falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Colors streak and twist around him in nauseating patterns. Thoughts not his own sink their blades into him, scraping at the marrow and reason of his mind. He squeezes his eyes shut as his sons' heart-wrenching shrieks fade into empty silence.

Weightlessness.

A flicker of fear—where will he emerge from the Warp? When? What will happen to the Imperium in his absence?

Resignation. There is nothing he can predict or control right now; he is not Konrad or Sanguinius.

Determination follows. No matter what situation he finds himself in, he will endure. He will adapt. He always has.

Then—sensation.

Air floods his lungs.

His knees buckle.

Solid ground.

But where?

Roboute opens his eyes and glances around warily, noting his surroundings.

First theoretical: The Warp is rapidly closing behind him.

Second theoretical: He stands aboard the Macragge's Honor once more, surrounded by his sons.

Third theoretical: Marius Gage stands before him.

Practical—

Roboute pivots and hurls the Emperor's Sword into the narrowing Warp rift. May it find its way back onto his flagship and remain useful to the Imperium.

Turning back around, he is met by the helms of his sons, their weapons raised and aimed at him.

"State your identity," Marius demands gruffly, but Roboute can hear the slight hitch in his speech. He is confused—but must know instinctively that Roboute is not the primarch, not the father, he knows.

Roboute's chest tightens with unearthed grief and fondness. Marius is just as smart and discerning as he remembers him—ten thousand years ago.

Silently, he steps forward and gently brushes aside his sons' drawn weapons.

"Don't move!"

His sons collectively retreat from him, tense and uncertain. But they've always been so small compared to him. Their three scrambling steps barely match his one.

Roboute reaches out.

Grabs Marius by the shoulders.

And pulls him close—against his chest.

More of his sons are quickly drawn into his tight embrace, even as they struggle and try to scramble away.

Is this truly Marius? Are any of these men his sons? Or is this merely an illusion? Another cruel tool of the Chaos Gods, designed to shatter his will and mold him to theirs?

But none of those questions matter. Or even register.

Not now.

Not when his sons, long lost to him by the cruelties of time and war, are cradled by his arms.

Not when they are warm and solid.

Not when they are here.

For what feels like the first time in years, Roboute cries. Tears freely run down his cheeks beneath his helm. His massive hands tremble against the ceramite plates of his sons' power armor. When he speaks, his voice is broken and wet.

"You're alive."