This was based of of a tomodachi life interaction with these four, Featuring my yumeship and Shadowmint, a peak ship made by my friends @splatteredantgutz and @host-objectified-irl!! C:
Hi :3 This is my first Husbandry story! This is a kind of a prologue on how Rocket acquired her first Space Marine! It will have 4 parts, with 3 chapters / each, introducing the boys and their relationship to Rocket. If you find yourself squinting a little bit at the... unusual... behavior of certain people, rest assured, the oddities will be explained in time. Many thanks to @c-u-c-koo-4-40k for giving me an ideas on how to make Rocket more interesting as an OC (if Lullaby and Rocket ever interact it would certainly be interesting... to say the least) and @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan & @egrets-not-regrets on feeding my inspiration with their dedicated, frequent posting!
content warnings: mentions of space marine legion-ism (is that a thing?) & discrimination, disabled character (bellis has a feeding tube), emperor's children / noise marines & general 40-k-ness. word count: ~3.5k. not proofread.
“My brief stint with chlamydia was not particularly pleasant,” Rocket snorted, wrapping up the plastic bag in a ball.
“‘tis not my domain,” the Marine sassed back, his front maw stretching in a jagged, oozing grin. “Very few of my brothers specialize in such pathogens. The Emperor's Children are dutiful and motivated, if unwitting, when it comes to administering those particular types of Grandfather's blessings.”
The woman startled out in a laugh, which quickly grew into muted snickering. Qawtar did not sound malicious in his jabs. He was merely awarding his cousins with a dose of brotherly ribbing. She was not completely sure Emperor's Children Marines would agree with the Death Guard, but what they do not know, does not hurt them, right?
Idly, Rocket scratched her chin, remembering the colorful leaflet taped up on the Notice Board of the local library. Surely the courses would cover any possible health aliments that were common amongst the various Chaos Marines? And while Death Guard were more likely the biggest subjects of interest with their nigh infinite capacity to infect anything living with cosmic horrors, Rocket knew even Word Bearers and World Eaters had each their own blights and health quirks.
Emperor's Children were too few to study. As Loyalists crowded to large cities bustling with life and all kinds of crafts and entertainment, their Chaos brothers were a rare and mostly unwelcome sight just about anywhere. Noise Marines, especially, as their nature — according to rumors anyway — was deeply disruptive, destructive and inappropriate.
Rocket had seen small groups gather at the very edges of concerts she both attended and played with her band, and personally — she had never noticed them causing any trouble. Not more than regular humans, anyway. And as there were always multiple Noise Marines, the others quickly subdued their more rambunctious brethren. Rocket deduced they were a highly social type.
“Thank you for the food,” Qawtar bowed his head briefly, milky eyes squinting in the twilight of the forest’s shade. “I extend my continued gratitude for allowing me to live peacefully here as well.”
“No problem, big guy!” Rocket smiled earnestly. “Feel free to come ‘round to the house, if you want to. And let me know if you change your mind on contacting others of your kind.” She nodded. Qawtar frowned, and Rocket hurried to comfort him. “I’ve a friend down south who is bonded to a Death Guard. He's kind of a loner, like you, so I'm sure you two could find a good spot to sit in companionable silence.”
Qwatar quickly turned his frown upside down, which with his mutation looked downright comical. The oversized, stretched mouth made for an exaggerated emote. The Marine went from a grumpy toad to a happy puppy.
“I will approach you when I am... Ready.”
Rocket put her free hand in her pocket, exchanged goodbyes, and both left to their separate dwellings with a quiet joy of a budding friendship taking root in their hearts.
———
It was not in Rocket's nature to deny herself.
She was at the library within days, appropriate documents in hand as she surveyed the various gathered humans and Astartes in the spacious room. From behind her sunglasses, she studied a huge World Eater, highly mutated and attracting multiple stink eyes from several Loyalist attendees, who tenderly held onto a tall, athletic human female with feline features glistening in expensive jewelry.
Several Chaos Marines of various legions gathered around him, subconsciously drawn in by his bigger size. Some were partnered with humans and some with their own kind. Coupled with an identical situation happening on the Loyalist side — Marines and humans standing close to each other, trading quips and greetings — the attendees made up quite the motley crew.
Through the noise and the racket, Rocket was able to squeeze through to the intake desk just as a man was leaving it; the man's Night Lord spared her hardly a glance. It was the Ultramarine at the desk who acknowledged her with a friendly, if strained, smile.
“Hi,” Rocket said simply, extending the folder towards him. “Here to get my certification. I've compiled all necessary documents.”
“Hello to you too,” the Marine perked up immediately. His hands made swift work of the folder, as he skimmed through it with inhuman speed. “Who exactly are you volunteering to, eh, foster?” His eyes narrowed briefly.
“Chaos-aligned Emperor's Children,” Rocket smiled wider. “But I am open to Loyalists as well.”
The Ultramarine froze. For a split second, the impenetrable wall of professionalism on his face broke and he regarded Rocket with something akin to unsettled scientific curiosity. Which slowly morphed into horror bordering on disgust and was swiftly wiped away under a mask of indifference. “Are you... Certain?”
Rocket's snark, the one she wielded much like a chainsword, never even got the chance to see the light of day. A muted shout, followed by thumping feet, culminated in her being swarmed by three young adult women from all available sides. The Ultramarine gaped, Rocket sighed and the women giggled.
“Oh my God!” One exclaimed. “I love your music! Can we take a picture?”
“For the ‘gram? Please!” Another begged.
Rocket did not bother hiding her long suffering sigh. The Ultramarine had recoiled from the screeching human females. Rocket shook her head. “I'm in a band. We're famous or whatever. This happens frequently.” And with a sweet smile addressed the teenagers: “Just a second, folks. Lemme get my papers sorted first.”
Rocket was quick to leave after that. Driving home, she mused that she was one of the few people that were generally considered to be chaos-aligned by default as she had no problem with capitalizing on the Ultramarines’ discomfort to surpass the judgment of her choice of Astartes and speedrun the licencing process.
Truly, he had no grounds to judge. If anything, she would be doing the greater society a big service by offering stability and a good example of peaceful existence to a potentially wayward Marine. Potentially.
She was still not sure why they were so hated. If anything, their reputation of being weird, sexually forward and noisy likened them to baseline humans more than to emotionless, highly disciplined murder machines.
Maybe herein lied the problem?
But time went by, and nobody contacted her regarding a potential foster.
The local Chaos base called her for other problems. They did that with humans who has sway in the local politics, who they knew to be Chaos-friendly or bonded to a Chaos Marine.
A well-spoken, well-mannered Fallen Blood Angel — Rocket had briefly, unwittingly interrogated the poor soul as she could not find any mention of fallen Blood Angels anywhere — even showed up to her house, all bright, toothy smiles and politically correct conversations. They sought a permit or two, innocuous but opposed by a Loyalist-bonded politician for the sake of it.
Not the one to shy away from using her fame and status to help those discriminated, Rocket easily agreed to help. After all, what was the point in refusing the Chaosites and Renegades to build a food establishment that suited their dietary needs? Loyalists had plenty of their own joints, and the local free-for-all Salamander place was constantly crowded.
Then came the detailing business. A local artisan car shop was going bankrupt — not many people chose custom paint jobs these days. Rocket had initially acquired it to preserve the cultural heritage of the place. As she visited the spacious, cool hangar adorned with photos of vividly painted low-riders from all the way back in the 70s, an idea struck her.
If there were too few artistically inclined Astartes in the area, and Chaos Marines were widely known for their customized, individualized power armor... Why not have talented humans fill in the market gap? The guys manning the shop agreed quickly, in no small part encouraged by a worker's Word Bearer. The Astartes was very book-smart but lacked the delicate artisan touch. He told his associates, brokered a deal with crafts-astartes on the issue of paints and supplies and business began to pick up.
Even Loyalists started showing up, with scratches needed fixed in their paint or those who wished to change their display of allegiance. Some trial and error was had on scheduling, but ultimately all worked out, with the more... Picky groups and factions set up in a way that limited their interaction.
Rocket frequently visited the shop — to just hang out, or to participate in the painting and sketching. She was, after all, first and foremost an artist, and her smaller, steady hands and patience made her a good intake specialist with the more heavy-handed Marines. She became sort of a microcelebrity amongst World Eaters and other heavily mutated Marines who could not sketch up their desired adornments for themselves due to lack of coordination or proper limb.
All and all, things were looking up for the singer and local Chaos-inclined populations. Yet Rocket's spacious nest remained empty.
Through the grapevine, she heard of an Emperor's Children warband living on a quasi-nearby base; they did, in fact, exist, but none needed fostering. Apparently situations happened frequently in that area and the Marines were more than happy to be in the epicenter of them, soaking in the chaotic energy.
Perhaps, a change in scenery was needed. Some thing or another popped up and Rocket decided to drive out all the way to the big city in lieu of hopping on a Zoom call to solve it, much to the surprise of her managers. She did business, ate fancy brunch, window shopped and attended an open-air party with some friends, dancing her stress away late into the night and nursing her hangover come morning.
As it happened to be, things unfolded at the time and place where they were least expected. Rocket's sandwich froze halfway to her mouth, lazy thoughts that floated in her head interrupted by muffled shouting and the distinct sound of ceramite armour being slapped by a bare human hand. Trading out her sandwich for her smartphone, the woman placed the former on the passenger seat of her vehicle and got ready to dial the appropriate services. Her booted feet made minimal noise as she rounded the corner.
A Marine in a deep purple and pink armour held a man up and against a wall. Nearby, a fuming woman with shaggy hair stood, cursing quietly, as the man babbled enraged apologies. The Marine was unyielding.
“Uh,” Rocket voiced her presence. “Y'all good?”
Three heads turned in her direction.
“Yes.” The Marine answered, his voice tinged with static and metal. He dropped the man, who immediately scurried away — past the unknown woman and Rocket, muttering profanities under his breath as he did so. Rocket swore she saw the Marine's helmet move in a way that made her think of an eyebrow being raised in disappointment.
“Alright, I guess.” Rocket murmured, eyeing the woman. “Girl, you alright?”
“Better now that the shit is gone,” she nodded, and gave the hulking Marine a smile. “Thanks!”
“It is not an issue,” he replied somewhat formally.
Rocket observed a mass of purple-pink, fleshy tentacles retract into the space between his helmet and chest plate. His armour was scuffed and slightly dented in places; a symbol of Slaanesh had been buffed out — by an unskilled hand, it seemed, as the gold and purple pattern stood out uneven and bumpy. He appeared oddly unkempt for a follower of Slaanesh: usually even the most unlucky ferals of this inclement were obsessed with their grooming.
Come to think of it... He also sounded young. Younger than 99% of other Marines Rocket had ever heard.
“Hey, big guy. How long have you been on Terra?” Rocket decided for straightforward. That was the best way of speaking to the defectors.
“Nine Terran months. Why are you inquiring?” He replied slowly, with suspicion.
She raised her hands up after pocketing her phone. “I've got a base of Chaosites and Renegades nearby and I've gotten decently good at determining guys like you who may need some assistance with a place to sleep, nutrition and general fitting in.” The longer she spoke, the more the eyebrow ridges seemed to lower. Right. Slaaneshites were a proud sort. “I can give you my phone number so you can get in touch if you need something or find yourself in trouble. It's a couple of hours away from the big city, but they've got the space and the means.”
He genuinely paused, limbs and trunk freezing in a single, awkward pose. Discomfort was radiating off of him in spades, yet he could not hold back the tentacles that emerged once again. They appeared to be wiggling in curiosity.
“Maybe it's a good thing,” the woman chimed in. “It's mostly Loyalists here and I've seen them flat-out bully you lot.” He turned to her, and she shrunk, mirroring his awkwardness. Rocket almost laughed at the two as the lady shot the Marine a wobbly smile. “You seem on the younger side of things...”
“I will take the vox codes,” he cut her off quickly, the area around his... Mouthpiece... Growing a more intense purple shade.
This time, Rocket did not bother with swallowing her laugh. As she approached the Marine with her phone out, he studied her curiousy, his pinkish eye slits dimming in a gesture she knew corresponded with a Marine looking something up on their own network using the built-in interface in his armor. Probably Astartes-googling her, she decided, as he brightened up and saved her number wherever it was that they stored such information in their armour.
On her drive back home, Rocket made all the necessary stops to stock up on some nutripaste and various knick-knacks, toiletries and self-care items recommended to her by the Astartes at the shops. Now it was time to wait.
———
He did not text and did not call. One morning, there was a beep as the motion sensors around her property detected movement — something Rocket blissfully slept through — and the armoured equivalent of a kicked puppy greeted her on her back porch as she set out to treat her resident Death Guard to some fancy mouldy cheese and rotten vegetables she'd forgotten about in the back of her fridge.
Such an option had been entertained. Chaos Marines weren't necessarily known for their manners and decorum.
“Morning,” she greeted the purple-pink Marine sleepily. “Hold on a second, please, I gotta drop something off.”
“Morning,” he echoed her incredulously. Visibly unhappy with her lack of a reaction. “The Nurglite is watching us.”
“He does that sometimes.” She replied with a yawn, waving the basket in the general direction of the woods.
Camouflaged in the trees, the target of her attention emerged just about enough to extend a long, rusty arm and grasp the offering. “Thank you for the delicacy. If he is bothering you, scream. I will come.” Qawtar rasped, stretching his maw into a nervous but genuine smile. Soundlessly, he disappeared back into his lair.
Rocket turned her attention to the Marine sitting on her porch as she returned to her house. “Food, bath, in that order?” She inquired.
“Bath,” he replied, shifting self-consciously. His armour looked worse for wear than she remembered: new dents littered the chest plate and paint was peeling off in uneven, jagged chunks. His helmet had a suspiciously chainsword-shaped scratch on it. The bag he was holding stunk strongly of mildew and sewage.
“Are you able to remove your boots?” Rocket asked, opening the door to her house as he curiously peered inside, taking in the light and spacious interior befitting of a reasonably wealthy person with good taste. “I'm not super anal about cleanliness and I do own a mop, but I'd rather not have mud of unknown origin on my rugs.”
He nodded, uncertainly, but reached down to unclasp the foot parts of his armour. He was not much cleaner underneath. Boots secured under his arm, the Marine obediently followed Rocket through the living space and hallway, taking in the various picts, paintings and tchotchkes on the walls and surfaces. He knew she was a famous musician with a lot of friends and associates — the ‘internet’ told him that much — but that she was also a loner and had few public appearances outside of strictly necessary for her work.
Her home reflected her status in society, he supposed. It was nothing like the excessive opulence of the Lords of his Legion, of course, but for a baseline human? Fairly impressive. He observed the offered bathroom with pleasure and relief. It was sized for his kind and stocked with all the necessary items. His tentacles wiggled as he sensed various oils and perfumes on a shelf.
“Take your time, I'll sort out the food,” Rocket gave a bright, if sleepy, smile. “Then we can talk about your situation, okay?” He nodded, she tapped the doorway next to his arm. “Alright.”
As she set to depart, the Marine gave a rumble. Rocket stopped.
“My name is Bellis,” he said quietly, his voice coming in fuzzy through the static of his vox. “And I am unable to consume nutripaste in the standard manner.” Bellis tipped his chin, a vague gesture of emphasizing his vox mutation. “I have a feeding tube.”
Rocket hesitated, concern creeping into her features. “Oh. Well. Have you brought your own...”
“Yes.” He nodded, eyeing the Human. He was pleased to see some concern recede from her face. It never ceased to suprise him just how expressive these baselines were — nothing like the scuttling serfs and slaves in the Warpspace. After a brief moment of contemplation, he added: “Do you have... A blender?”
“Sure do,” she nodded.
“Whatever you have available,” he inclined his head, “smoothed to a semi-liquid consistency. Will do.”
———
Bellis was so painfully awkward.
Rocket still hadn't seen his face. Unlikely that she'll ever would, as he appeared to be a fairly mutated individual. She mused of the visibly inflamed, stretched skin around his... Mouth — vox, one of the few obvious mutations he had, aside from the shy tentacles.
Mangoes, greek yogurt, bananas, blueberries and strawberries sat in the blender as she unwrapped the tube of nutripaste and added it to the smoothie. Various questions floated in her head, such as: where had he been staying? Did Bellis have reliable access to means of feeding himself? What about hydration? Rocket would be lying if she said she wasn't anxious to see the Chaosite come out. She poured the smoothie into a large plastic cup and sat down at the kitchen island, poking idly at her phone, scrolling away on social media to try and distract herself.
Soft but exaggerated footsteps neared the kitchen. Rocket raised her head.
Bellis certainly looked cleaner and more put together. There were still dents and scratches in his armour but the layer of mud and dirt was gone, allowing the ceramite to shine dully in the muted overhead light. He had left his boots off, socked feet now clean, and evidently used the XL washer to take care of his belongings. He hovered anxiously in the archway, hands on a soft blue bag. It looked like the ones used for nebulisers or CPAP machines.
“Here's your smoothie,” Rocket nodded to the pinkish substance. “I put only one tube of nutripaste in it, but if you'd like more, it's in the drawer with the big red handle. Hydration packs are there too. I wasn't sure if you wanted- ”
“Thank you. It will be satisfactory.” His cheeks — or rather, the stretched tissue around his vox mutation — deepened in colour.
“Do you need your equipment cleaned or sterilised?”
“No,” he moved on to unpack his feeding tube.
It was an odd contraption. Four feet of transparent, plastic tubing, open on both ends, with a small pump attached to one side. Some kind of makeshift engineering marvel, if Rocket was to squint. Bellis moved a part of his helmet aside, revealing a small, inflamed opening on the side of his neck, where he inserted one end of the tube.
Rocket had to fight a squirm. It barely fit, and the jagged, cut edge of plastic looked downright painful to insert. The other one went in the cup. The Marine pressed a single, large button on the pump and the smoothie began swiftly disappearing, painting the tube pink and red on the inside.
He stood frozen. If he still had a mouth, his jaw would have surely hit the floor by now.
“What is this... Fruit!?” He exclaimed, his voice briefly cutting off by static, raising in pitch.
Rocket had never seen a Chaosite’s eyes glow such bright pink.
Maybe i should like... introduce them properly but nah. Maybe later.
Anyway be careful about who you pick up from an illegal fight club you just destroyed. They might end up being a mountain.
i included ADA because even though she’s not a companion she’s still part of Space Family. and Phineas because uhhh Explanation Other Than “I Love Him” Not Found. and the Generic Captain to make the photoset not take up so much room.
