C.M.D: I bet a number of my readers were expecting a new First Aid chapter for my new update of the year, but sadly that muse is still away on holiday. For now, enjoy some more Bombshell and Shrapnel goodness!
Title: Insectipuma V
Rating: T
"Well, here we are, your highness."
Shrapnel ignored the purr, strutting past the larger kittycon, stopping just inside the doorway of the condo before continuing forward. His helm twisted side to side, studying everything intently; lip components pursed in a disapproving scowl.
Bombshell dropped the bags by the door as he finally got his key free, letting the door swing shut behind him. "So what do you thi...," he started as the youngling turned and disappeared into the berthroom. "...Okay."
Shrugging, the Insectipuma headed for the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and grabbing himself a beer. He didn't bother giving chase, knowing that Shrapnel would make his way back out to find the mech shortly. And he wasn't disappointed.
"Distasteful; ful!," the smaller puma hissed, servo cutting through the air. He turned into the kitchen, arms crossed over his chestplates. "These quarters will not do; do! The décor is base and trivial; your choice of colours blasphemous; mous! I will need new furniture, sheets, drapery, pillows, scents; scents..."
Shrapnel trailed off in his list, taking a scandalous look at the rest of the apartment. "Not to mention the amount of useless possessions you have; have. They will have to go; go! They do not have a place here and I must; must-"
"Now," Bombshell grunted, swallowing his mouthful quickly, "You remember here now, that I never wanted you to come back with me in the first place. This is my place- you ain't throwing out slag. Glare at me all you want; ain't happening."
Violet optics narrowed further, the youngling calming his stance; servos clasped innocently before him and ears perked amiably... almost deterring one from the leisurely curled tail, tip flicking in hostility. "Very well; well," Shrapnel replied, tone smooth, "Keep your trinkets and your gluttonous toys; toys... but seeing as I am to occupy this space with you, as your selected mate, the berthroom is now mine to do with as I wish; wish. Which means, those hideous slabs of cardboard you deem furniture are gone and my ancestral throne is taking its place; place!"
"What, how is that-"
"It is fair; fair," the heir hissed, "If you ever wish to get under my plating again; again. Mate or not, I know your 'modern' laws well, and if I refuse to interface with you and you still persist, I can have you marked up with charges; charges! I'm sure that would interfere with whatever lucrative business you truly run; run."
Bombshell scowled, optics half-shuttered in annoyance. "...you're a brat, you know that?," he hissed back, displeased with how smart the Insectipuma really was. Not even a cycle back and his new "wife" was causing him trouble. Heesh.
Shrapnel sniffed, turning on a heel, heading back for the berthroom. "That is merely your opinion; opinion," the youngling quipped. "Call forth some servants while you're at it; it," he called back, "Lest you wish to do all my bidding; bidding."
Oh, frag, no, Bombshell would not be doing that. He could spare the cash for a daily maid service, if it meant His Highness wouldn't try to whip the mech around like a mule. Really, what was the appeal again in bagging this brat for his own? He'd have to work hard to remind himself, the kittycon was loathe to realize.
xxXxXxx
6 decacycles later
xxXxXxx
"Honey, I'm home," Bombshell called, shutting the door behind him. He locked it, tossing his keys and bag to the side, marching through the condo. He smelled like hot dogs and the narcotics dealer knew that the scent infuriated his bondmate, who found the food utterly disgusting, yet still he headed straight for the berthroom, expecting to find the youngling praying or sitting in wait on the berth.
Shrapnel was not there. Perplexed, the kittycon walked in further, checking around the trunks and the armoire, kicking pillows and blankets aside, even stomping through the closet-turned-shrine, but still found not a single black hair of the younger puma. Olfactory sensors twitching at the foul incense Shrapnel was persistent on burning daily, Bombshell finally retreated from the brat's royal tribal retreat, truly confused now. He wasn't surprised to not find his mate in the living room (considering how much he detested the mech's technical gadgets and games), but the kitchen had obviously been put to use and that was even more shocking.
Shrapnel did not cook. The prince was above that sort of menial task! As he had ranted one whole week to Bombshell not too long ago... So why exactly was there pots and pans, utensils and bowls piled high in the sink; covered with various oddly-coloured goop?
"There you are; are...," a vocalizer started behind him.
Bombshell turned to face the youngling he had just been thinking about, optic ridge raised in mild curiosity at the robes he wore. Now, it wasn't too say that Shrapnel didn't wear robes on a regular basis -in fact, that's essentially all he wore, all the time- it was that these ones looked astonishingly different. For one, they were silver. Not red, gold, or black or mauve... silver. Usually the prince's choice of robes covered every inch of his frame from throat to ankle, these didn't. Billowing sleeves swallowed tiny servos, tapering off until the shoulders, where they hung freely off the side. A ribbon of metallic robin blue wrapped around the upper hems, circling back to the collar of the main robe, which also dipped incredibly low, barely covering the plating of Shrapnel's chestplates. Matching metallic sash was tied around the slim waist, trailing over the floor, almost distracting Bombshell from a truly fascinating detail.
The silver robe, extending to the floor, had two wide-gaping slits on either side... Humbly filled with lace, yes, but still quite sheer enough to easily display the slender limbs, leading up to a teasing hint of aft. So not traditional to tribal standards, the larger kittycon believed.
"You're late; late," a scathing hiss accused, drawing Bombshell's attention upwards.
"What?," he replied stupidly for a moment, before shaking off his stupor under the scrutiny of those angry, violet optics. "Eh, right, well... I stink. Guess I'll go shower. By the way, what are you up to?"
The youngling's scowl deepened. "Working that ghastly vendor job still; still? Go; go," he commanded, waving his sleeves forward, "Cleanse yourself quickly; quickly! I'll be on the patio, waiting for you; you."
That was new.
"Oh; oh," Shrapnel paused as he turned around, more than likely to head back out on the patio desk from hence he'd come, "I left you some appropriate attire in the bathroom; room. Be sure to wear them before you come; come."
….and so was that.
Was he dreaming? Had Brainstorm sent him into some strange and twisted parallel universe? In a daze, Bombshell promptly turned and headed for the washroom as he had said he would, finding the clothes that had been supposedly left for him. Picking them up, the vendor stared at the black and silver robe that unfolded before him, wondering what had come over his prince and what strange surprise he had in store.
xxXxXxx
Fifteen kliks later, and a really hot and processor-clearing douse under the spray, the narcotics dealer was strutting out onto the patio, tying his robe's sash tighter. "Shrapnel," he began irritably, "What's the mess in the kitchen for? And why on Unicron's aft do I have to wear-"
The mech stopped dead in his tracks, dumbfounded. Whatever he had expected upon coming out, this was not it. Candles sat precariously on the railing edge in perfect lines, their little flames fighting for place among the city's twinkling lights; casting the entire deck in a warm glow and leading a direct path to the low table on the other side. Upon it, a feast, multiple dishes set and swollen on their plates, exotic and unusual to the kittycon, but emitting such a delightful scent that it called to his very piping. At his entrance, Shrapnel had risen from the mound of seating cushions, standing submissively in wait; beckoning Bombshell closer with a shyly raised servo and half-masted optics.
The older Insectipuma tread down the ornate path slowly, still convinced that this was a dream, but not once did Shrapnel move or otherwise give any indication that this was some sort of trap. The youngling presented the black mech with his seat, sitting only when Bombshell had; leaning over the table and grasping an ornate jug in his servos. He poured what appeared to be a rich wine into an equally as ornate goblet, presenting the cup to his companion, cupped delicately between both servos and helm lowered meekly.
Bombshell didn't know what to do. So he simply took the goblet. "Eh... thank you?," he mumbled, taking a quick sip before placing the cup down. "Shrapnel, what...?"
The prince still did not answer. Question going flat on his glossa, the mech watched as Shrapnel gracefully took hold of a plate next, presenting its strange, breaded dish to the other. Steam wafted upwards, carrying with it scent, causing Bombshell's olfactory sensor to twitch minutely as his fingers reached out for one of the delicate treats. The narcotics dealer paused in an instant, noticing something oddly familiar about the smell. Something...
Intoxicating...
There was a clang as the plate was slapped to the side suddenly, sending its little breaded appetizers rolling across the deck. Shrapnel shuttered his optics in absolute shock at the action, processor lagging, trying to make sense of what just happened. "W-what; what...," he stuttered, quickly getting angry, "W-what are you; you-?"
"Shut up!," Bombshell snarled, rising to his pedes immediately. "You think you're being cheeky, do ya?," he continued, fangs bared. "I can smell what you've put in the food, brat! Did you think I wouldn't notice?! I sell drugs for a living!"
The mech turned, grabbed the table's edge, and with a toss, flipped the table and sending all of its luxurious dishes crashing to the deck floor. "I've put up with a lot of your stupid tribal bullslag, but this I won't take you little vermin king!," he bellowed, rounding on the youngling. "There goes your lil' 'dinner'. So what now, hm?"
Shrapnel stared at the destruction, optics wide and disbelieving; gaze snapping to Bombshell as he was called, a sheen of coolant coating them. That was a strange look... Before the larger kittycon could contemplate on it longer, the youngling turned and ran for the berthroom, slamming the door shut behind him as he disappeared inside.
"Fine, whatever," Bombshell spat, looking at the wasted food derisively, "What a fragging mess..." Yanking off the robe, the puma headed back inside as well, grabbing a beer from the fridge before turning on a porno and settling himself comfortably on the couch for the rest of the night.
xxXxXxx
"Shrapnel... Shrapnel, open the fragging door. I need to get some slagging clothes!" Bombshell pounded on the berthroom door again, groaning as he looked at his watch. He rarely ever had to go out to do anything and so, didn't mind re-wearing the same clothes twice in a row, given that they weren't filthy. Unfortunately, yesterorn he had played as hot-dog vendor and only had the puma's choice of robe to change into after, and he needed to be at Wrecker headquarters that orn for a meeting.
"Listen, you've been holed up in there all week!," he shouted again, nearly punching the door now, "I need some clean pants and shirts. Let me in, or I'll break this slagging thing down!"
Something shuffled within and finally the lock turned; the narcotics dealer quickly yanked the door open, not even giving Shrapnel a second to change his mind. He was partially surprised to see the prince dressed in his royal attire once more, an open trunk waiting by the berth. "...do I even want to know what you're up to this time?," Bombshell asked, crossing the room quickly. He pushed aside a coromandel screen, revealing the hidden dresser containing his few clothes.
The answer was soft and nearly missed. "...I am returning to my tribe; tribe."
"Oh yeah?," the mech turned, smirking cruelly at the prince. "How come?"
Shrapnel turned his optics away from Bombshell instantly. "To attend a very important festival; val," he elaborated. "My people are expecting me; me. If I do not go, than I would not be a suitable ruler; ruler."
"And we can't be shattering others' expectations, now can we?," the kittycon chuckled slightly, heading out of the room, fresh clothes in his servo. "Yeah, yeah, alright. Do whatever you want. Just don't leave a mess on your way out." Waving a servo casually, Bombshell turned into the washroom to finish getting ready, not once looking back on the silent Insectipuma.
xxXxXxx
His people cheered as he walked through the gates, crowded in a tight circle, screaming out praises and joy to see the sight of their much missed prince. Smiling politely, Shrapnel greeted them all with a slightly raised servo; a roaring echo returning at his action.
"Your majesty!," priestesses gasped, coming forward quickly. They bowed, rising to their pedes, staring at the youngling's knees as they spoke. "We are so very glad for your presence during the festival, but where are your robes! You are not dressed for the celebrations!"
"I am afraid I had left my ceremonial robes here when I left; left," Shrapnel answered, gesturing for the femmes to follow. "After all, I am bonded now and with a mate; mate. Those childish robes would not do in my new life; life."
"Ah," the Head priestess exclaimed, "Yes, yes, you are right, your Highness. We shall prepare something to befit your new title at once!" She turned immediately to summon tailors forward.
"Your mate must have been most honoured by your Lordship's offering the first night," a younger priestess commented, bowing, her face lit. "The Goddess must be especially overjoyed!"
"Yes; yes...," Shrapnel answered softly, feeling his spark twinge painfully at the reminder. What Bombshell had done... It was unthinkable; unmentionable! Not a single one of his tribe members would understand or even fathom why the other kittycon would have done what he had. Fists clenching within his sleeves, the youngling held his chin high, forcing a smile to his face. His optics remained dim though. "Yes, it was a magnificent offer; offer. The Goddess will be most pleased; pleased."
His gathered entourage beamed at the statement, ushering the prince into his royal chambers, to get changed for the festivities.
xxXxXxx
He hated meetings. Groaning as Yoketron finally quit his droning, Bombshell quickly gathered his things, getting up and lazily marching out the door after the others. Brainstorm tried to wave him down, probably to show him something, but honestly the kittycon just didn't care. He wanted to go home, get some take-out and booze, put on a decent porn vid and just veg for the rest of the night. After all, there was nothing better to do without Shrapnel to frag.
Why had he just up and disappeared off to the Tribes anyway? Primus only knew, considering the brat had been insistent on never going back. Not until he'd been knocked up anyhow, and despite his few tries, Bombshell currently hadn't made that a reality. It seemed less likely that was going to happen now since the daring cub had tried to poison him. Really? Poison, a narcotics dealer? How stupid could you get?
"S'cuse me Razorclaw," the Insectipuma grumbled, trying to move around the lion's frame. The predakitty stared quietly, taking a step back.
"Oh! Oh, Bombshell!," Divebomb squealed, coming out of a side room. No guesses there what those two had just been up to. "How are you! Oh, you must be having lots of fun, yes? Oh, oh, how is your bondmate faring?! He's Insectipuma, correct?"
Bombshell was forced to stop as the lioness blocked his path, making a face as she mentioned Shrapnel. "How do you even-"
"She knows who everyone is with," Razorclaw politely answered. "Don't question it."
"Yeah, okay...," the shorter mech grumbled.
"So, so, so!," Divebomb bounced, tail swishing up a storm behind her. Her optics gleamed gleefully and her intakes quickened. "Tell! Details! I'm not so familiar with Insectipuma traditions but I know all the Tribes' festival falls on the same month, so how was it?! What did you do? Oh, oh, it must have been so fantastic! The Goddess must be so impressed! I mean-"
"...what are you talking about?," Bombshell cut in exasperatedly, confused and really not wanting to participate in the femme's mind games at the moment. Two stunned expressions stared back at him. "Listen, I don't know what you are going on about. I know slag all about tribal rituals, but if you're that desperate to find out, go talk to the brat. He ran back to the Tribes to be with 'his people'."
Razorclaw canted his helm an inch, his visor dim. "Bombshell... Did you receive an offer?"
"What offer?," the kittycon demanded, even less patient. "The only thing the kid did this month, was try poisoning me with some of his home-made cooking. Unfortunately for him, I've got a nose for narcotics and I tossed that slag in the trash where it belonged. Otherwise, he's been holed up in his room until he had to go back home for 'royal duties'."
Divebomb straightened up in a flash, her face drained of all previous excitement, leaving only a mask of horror; quickly transforming into one of enraged disbelief. "Y-you... you threw a-away... the offering?," she gaped. "H-how... you... how could you..."
"How could I wha-AAAAOOOOOOH!" Bombshell crashed against the adjacent wall as the lioness suddenly lunged for him, fangs and claws bared, hunger in her flashing optics. Razorclaw intercepted within nanokliks, crashing into the floor with his mate; growling and wrestling as she tried to claw and bite her way past him and to the Insectipuma. Spark pulsating so fast it left him dizzy, the vendor weakly shuffled away as Razorclaw rose to his pedes, tackling the charging Divebomb again, back into the closet they'd occupied earlier. Her snarls and roars continued for a klik after the door had been slammed shut, before a different sound altogether filtered out of the room.
Fist clenched to his aching spark, Bombshell shuffled faster down the hall, eager to get out of the building and away from the psycho femme that had just tried to eat him for breakfast.
C.M.D: How many of you thought I was done with these two? I'm happy to say, no I'm not XD
Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?