#oc ultramar

[melly-artes]

i miss them and their shenans

[eliasdrid]

if I don't draw my OCs as though they have their own show I'm making cool promotional material for, who will.

[tsukihimesartcorner]

Gifts for the awesome boys from Deep Games, Dungeon Master Drukhari Bizarre and Guillimantonio.

[idle-skull]

OC fact of the day: Xenophon was originally a harry potter OC (2016, this was before I knew that JKR was a terf), then a stand alone OC (2018), and he is now a Wh40k OC.

The oldest version of his design that I can find is from 2018. Ofc there where designs in between, but he’s changed a lot since then.

[sleepyfan-blog]

In The Medbay

Author’s Note: This is the second part of Pallius’ in Husbandry. First. Other Black Templar adventures here. Thank you to @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan for letting me borrow her oc Zariel!

Tagged: @egrets-not-regrets @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @i-am-a-dragon34 

Warnings: none? Please ask me to tag something if I need to.

Summary: Pallius wakes up. He’s surprised by this. This is only the first of many surprises in store for the young Black Templar.

Pallius was pleasantly surprised to find himself awake. Considering how badly He had beaten him, the young Primaris Marine hadn’t expected to survive it. He wouldn’t have been the first Primaris Marine to fall to Petras’ bad temper and lethal hands, though he knew that the medicae would do their best to stabilize him, if he was able to be found in time. How he had ended up on a world with civilians on it, when he had been aboard The Sigismund when the punishment Petras had been delivering unto him moments ago made no sense whatsoever. 

His wounds ached somewhat, but far less than he was expecting them to… Was… Was he being given morpha, to relieve some of his pain? Pallius’ eyes shot open, and the view of an astartes-sized and grade medical bay filled his vision. He spotted a couple of Ultramarine apothecaries tending to other patients, moving swiftly and efficiently between them. 

… How had he ended up on a world of Ultramar? The Sigismund had been deep in Imperium Nihilus, chasing rumors of a second Primarch's possible awakening… And the strange moments of The Dark Angels…

Well, stranger movements of the Dark Angels. That particular chapter of Astartes had always been extremely secretive and unwilling to explain anything whatsoever. The way they operated reminded him of the Silver Bastard Trainers back on Mars. The ones he wasn't supposed to talk or even think about very much.

Despite the odd mysteries before him, his mind wandered back to the young mortal who had first found him, upon this world. She had been scared for him, and so earnestly trying to help. Her light touches had soothed wherever they had landed, and her voice had been a soothing balm to his ragged, guilt-ridden soil. Pallius needed to find her.

The young Black Templar looked down at himself assessingly. He had an IV attached to a clear plastic bag that was dripping… Something into his veins. His wounds that needed it were bandaged and presumably cleaned beforehand, per proper protocols.

And if there was one thing Ultramarines were good at, it was following proper protocol. Most of them, anyways.

Pallius’ body was covered by some egregious thin and flimsy light blue smock-thing and a blanket. He wiggled his toes, finding them free of the Vile Abominations known as socks, and bare. He needed to find that baseline mortal and thank her for what she had done. It was as if someone had tied steel cabling to the deepest part of his soul and tethered him to that mortal girl. He found that he did not mind this tether, but the near-frantic urge to find her and keep her safe and happy was enough to force him up and off of the comfortable bed.

A wave of morpha-induced dizziness hit Pallius hard as he managed to silently heave himself off of the bed and onto his bare feet. His fingers clumsily tied the blanket around himself over one shoulder in a parody of a toga, but it was better than the gown-thing he was wearing underneath the blanket alone.

One of his hands flew over to and grasped the IV pole, allowing himself to steady against it. Some clever soul had attached wheels to the base of the pole, which meant pushing it and the IV attached to him a lot easier. His wounds all protested simultaneously at the movement, but Pallius ignored them with all of the grit and determination that he could muster.

Pallius allowed himself a couple of seconds to breathe silently through the pain before taking a quiet step toward the medbay doors. Then another. Then a third. The young Black Templar moved slowly and with caution, so as to not aggravate his still-healing wounds to the best of his abilities, willing none of the Apothecaries to come over and bother him.

He had a (self-imposed) mission to complete, and by the God Emperor Himself, Pallius would see it done, or die in the process. Nothing and no one would be able to stop him on this righteous quest. Pallius continued to make his way to the medbay doors, and reached about three-quarters of the way there from the bed he’d woken up in, when an amused voice drawled out from behind him.

“Just where do you think you’re going, Scout?” One of the Ultramarines called out, an amused expression on his face and mirth shining in his blue-black eyes. 

“I need to find the mortal who first helped me. She was so nice and worried and I… I need to reassure her that I have survived. Do you know where she is?” Pallius asked, having partially turned to explain himself to the Apothecary before returning to his task of Leaving The Medbay.

“... And you want to find the mortal who helped you dressed like this, do you?” The Ultramarine asked, sounding very judgmental and amused.

Rude bastard. “Do you have any better ideas?” Pallius huffed, scowling (not pouting! He was a space marine, damn it) down at the older but shorter Astartes. “Or know where I may borrow some better clothes?”

“The answer to both of those questions is yes.” The Ultramarine Apothecary answered, still clearly laughing at him silently. “But first, please sit down. There is much to explain to you, and I daresay the explanation will help.”

Pallius blinked, obeying the tone of command without thought. A sigh of relief left him and the gray that had been eating at the edges of his vision faded. The pain ebbed and hey, he could breathe better again. “Will the explanation include how I arrived on a world of Ultramar?”

“Considering who you see in the medbay, I understand why you’ve guessed that. But no, we are not within the Realm of Ultramar. We are on Terra.” The Ultramarine revealed.

The Primaris Marine physically recoiled a little in shock and surprise, a silent gasp leaving him, his eyes widening as he tried to process this information. “H… Holy Terra? But… But I was many years from the Sol system, even by Warp Travel… And I thought that Terra’s atmosphere had long since become thin and heavily polluted. That is what we were told, sir.”

“In M42, this is true. However -” The Ultramarine - who introduced himself as Apothecary Zariel - explained the utterly wild and nonsensical tale of time travel that apparently every Marine currently on M3 Holy Terra had somehow undergone. Allegedly Zariel was from M36. He talked of the alliance, of bonds, of many fantastical and heretical things, ending with “And, as I can tell you don’t believe most of what I say -not that I blame you for that young one, this is a tale I would scarcely believe myself if I did not have proof of it, there are a few other Primaris Marines from M42 on base. I have asked two of them to join us. Cedric - who is an apothecary, and Ramiel, who is a Chaplain-in-training. Both of them are also Primaris Black Templars.”

“... Could you go over what these bonds are? How do you know if you have a bond? They… They aren’t heretical, are they?” Pallius asked, light blue eyes widening in surprise and recognition of the names of two of his Brothers.

Zariel smiled and gently patted one of his shoulders, having sat down partway through the long-winded lecture of absolute nonsense that he’d been trying to feed him. Why the other was trying to lie to Pallius so much, the young marine couldn’t begin to guess. All the other had to say was that it was classified for him to know where he was, and Pallius would have accepted that from the other. “Most commonly, a marine bonded to a baseline human feels the need to protect and care for that human. To ensure that they are happy and loved and that they know this. It is also common to want to spend as much time as possible around the human one is bonded to, and to feel a sense of anxiety or concern when away from one’s human for one reason or another.”

Pallius’ eyes widened and he fidgeted with his hands a little, looking away from the older Marine “And… And these bonds, they are… They are good things?”

“Yes, lad, They are wonderful gifts. Is there a particular reason why you ask?” Zariel asked, and he could hear a smile in the other’s voice.

“I think. I think I have a bonded human. The blue haired human who helped me until medicae got on the scene. I feel… I need. I need to find her. I need to make sure that she’s okay. I want to see her smile and laugh and be happy. I-I need to let her know that her care and concern weren’t wasted on someone who died, or does not think of her concern as the precious gift it is.” Pallius explained, a desperate desire to explain himself rising up within the young marine. “Please… I… I need to find her. To see her again.”

“Easy… Easy… Deep breaths. Follow my lead, lad.” Zariel instructed him, breathing in the manner that he wanted Pallius to copy. “Once you’re in a bit better shape -”

Pallius shook his head, his eyes wide and pleading “No! No, I need to see her now! I can’t… It can’t wait! I… I need to see her again. I will leave this medbay and find her on my own, the moment you leave me alone. Please! Her presence was a soothing balm. I know that I would do much better, heal faster, were she around.”

“Do you want your bonded human to see you half-dead from your wounds and half-delirious from both the morpha and blood loss?” Zariel asked, a sharpness in his voice, but a gentle understanding on his face. 

A chill ran through him. Would she see him as an ill-fitting protector, if she were to be brought to him while he was so injured, so frantic? The urge to find her was nearly all-consuming… But the idea of her rejecting him because he was a weak mess of emotions and injuries was enough to get him to stop dead in his tracks, both literally and metaphorically. “I… No…” He answered, his voice small and meek. “I don’t.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, I’m going to help you back to your bed. There are some gentle exercises that I will be happy to teach you that will help you heal better, but you must listen to me. You also must not push yourself, or you will strain your injuries and cause them to take longer to heal.” Zariel rumbled, a stern expression on his face.

Pallius ducked his head, shame burning in his hearts “Yes sir… Sorry sir…”

The stern expression on Zariel’s face softened somewhat. “I understand your eagerness to meet your bonded again. I, too have a bonded human. They are a wonderful companion, however the baseline you are bonded to would be distraught to see you in such a weakened state. Not because she’d judge you for being so badly hurt, but because she’d worry as to how you got into such a state. M3 is much more peaceful, and isolated from the horrors of the Galaxy. You want to be at your best when you meet her properly, yes?”

“Yes sir!” Pallius answered, nodding. He still felt the desire to go find the human he was Bonded to, but was able to temper that desire with the knowledge that he did not want to find them, only to collapse into a puddle of pain and bloodied meat before her feet. He obediently followed Zariel back to his bed and laid down, a sigh of relief leaving him, his eyes closing as he was stunned by how exhausted the short distance he had moved had made him.

Zariel untied the blanket he’d been wearing and tucked him into bed, running a gentle hand through his hair. “Sleep well, young one. Try not to sprint for the medbay doors when you wake up again, mm?”

“Yes sir…” Pallius yawned, letting himself settle into the comfortable embrace of sleep.

[cardinalcanis]

Pig

Genre: Smut with fluff and FEELINGS,

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x M!OC

Warnings: Explicit, degradation and humiliation kink, shoe kink, fisting, scent kink, porn with feelings.

Summary: Vulnerability will get you eaten alive in the 41st millenium, no one knows it better than Roboute Guilliman. The cold wraps around his exposed body, tendrils of fate, binding him to the moment, to the man who stood above him. There was no escape in this darkness, only surrender.

Words: 3074

If you prefer AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59665513/chapters/152472043#workskin

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Macragge has always gotten chilly nights this time of the year, Roboute Guilliman felt as the cold wraps around his exposed body, tendrils of fate, binding him to the moment, to the man who stood above him. There was no escape in this darkness, only surrender. Tanned naked skin kissing the decadent marble floors, many of the natural veins on it resemble the scars adorning the Primarch’s muscular physique. 

“Aren’t you paying attention pig?” Said the fully dressed man standing up in front of him, a fine leather dress shoe pressing Guilliman’s face against the tiles “Clean. It. Well.” 

“Apologies sir, I’m just a stupid pig.” Answered the giant of a man in a meek tone before running his large tongue over the shoe’s sole then all the intricate golden details on the top, an imposing Aquila, the kiss on the symbol of Ultramar. A soldier must never forget what he fights for, what pulls his chain, what demands his blood. 

He let out a purr when going up the man’s foot his lips touched the thin socks covering the ankles and legs, digging his nose in to take into Ovidius’ scent that always made his whole being open up and surrender. That’s what he was made for, not to have a will but to be a tool for someone else’s. 

“The renowned diplomat, nothing more than a bootlicker” half of Ovid’s shoe was inside Guilliman’s mouth, thick strings of saliva dripping down his chin and neck. “Is this your secret? Getting on your knees, face down and spreading up your worthless hole to everyone?” 

That’s a lie, he IS the head of the imperium, a broken dystopian world compared to the one he closed his eyes to ten thousand years ago. There was a wet suction sound going off as the shoe was taken out of Roboute’s face hole, dragging his thought process back into the moment at hand, where there was no Roboute. 

“No one wants my used asshole sir, you do me a favor every time you violate it.” he answered, looking at the floor, the bullet doesn’t have the right of choosing how it is loaded into the barrel, just cry out when it is time for it to be spent. 

“Is that so?” a calm rage was packed in that question, polite yet waiting to pounce for the throat.

A long silence cut by the sound of a cigarette being lit and a long exhale full of smoke, the uncertainty weighted heavy on his chest, he could hear his heart beating like those of a cornered animal. How did he end up like this? He is humanity’s finest, second only to The Emperor, every second in this exchange should earn that man a death sentence, but still he cannot but obey. It is just the logical progression, he was a tool, tools follow what they are ordered. They are utilized and discarded when they are no longer of use. 

He felt a strong kick on his stomach, followed by others, making him roll over his back. There was a part that was Roboute giving into the hit and pretending the tiny man was actually doing true damage to him. Isn’t it more humiliating than just being defeated by someone stronger? Either way the hidden ceramite layers reinforcing the inner point and soles of the shoe helped to add a nice sting to the hits. 

Ovidius Sulla stepped on top of the Primarchs girthy erect dick and rested his full weight on it, no matter how much of a demigod one was, it hurt. 

“Look at you, some trash that is already fully hard and leaking precum at a human stepping on you. Shameful failure of a god, best you can do is doormat.” He gave his cock another kick, sending that wave of pain right to his core “Tell me, if your hole is for me to rape, why don’t you have it ready? You have but one single purpose and you managed to fuck it up.” 

“Because I am a failed pig with no control, you should dispose of me into a pit Sir.” 

“Yes I should”

Ovid leaned onto Guilliman, digging his mechanical fingers on the man’s face then forcing the thumb into his mouth, prying it open tongue fully out. He took a final use of his cigarette, exhaling all the fumes on his pig’s face painfully slow seeing him gasp uncomfortably. Ovidius pushed his thumb deep into his tongue, cold golden eyes ordered not to move a muscle as he extinguished the cigarette butt into it, the metallic taste mixed with that of pain, burnt flesh, ash and chemicals. In his mind, the calculations never ceased. Strategies, outcomes, survival. But here, under Ovid’s hands, there were no calculations, only raw pain and degradation, command into submission.

His grip, once forceful, now softened, thumb tracing the edge of Guilliman's lips as if to erase the brutality of the moment. Cradle the Primarch’s aged by stress not nature face in hands that by all means should be frigid metal made of the Mechanicus, not a reinforced warm safe haven keeping the vulnerable from the frontlines.  

“All good so far?” Ovid asked in a whisper breaking character for a second. The cruel edge in Ovidius' voice melted away, replaced by something slower, calmer.

Guilliman nodded with a smile, the burn already healed in his mouth. “I’ve gotten thrown out of an airlock and died twice, don’t be afraid of hurting me, I want you to.” He pulled the man closer to kneel on top of him so they could lean into a soft kiss followed by pressing both foreheads together  “So many have fought to bring me into submission, to inflict pain and wound onto me. But you are the only one with a claim to it, the one I will give what he asks for willingly.” a deep blue gaze mixed with honey kissed eyes. “I’m an overflowing cup made only for your lips, drink me dry so no one else can.” 

His beloved presses another kiss into his mouth with increased hunger, grabbing at what he could of the short hair on the back of his head. Then in a vigorous movement stood up and dragged him by hair as Guilliman moved himself, driven in any direction Ovidous fancied him. For example being knocked into the nearby wall and having himself being kicked into a wheezing pile. 

“Face down ass up pig.”

His body moved not by will, but by a command issued deep within his marrow, a soldier once again obeying the silent call of a force greater than himself. Lowering his upper body into the ground as much as he could, letting the spine form a graceful curve leading his bountiful muscular rear and thighs spread wide to allow full access, just as he knew Ovid loved to see him. His mouth watering thinking of how hard his beloved was now, the smell of his sweaty reddish pubes and cock under those pants after kicking him for so long. Throne, he wanted that man to force his scent all over him so everyone knew, without even asking, who he truly belonged to. 

“I know that stupid drooling face,” Sulla ridiculed  him. “The pig is thinking about my cock, a cock he doesn’t deserve. But he might get still”. 

“My sir is so merciful, this pig is honored to be your fuckhole … “ Every word Ovidius uttered and every answer he uttered chipped away at the once towering fortress of Guilliman’s will, leaving behind only the ruins of what was once considered unbreakable. But within those ruins, he found peace.

“Enough, you need to get yourself ready.” Ovid ordered, then aimed a thick warm load of spit right on top of his butthole “That’s all you get, make it last”.

Guilliman didn’t answer, just guided his hand towards his ring of flesh making sure not to let Sulla’s precious spit to slip down, coating his fingers the best he could then pushing one in a hooked motion until he spotted that tender spot around to the second knuckle deep. It takes its time to build up, more time for Ovidius’ stare to eat him alive as he gets himself nice and stretched. A second finger and he starts to groan and huff, rocking his hips around the thick digits, aiming his beloved desperate glances pleading for it to be the throbbing flesh in his silken blue pants, the one getting in him. 

“Another one” the man circling him like a bird of prey ordered. 

Who is he to deny him? The legend of Guilliman was nothing but ash in the wind now, scattered and forgotten beneath Ovid’s gaze. All that remained was the soft, pliable clay waiting to be molded. Another finger in for the stretch, another desperate moan out. He can feel the beads of sweat coming down his frow, strings of precum leak onto the floor as he milked himself for Ovidious’ entertainment. Talking about him, the man gives Guilliman a sudden kick, stepping on the hand he is fucking himself with and pushing it with his whole weight; getting it inside a bit deeper than his fists knuckles in. 

“You do not deserve to be stretched with such gentleness.” he growled unceremoniously jacking Roboute’s hand away, leaving him frustratingly empty. 

The wanton emptiness didn’t last long, it was replaced by an incredibly cold and uncaring mechanical prosthetic that pounded into him without mercy. Four fingers from the start, soon it’ll be his hand, the stretch was painful on purpose; mechanical limbs had so many straight and jagged edges that got caught in the flesh if not well lubricated, just as he wasn't. Panting and begging alongside the fleshy damp damp sound of his body breaking down from the inside. Any possible scratch would immediately clot and close just to be opened again. Pain radiated through every nerve, each jagged edge of the mechanical hand carving its way inside. But it was a necessary kind of pain, the kind that rewrote every nerve and rendered him nothing more than a vessel, hollowed out and waiting to be filled.

“Look at all the drool you are leaving on my floor, you must be feeling thirsty, pig.” Teased Ovid while keeping the rhythm that was making his legs fail. “Don’t worry, my broken thing, I’ll take care of you.” The statement died in a deeper breathy tone and the rip of a zipper being pulled down. Ovidius Sulla positioned himself in a way he could keep fisting Guilliman’s pulsing asshole but get proper handle of his own cock with the other. “Been holding it in as I knew you would need something to drink, this is the part when you say ‘thank you Sir’”.

Did he answer? Not even the Emperor knew (or wanted to), Guilliman knew something came out of his throat that sounded like half assed word salad as the immense wave of pleasure kept building up into his groin. At that point in time a stream of salty bitter watery liquid hit his face, and that’s all it took. Bent down on his failing knees, humiliated by a puny human alongside being torn open, finally urinated upon… the denigration released his climax as wave after wave of pleasure smashed over the rest of his body. His skin felt super receptive, he felt every hair follicle on his scalp and it didn’t end, it started building up again. He ended up groaning repeatedly, quite loudly, and shot multiple volleys of cum all over the floor under him. When it was over and his hole was now released from the abuse leaving him empty, overstimulated, quivering and gasping for air. 

“What a messy pig I have!” Said Ovid as he unapologetically whips his cock inside Roboute’s mouth, making his poor body spasms and gasp for air. 

There he was, in a pool of urine, cum and blood. He needed a moment to put the pieces of himself together, but it would  not be a Roboute Guilliman story if rest came easy for him. He recoiled when the sensation of a familiar cock grazed his entrance. 

“Sir please…” he gasped almost in tears “I can’t take it anymore…” 

He was forced to flip around onto his back, legs flexed towards his body the most Ovid could push with his own strength. The Primarch was pretty sure his overstimulated body had a legit seizure when the cock was rammed in his puffy abused ass, he was ugly crying, just a bare graze on his nipples took him into a full body shudder. 

He was +400 pounds of folded over trembling flesh being pounded in such a humiliating position. Guilliman had stopped containing himself quite long ago, one could only wish no one was in need of the thirteenth at this time of night for some official matters. Theoretical: they would hear the most desperate, wanton and overall pathetic sounds any demigod could make. Practical: they will turn around and never talk about it because of the mere impression it left on them. But that was not on his mind, theoretical/practicals were the last notion occupying the thought process and it was… freeing. 

“What a beautiful pig I have” 

The words took a moment to process, yes he was a pig laying in his and Ovid’s fluids, he was worthless, dull and stupid. No one would expect anything from a pig, nothing is put on an stupid pig’s hands, a pig is not expected to come up with correct decisions, not a soul would put a pig in charge of getting millions upon millions of pieces of a struggling empire together, pigs’ mistakes cost no lives. 

“Sir… “ Finally an intelligible moan that was slowly getting drowned by the increasingly lascivious thumb of flesh coming together and apart. His spasming form had already discharged itself so many times, he can’t take it anymore, too much stimulation, no more stimulation, no more empire, no more problems that will only give birth to seven others, no more tyranids, no more guilt of 18 lost brothers he’ll never see again… he just cries “...Sir I can’t do this anymore.” 

“It’s okay my pig, I am here.” Ovidious Sulla’ hands found their way to his face, lifting his chin so their eyes could meet. 

Guilliman instinctively tensed, a phantom echo of the sharp commands still lingering in his mind. But the touch that followed was different—softer, slower. He didn’t know if he could trust it yet, but there was no cruelty in it now, only care. 

“I am here and…  everything is under control” he said low and tender just about to reach his final release inside him, slowing the pace into a couple of very deep thrusts. 

Guilliman’s gaze faltered, lingering on the floor as though weighed down by something heavier than just exhaustion. His jaw clenched, resisting the tenderness he didn’t yet believe he deserved. Ovidius’ fingers, patient and sure, found his chin, lifting his face to meet his eyes. 

“I’ll take care of you, nothing bad will ever happen. You just need to be mine, that’s all you need to do”. Ovidius’ hand hovered, just for a second, as the echo of his own words hung in the air between them. Could he really make it right, after all he’d said? His fingers twitched with hesitation, but then they fell gently against Guilliman’s skin, as if he, too, needed to believe the tenderness was enough.

Yes, tenderness. As his hands soothed Guilliman, Ovidius found himself craving the touch just as much. It wasn’t just about healing what he had broken; it was about the way they fit together, two parts of the same moment, needing each other in ways words couldn’t quite capture. He lets Rouboute’s legs go and lets himself down on top of the huge man, face nested between voluminous pectoral muscles. A soft purr came out of him when the Primarch wrapped arms thicker than his leg around him, right right, he was the small one. It took them around ten minutes of whimpering and huffing until someone could make a single movement. 

“I love you Sir.” 

The words made the Administratum accountant blush with such pure glee, who dragged himself up his body, giving Guilliman his turn to get his face squeezed in Ovid’s chest. 

“I love you too.” he said, planting a kiss on his forehead. “You did so well, you are very strong and beautiful. And you will keep doing well.” he hugged the man as strong as he could, as strong as it would take to convince him no one would be able to pry him off his embrace. “You know,” Ovidius said, his voice barely more than a murmur, “this isn’t about what you can take. It’s about you, who you are.” He paused, his thumb brushing lightly over Guilliman’s cheek. “And you’re more than enough.”

Without a word, Ovidius reached for Guilliman’s long abandoned tunic at the edge of a chair, draping it over the giant’s shoulders. The gesture, small as it was, felt like a promise, a quiet vow of protection after the storm they had weathered together and how dark the galaxy they would have to weather was. He wasn’t strong enough to face his beloved’s enemies, but at least he could shelter him from those that lurk inside that overactive mind. A flicker of guilt crossed Ovidius’ face as he wiped away the remnants of sweat and tears. He didn’t say anything, but Guilliman could feel it in the way his hands lingered; gentle, almost reverent.

The room seemed to shift, its sharp edges softening under Ovidius’ care. In the low light, the grim world outside melted away, leaving only the quiet sanctuary they’d created in the aftermath. He was no longer just a weapon to be wielded; he was Roboute now, with every breath Ovidius shared in the quiet, their connection more than just power and submission. It was trust. Long minutes followed until Ovidious moved up, or at least tried to. 

“Come Roboute, we need a long bath… and a mop.” 

“Theoretical: I am still a little shaky.” 

“Practical number one: crawl your ass into the bath. Practical number two: you’ll bring me the paperwork to bed tomorrow as shakiness will be the least of my body pains.” 

They both chuckled, Macragge’s night wasn’t feeling as chilly anymore. 

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Pray for our poor Ovidious' wellbeing, topping your Primarch takes a big toll on the body.

[styroponyworks]

UM15

[goattrain]

Flat-color commission for Anonymous!

Ultramare and Orchid go out on patrol, in a bit of a different way than normal.

Ultramare belongs to Khorme and Orchid belongs to Hexus!

Commissions are still open, if you’re interested!

[zanini-art]

Es divertido usar bases para dibujo, hay bases de lo más curiosas. En esta ocasión se me ocurrió usar esta base para los chicos del equipo Ultramar, al comandante Kaczmarek le encanta beber tequila desde su estancia en Red Point, aunque a veces parezca más una manera de retar a la suerte :'D

[melly-artes]

I want everyone to know abt my pair of usum protagonists whose entire bit is that the guy on the left(Violet) is constantly haunted by the girl on the right(Marine) who is an ultra beast who copied his likeness in order to satiate her curiosity of humanity without alerting anyone of her being nonhuman

[eliasdrid]

Ultramar + Ultra Stella -> Ultra Asteroid

a little poster art featuring my ultra OCs (and their fusion) I've been wanting to finish this month ✨

[wasteland-soul]

I’ve never mentioned that I have an OC Ultramarines successor chapter based on my dad (well his SCA heraldry, but also he's an Ultramar fan)

[mazarinedrake]

So I recently got back into Warhammer 40k, and have been doing what I always do when I get interested in big, decades-old canons with mountains of lore...First I spend 36 hours straight on tv tropes and the fandom wikis, and then I inflict my insomnia-gained knowledge on my closest friends via discord.

Gallus:  Guilliman is the Hades of the primarchs

Gallus: the only one who knows what he's doing and therefore VIOLENTLY boring until he decides to do something trollish to a deserving party

This inevitably turns out to be the BEST possible decision I could have made.

Drake:  a lot about the Imperium could be summed up as "but y tho" "cause HASHTAG AESTHETICS!!!!!" and then someone declares Exterminatus on your planet

Gallus:  Techpriest: Whatcha got there? Cherub: A kNiFe! Techpriest: NO!

-

Gallus:  roubotte has had  'y tho' distilled into it's purest emotional form and produced to such excess from the imperial shenanigans that it's replaced his blood and he now runs on pure incredulity

Roubotte, Banging a pair of baking sheets together over Lion: WAKE UP MOTHER FUCKER i'M NOT DEALING WITH THEM ALL BY MYSELF.

-

Gallus:  Im writing Roubotte and Lion as having like something approaching normal brother dynamics in spite of everything because it confuses the living shit out of everyone else

but them just Ye Ancient memes (T-Posing at each other for mock dominance) random bouts of cain instinct, resulting in one just.  Slapping the shit out of the other with a holy reliquary or something, just for shits teaming up to back eachother up on random shit before going back to trying to nurple eachother

Lion, leaning over Roubotte:  bothering roubotte just to annoy him

Roubotte; Go be a furry somewhere else. 

some imperial carndinal or whatever in the room: ...go be a wHAT?

-

Drake:  the Imperium Secundus is hilarious though

Roboute, Lion, and Sanguinius are in ultramar when they get a bunch of garbled messages that Horus has gone totally off his rocker and declared war against dad, everything's on fire and everyone's screaming, and then

they lose contact

with Terra

and get stuck on the wrong side of a huge warp storm

so Roboute decides that the only sensible thing to do in this situation is declare a new empire and make Sanguinius the Emperor

Gallus:  ...In that scenario, assuming earth is gone is not unreasobable

-

Gallus:  Drake 

Drake being the emperor is MORE WORK 

and he has so much already 

also everyone already loves Sangria 

from an admin standpoint this is AMAZING marketing that will save him many headaches later

-

Gallus:  maybe they rock-paper-scissored for it and sanguinus lost

-

Drake:  intentionally or not Lion is AUTISTIC AS HELL

-

Gallus:  what I'm hearing tho is that Lion didn't trust himself to be Emperor and Roubotte didn't want to so they mutually bullied the most emotionally manipulatable sibling into it

-

Gallus:  they're gonna steal Lion out of the monastery somehow 

for some extremely stupid reason 

possibly with the intent to Weekend At Bernies him for a bit 

 Until Lion actually wakes up while like 

sitting at the breakfast table on The SpaceBoat Castle Fuck Mountain 

 it was the smell of bacon that got him 

He's very confused also hungry 

There's a Pigeon though they don't usually hang around danger 

oh Dad there's the hangover

also: Roubotte and Lion causally referring to His Holiness The God Emperor as "Dad"

-

Drake:  one of the first things Roboute did after waking up, in canon, was go to Terra and visit the throne room

nobody knows what happened in there but he emerged with new determination to fix all this bullshit

I mention this entirely so he can pull the "Dad said I'm in charge" card on Lion for petty bullshit

-

Gallus:  Presumably he went in, saw the state of things, wne "FUUUUUUUUUCK" for like 2 hours then decided that since Sanguinus is dead HE has to be the respeonsible child now so GUESS IT'S UP TO HIM NOW

-

Lion: I want to listen to Space Celine Dion 

Roboute: Well Dad said I'm in charge so we're listening to Space Kansas instead.

-

Gallus: [OC] has Chaotic Stepsibling Energy

Drake: But not Chaotic Chaotic because that would be bad

Gallus: troo

chaotic with the smol c

Drake: there we go

-

Drake:  Chaos is why half the brothers are permanently uninvited from Family Game Night

yes that especially includes you Lorgar

you know what you did

-

Gallus: what did lorgar do

Drake: Everything.

Gallus: kinky

-

Drake:  you know how some Christian rock music could be mistaken for gay love anthems if the names were changed?

Gallus: uh oh

Drake:  now imagine if Jesus is standing right there on the stage and only likes you as a friend

Gallus: oh no

Drake: also he considers orbital bombardments a valid communication tool

-

Gallus:  yeah this might inspire a mentally unbalanced superhuman do go do space murder heroin

-

Gallus:  this whole thing reads like an unusally genocidical episode of Jerry Springer

[big-pon]

Do you have any lewd drawings? or do you only do sfw

The definition of SFW varies, but I don’t have any interest in explicit stuff like genitalia or gore. I’ve drawn ponies in underpants a number of times, but even then I roll with the headcanon that it’s 100% aesthetic and serves no practical purpose. I think it’d be cute that they’d consider undergarments to be just another high-class commodity.

What’s here on the blog already is as far as I’ve ever been interested in going, although I don’t think I’ll be taking on no more big OC commissions. I just find it difficult to enjoy working on those. :[ Big canon mares is where it’s at. 

Except Ultramare. 

Ultramare’s a badass.

[cardinalcanis]

Follow me

Summary: The aftermath of a recent conflict against the forces of the Tyranids weighed heavily on the Primarch, his newly appointed head of the Logisticarum attempts to raise his spirits.

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x M!OC

TW: none, just be prepared for awkward fluff.

Word count: 2,934

Tag squad (let me know if you wish to be tagged on stuff): @jaghatai-khock @horuslupercal @moodymisty

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the quiet confines of the warship, a sense of heaviness clung to Roboute Guilliman. The aftermath of a recent conflict against the forces of the Tyranids weighed heavily on the Primarch, his usually resolute demeanor dulled by a palpable sense of loss and responsibility. Guilliman has been staring at the same report for at least thirty minutes, his azure eyes clouded with thoughts of countless losses, the burden of leadership pressing down upon him yet again. The creeping fear that he would not live up to the expectation that has been given to him, to save and guide the Imperium. He placed a hand to the lower part of his neck where the scar left by Fulgrim resided, so long yet still hurts, healed but still leaving him this sense of emptiness that consumed him. Unknowingly Ovidious Sulla was also paying close attention to him. 

“It wasn’t your fault my Lord.” The human said remaining polite and formal. He’s had the man working for him for several months so far, it always surprised him how he could pinpoint his well sealed emotions with such accuracy. “We are cunning but our enemy is also. We have all the data. They are evolving to fight us, but we are also. We’ll compile it to fuel the Imperium’s next victory.”

Guilliman stood up a bit violently, the chair behind him almost topping and falling to the side. There was pent up rage in his movements, the image of Sulla flinching at the act took him back into his body. Closing his eyes he tried to relax just like while meditating, pushing the feelings deep inside where they could be properly contained. He is a man of logic, not emotions. Emotional dysregulation was what drove his fallen brothers into Chaos, he couldn’t, no, he mustn't fall into their same mistakes.  

He paced towards a wall nested among the many rows of bookshelves, a mural depicting an astral chart of the five hundred worlds of Ultramar as they were in the 31st millennium, drafted from detailed description out of Guilliman’s superhuman memory. 

“Victory.” He said, his voice dragging a bit. “That is what the preachers cry from the spires of their temples, what commanders tell the soldiers in their service” the tone takes the mask his voice wears every time he has to address a large crowd for a speech “the Indomitus Crusade meets with triumph after triumph. Day by day, we tear Imperium Nihilus from the Despoiler's grip. And though we are beset on all sides, with each battle we drive back the mutant, the heretic, THE ALIEN.” his nose flares in frustration, rest of the body following a well memorized pantomime. “As I speak these words, our forces engage the remnants of Leviathan. Reclaiming lost worlds, atoning for old shames. A crusade to cleanse the stars.” paused with his voice turning slightly guttural, swallowing a cry. “Taking the fight to the enemy, we routed the Tyranids at Baal.” the pause became longer “We broke their hive fleet. Soon, their foulness will be but a memory.” Guilliman placed his armored hand on the mural, caressing a memory only he seems to still hold “THAT is what the preachers say.” his hands turned into fists as he spoke, knowing full well the human could read his disgust and frustration. “Belief will not save us, lies will not protect us, but it is our hope that will damn us.” he rested his forehead on the mural “In the spires and the slums, our people sing of victory.” once again he knocked his forehead slightly on the mural.” Victory, as the galaxy burns.” again “Victory, as the Imperium rots around us.” yet again “Victory, as humanity rages against the dying of the light.” one final time, just a bit harder, enough to dent the wall “Victory…”

He had heard him approaching as he spoke, if something Guilliman had to give it credit was for braveness. 

“Remind me to vox the Factorium to get this repaired.” admitted the Primarch in a bit of a defeated tone he shouldn't be showing in front of anybody. But there was this unspoken treaty written between them, one that discussed the secret trade of snippets from himself he must not be let out. 

Ovidius hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, closing the gap between them even more. The tension in the air felt almost electric. He saw him take a deep breath, then gesture at him with an outstretched hand. 

“Lord Guilliman, follow me” he said softly.

Guilliman studied the gesture, unsure if the queue meant that he only wished to be followed or for the Primarch to take his hand. Which seemed very silly by all accounts. Theoretical: he does want him to grab his hand. Practical… 

He reached out and grasped Sulla’s hand, their fingers intertwining in a tentative hold, already regretting the choice his body had made without him thinking properly, was Roboute Guilliman that tired his body acted on primal thought? Ovid’s eyes opened widely, confirming that he didn’t have the expectation nor plan for the Lord of Ultramar to make any physical contact. Yet instead of letting go he clutched the bigger hand tighter. Roboute felt an unknown rush of warmth flooding through him with the contact, which he couldn’t identify the reason for as both men were separated by a mechanized steel and ceramite.  

Without waiting for a response, he turned and led him through the lesser-populated hallways of the ship, their footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors. Giving a reassuring glance back from time to time. Even if Guilliman’s grip loosened as they walked, his didn't, no matter how awkward it was to hold his armored hand by a normal sized human. 

They arrived at a small observation deck, a hidden gem that overlooked a vast expanse of the galaxy. Stars twinkled in the distance, the brilliance of the cosmos casting a serene light across the room. Ovidius turned to face Guilliman,  gesturing toward the spectacle before them. 

The accountant finally let his gauntlet go and took a seat on the sailing, resting his body on the voidship grade glass. 

“I’ve been juggled between ships most if not all my life, every time I’ve found myself overwhelmed in the ships,” Ovidius began, his voice steady “I would try to find a pier facing outside, in these times making sure it is away from the Cicatrix Maledictum, that opening to the warp.” He pointed toward the vastness outside, where the darkness of the warp loomed threateningly, a stark reminder of the chaos that could spill into their reality at any moment. “Instead, I’d seek out a view overlooking the actual galaxy, remembering that my job is for them,” he said, indicating the stars that flickered with life and potential. “At least that’s what I tell myself, maybe I am also full of that hope that bothers you.” 

Guilliman’s expression shifted, the weight of his burdens momentarily lightened by the beauty before them. The Primarch’s eyes softened, the deep blue depths reflecting the starlight.

“Hope is not what worries me it is…” he couldn’t keep talking, he had already shed too much of his shell in front of the man. There was a long silence in which Guilliman joined Ovid, seating by the window, just at an arm's reach and with an effort due to the bulkiness of his armor. 

“You seemed to have found your way easily around this ship, I don’t think I’ve ever been in these parts.” Guilliman noted, dragging the charisma out of his tiredness to change the topic the best he could, even though he had calmed a bit, the sound of moving machinery beneath the walls was strangely soothing. 

Ovid smiled and nodded, the afterglow on his expression denoted his understanding of The Primarch’s attempt to change topics. 

“I could find my way around any unknown ship faster than in my home town, or any town, after this long I’ve grown to find non vessel places daunting.” His new head of the Logisticarum drove eyed the passing starry landscape, at the distance there was a nebula with the same hue of his eyes. 

“You tend to speak about Maccrage with nostalgia but is there also apprehension I sense in your tone?” He asked politely. 

"I was born in the deep countryside of Macragge, a place far removed from the greater cities my homeworld has. But it, and the planet I came from, are strange to me. I was taken into the Administratum by recruitment when I was very young, my Lord. I've spent most of my life far away from the worlds of Ultramar.” his tone relaxed before returning back to its formal iteration “But those are some things you may know pretty well from the dossier you read."

Guilliman listened closely, noting the careful, practiced tone of a man who had explained his story many times but rarely with any personal investment. There was something almost clinical about it, as though Sulla spoke of another person’s life, not his own.

“But what if this time I want to hear it from you? You’ve seen how Imperial documents tend to fail at… ” his head reviewed term after term, not finding the correct one. “... capturing the true soul of things.” No, that still wasn’t the correct word he had in mind. 

“Want to capture my soul my lord?”  The question sounded innocent enough but there was an underlying tone in it that Guilliman couldn’t decipher, and there was that weird heat again. He looked at the ventilation system intake, he may need to order getting it checked around the ship. 

"I’ve kept contact with my family, of course," Ovidious continued. "I know of them; their names, their lives, what they are up to, but it feels… distant. I speak our planet’s language, but my accent is wrong. It’s more like that of an immigrant just learning."

He sighed softly, face dragging a cheek on the window, a rare crack in the formal veneer he always maintained. Guilliman could see the tension in his shoulders, the discomfort of a man who found himself between two worlds but fully belonging to neither.

"They..." Sulla hesitated for a brief moment, his voice softening. "They have managed to send me some family pictures a couple times despite me ranting to them about the expenses they would have had to pay.” he paused “They look similar to me, you know? I have my mother’s nose and my father’s eyes. The silhouette of an identical jawline or the copy of the same mouth, but… it feels mismatched. Like I do not truly belong among them. Our expressions, our way of dressing, our body language. I often find myself thinking how I am as alien to them as the xenos we fight.”

As Guilliman processed those words, the sense of isolation that echoed in the man’s tone struck something deep within him. His brothers; his fellow Primarchs, had always been different, Jaghatai’s untamable soul, Lorgar’s zeal, Magnus’ lust for knowledge, Dorn’s stoicism… All connected by the same ‘father’ but with such different cultures and upbringings, views on… everything. Guilliman had always been the builder of empires, the one who sought to create something lasting amid the destruction. But that had always set him apart, even from his family.

For a moment, Guilliman felt the weight of his own disconnection pressing down on him. He was the son of the Emperor, a symbol for the Imperium; but what did that truly mean now? What did he represent, truly, in this new age where even the Emperor was but a fractured consciousness on the Golden Throne? And in many ways, like Ovidious, he too had been taken away from what he might have been, forced into roles and responsibilities that left little room for a personal identity.

Against his better judgment, Guilliman spoke, his voice quiet and more vulnerable than he intended.

 "I know something of what you mean, Sulla. I... have found myself a stranger, too. To my family. To this galaxy. To the Imperium I once sought to guide. And now this new… nightmarish place I woke up after 10,000 years, it has made me feel even more stranded. It can be, just as you had said, as alien to me as the xenos we fight." There was a beat of silence as he realized how much he had revealed, more than he ever intended. He quickly retracted, stiffening his posture and returning to a more formal tone. "But that is neither here nor there. We all have our roles to play."

But Ovidious the always perceptive, though, had caught the shift, he had over the months learned how to hear the unspoken truth beneath Guilliman's words, and his now attempt to return to professionalism. There was a pause as he weighed his response, his honey gaze studying Guilliman who pretended to ignore it.  With a soft but steady voice, Ovid spoke. 

"You can always talk to me if you wish, my Lord. You always know where to find me, anyways." His smile was short and sheepish. “Or don’t, silence is also fine."

Guilliman looked at him, the words sinking in, more comforting than he expected. It was such a simple offer, but it carried with it something profound. In the vastness of his duties, his responsibilities, and the expectations placed upon him, someone had quietly and earnestly offered him a space to simply be himself. It was disarming, and Guilliman found himself, for a moment, unsure how to respond.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging the offer without fully committing to it. 

"Thank you, Sulla," he said, his voice measured. "I will... keep that in mind."

“Just Ovidious is fine, at least when it is just the two of us.” the redhead interjected shily “Or Ovid, as you prefer.” he paused, the conflict on his expression showing the want of maybe taking back the words.  "Only if you wish, my Lord."

Guilliman’s eyes flickered back at the unexpected offer. There was a subtle shift in his expression, a moment where his formal exterior cracked just slightly, and his gaze met Ovidius’ with a hint of warmth that hadn’t been there before. The offer, much like the earlier one to talk, was an invitation. It was Ovidius offering Guilliman a small sliver of normalcy; something human, something grounded. And Guilliman realized how much he longed for that, how much he needed someone who wasn’t just a subordinate or a follower but someone he could connect with, even in these brief, stolen moments.

“Just Roboute then, at least when it is just the two of us.” he proposed in exchange before realizing what he was saying, to his and Ovid’s surprise.

Ovidius froze, his gaze hovering over the galaxy outside, eyes then lifting slowly to meet Guilliman’s. The air between them suddenly felt charged, as if a sacred boundary had been crossed. Guilliman felt it too, the weight of what he had just said sinking in. But he didn’t backtrack. Instead, after a brief, tense pause, he added quietly:

 “Only if you wish… Ovidious.” 

For a moment, Ovidius looked as if he didn’t quite believe what he had heard. 

"Roboute?" he repeated, as if trying out the name, feeling the weight of it. 

"You don’t have to," Guilliman quickly added, sensing the weight of his own words and the surprise in Ovidius’ expression. He felt vulnerable in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries.

But Ovidius’ eyes softened, and he smiled, a small, genuine smile. 

"If that’s what you wish and not because you feel obliged to," he said gently, "Roboute."

Hearing his own name spoken like that, without the weight of command behind it, sent an unfamiliar shiver down Guilliman’s spine. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it; being called by his name, not his titles. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his composure slipping ever so slightly.

 "Yes," he replied, his voice low and steady, "I think... I would like that."

And with that, the space between them felt different. Less rigid. More human. Ovidius went back to observing the galaxy, but the atmosphere had shifted.. Guilliman, for the first time in a long while, felt the warmth of genuine companionship. They spent a long while sitting in silence, observing the stars go by. It wasn’t uncomfortable nor bothersome, just for this moment he was immersed in a moment that didn’t expect anything out of him. The space around them seemed to shrink, the distant stars fading into the background as he focused back into the man. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Guilliman said, his voice a husky whisper, laden with unspoken emotions.

“One of my functions is to lessen your burden, my Lo… Roboute.” they held their gazes in silence again. “Are you ready to return?” 

“Are you ready to guide me again?” What made it ask that question? He had a superhuman mind and was capable of memorizing entire books in seconds, Ovidious also knew it, remembering the couple turns they took on the ship was nothing for him.

“So apart from me needing to save you from the oh so horrible plastek flimsies every time you have to wear that armor, does it make it now that I have to guide you through your own ship?” He stood up and grabbed Guilliman by the Hand of Dominion, having to use both of his to even grip it properly due to its sheer size. “Just this once, don’t get used to it.” 

[styroponyworks]

Ultramare again.

https://strandedpenguin.deviantart.com/art/UM11-Fundraiser-Event-700047897