TF: Hound and Mirage Prompt #13 Yellow
Title: Getting Into Character
Fandom: Transformers G1
Characters: Hound/Mirage (Drag Strip)
Prompt: Yellow
Word Count: 5,022
Rating: NC-17 (comparative mecha erotica, no human analogy)
Author's Notes: Deleted scene from the Gen. 1 episode 'Masquerade'.
At the first splash of yellow to emerge from the shadowy corridor, Hound sprang, grasping at shape rather than identifiable body parts. His fingertips connected with hard, flush surfaces waist-high and his hands cinched reflexively around two narrow forearms, giving a curt tug that jolted the both of them. In a split second, barely time enough for his target to grunt, Hound had thoroughly seized the taller mech, bringing him to a stunned halt.
He stared captivated into the glimmer of reflected light bounding off from a freshly clear-coated back panel like he would a paradise pond, breaking the evening sun's rays to recast them with a beauty no mere star could give them. It was that caliber of pristine, wet-looking finish, that demanded attention without touching. Cool and satisfying liquid sheen, and you dare not break the surface to spoil the splendor. And, while Hound would normally observe such a rule, this was no pond he held in his grasp, and he was up to having more than a swim.
Oh, yes. Spoil was certainly in this paint job's future. Hound would likely apologize for it later. Now, it was more of an issue determining just how much he could do to warrant an apology, as he delighted in the feel of an angular hip supporting him, the foreign thrum of another mech's systems penetrating his hull with rapid and rabid effect, and the scent of newly mounted, unridden tires.
"Hello, Drag Strip." The greeting was playful, though relatively soft, made in a volume set for secrecy despite the course rumble created in his effort not to topple. The initial impact had been worse than even he had expected. "I see now why it took so long for you to get out of there," he remarked in a tone that was much too slinky to pass for innocent admiration - as if the tracker had anything innocent in mind, anyway - and he slid further into an amative purr when he continued. "You know that's not going to last long? Not for what you'll be doing." He tilted his view to the back of Drag Strip's helm, expectant, but received no reply.
Neither struggle nor protest came from the Stunticon either, as both Hound and he remained motionless front to back in a dangerously sharp right lean. Advantage could easily have been claimed, he realized. Tempting, it was. Instead, in a move of orchestrated care, Drag Strip crouched slightly for bearing, then reclined left, pushing Hound to sync with his movement and setting their balance to rights. Then, merely and oddly, he did nothing more than stand there as a begrudged captive.
Pressing forward with a bare moan which he ensured would roll straight across the racer's audial housing, Hound then asked, "Not going to speak to me, huh?"
Both the moan and Hound's words skittered ticklishly around the curve of Drag Strip's helm, the very deliberate pounce from one pitch to another delivering perfectly to temptable sensor nodes and tweaking his receptiveness. But, he suppressed the urge to shake, and answered only with the swivel of his head. It just enough to catch the over-eager Jeep at the edge of his optic band with a dull glow of disapproval. The acknowledgement was brief, unrevealing of the interest that, in truth, began to nag in his processor. Then he turned away, determined to give up nothing.
Hound, on the other hand, had no such reservation of mind. He made his intentions distinctive in every action, every sound.
The muted hum of a nearby generator was swiftly overridden by wispy expulsions of air from his parted lips. Increasingly erratic and lewd, they said enough. Broken in lust, sharp with excitability, quiet as conspiracy, and they splayed across Drag Strip's back as the play he knew Hound's hands had yet to engage in.
Indeed, the Decepticon knew well that pattern of breathing. Coolant distribution that had fallen far behind long ago required the additional ventilation for Hound's heated internals, because he'd worked himself into an overzealous, motionless mechanism. Being driven purely - or, not so pure - by vivid scenes in his imaging program, and likely working out, databit by databit, he'd probably planned every minute action he wanted to execute on the shimmering yellow form. Yes, Drag Strip was fully aware of this, and aware of what was to follow.
Unfortunately - or, perhaps not - the very thought damned him to eventual capitulation to this liaison, as he could only too clearly predict for himself what Hound would be planning.
The introductory attack spoke in magnitude of the voracious need for uncivil, wrested pleasures. Grasping and writhing and shuddering release, there was want for something volatile and delicious, with synthesizers straining at their limits... Hound's vibrant tenor... Ah, but that was the racer's personal preferences sneaking into the erotic collage.
But, he was neither ready nor willing to go down this soon. Not like this, and not without the upper hand. Drag Strip resolved to keep his focus, to not give in under the expectation of the tracker's touch, however pleasurable - incredibly pleasurable - it could be.
Without relinquishing his hold, Hound stepped back now. He visually roved in magnificent discovery of new territory. Slowly up and down unfamiliar structures he searched, identifying ridges, flats, contours, crevices, and his optics sparkled more with each detail. Vastly different, but very enticing.
A relatively unadorned body painted in a sun setting glaze beckoned him like a warm, caressive dusk. His limbs were narrow, easy and undemanding without the intricacies, except for the smooth, fat slicks mounted at the shoulders that devoured the dim light, and devoured Hound's attention like never before. Oh, yes. Those he would have to touch, as it was unusual for him to otherwise do so.
Set atop a broad torso was a helm of deep apple red that almost melded with the dark hue of the wall. Mostly round until hitting decorative cuts at the front to either side of the face, and with an upward slanted, black protrusion both left and right, it framed the racer's features well, giving him a devilishly handsome presentation. Perfectly angular, aggressive lines. Perfect lines for a Decepticon.
Hound wondered what manipulation of those many Decepticon lines would yield, or, for that matter, which particular line to begin with. Oh, such innumerable possibilities!
Fingers loosened and tightened several times over, scraping, scrambling in short, lust-laden circuits over Drag Strip's forearms, before Hound finally settled on a course. And he roughly steered the taller mech to the left, directing him into the darker passage Hound had ambushed him from.
His body never out of contact with the other, Hound kept up the smother of his guard, both waiting for and wanting for the retaliation to be expected of an enemy. Suspicion of a violent thrash made his finger hinges ache with over-extension. Each footstep he planted firmly for leverage against a potential, sweet collision. Desire for this svelte form to tangle with his as they hit the floor, wrestling for supremacy, set his relays aflood with lascivious messages far cast in an affair not yet guaranteed.
The things they told of, the actions they preset his body to do, the unyielding tantilization of how it all would feel, prompted an uncontrolled spike in his electrical output. Hound flinched to the blowing of two fuses, hissing sharply through the prickly alerts as he spun a routine to disarm them. He could not afford such distractions, to lose focus over things as minor as headlamp and wiperblade control, not with the wondrous fantasy of climactic reward spread bare in his mind's eye. It tingled like ghost hands on his plating, sparking like a trillion electric tongues flicking at his tactual network.
No, he had to keep his wits.
With a short huff of a growl, Hound shifted sharply to the right, eliciting a loud grunt of surprise from his captive. And still, there came no resistance to the harsh treatment, not even when Drag Strip felt himself shoved face first against a wall. Immediately after he received the crush of a hard bumper jammed midway down his back; an act of anxiousness and fiery desire that made the yellow mech mentally swallow a gasp and a quiver.
But, it was the second growl, now, drawn out into a rich, quavering moan of stolen pleasure, which Hound sent rumbling straight down the middle of his back and into his legs, that forced the racer rigid with thrill... Still, nothing more.
"Are you really going to make it this easy for me?" Hound asked through that vibrant and explicit noise, and Drag Strip was somewhat grateful to have those low resonating tones just then to cover his own sudden suspiration. "Or," Hound continued with a tentative slide of his dark, burly hand up a light, slimline arm, "are you just hoping I'll take it easy on you?"
Switching erratically from delicately sweeping fingertips to pressing and pushing palm, Hound did not allow for Drag Strip to defend his increasingly suasible senses.
The Stunticon winced at the wall, feeling friction searing at gears locked tensely against motions Drag Strip refused to commit to. Conscious denial of automated responses spawned heated wars in dozens of sub-actuators throughout his body, with computing processes running panic-stricken, and burning in his microchips like electric fire. It made it all the more difficult to resist.
He couldn't prevent the split-second flicker of his optic band, and it gave away his distress like a signal flare over a target zone. Incited as a bull to red challenge, Hound aimed to bring down his advesary.
With a capacity that seemed unrealistic for his construction, Hound flexed and coiled the whole of his thick body to better meet the yellow mech's contours, and hurried the advance of his right hand toward supple, black rubber. The outer edge of his hand dragged smartly across the rear outer seam of Drag Strip's arm, unleashing a flurry of twinge-inducing, high end resonance upon barely reigned receivers. He could feel the stunted turn and jerk-halt of the other's shoulder gears, could imagine the dull grind of that motion, the pleasure-pain result of it, and he arched in time with the yellow mech experiencing it.
Optics zeroed in on his movements, following every inch up the Decepticon's arm, feeling the pressure of his touch on the other, Hound placed his self inside of the sensations he created, further exciting himself. He exhaled sharply, repetitively, and more loudly with each expulsion, his mouth close enough at Drag Strip's back as to recycle in and process the chemical taste of his own exhausted coolant vapor mingled with that of the Decepticon's, as he, too, expelled it in guarded, gasping breaths.
The pad of Hound's thumb impacted with the semi-firm and vestal tire, and he shuddered, sighing with an audible whine of ecstacy. His other arm contracted to his side, causing that hand to jerk loose of Drag Strip's left wrist to catch instead at his hip. Fingertips crept nimbly along the inside curve, feeling the fine-textured newness, almost waxlike under his touch. So different from touching only the metal, not soft, but pliant all the same, and cool that was quintessentially dry rather than mistakenly wet. Hound loved that feeling, it made him crazy.
The quickened pace of the assault further crippled Drag Strip's resistance, dizzying him with mixed bouts of crashing, then lapping waves of stimulus. The touch to his tire was unexpected, and unexpectedly intense, with a restrained, muffled reverb that drastically counterpointed the sharpness of Hound's non-stop scuffing. A soft whimper escaped him as he crumpled against the wall, both hands slapping its surface with an echoing crack.
Hound refused his distancing immediately, digging in his hold of Drag Strip's side and yanking him back, coercing a tinny yelp from the yellow mech as their hips clashed. Spilling heat from his chest grill burned at the Decepticon's back, and Drag Strip thought it would melt the newly-applied clearcoat right off his panels, if it wasn't gouged off first by Hound's bumper and fender fronts. The Jeep twisted and scraped harder and harder, forcing the frantic, jostling physical contact Drag Strip would not freely give.
"Come on... come on!" The tracker both begged and demanded, his voice a pathetic squall rolling inside of a deeper, coarser rumble, and speaking in and around his patternless panting.
As explosive as the capture had been, as unrelenting as his actions were being carried out, this lack of reciprocity was wildly agitating Hound. He'd revved himself up in a euphoric visual high, imagination driven by hardcore thoughts he rarely had. Anticipation had made him tremble, made him wait outside of that room for over two hours for Drag Strip to emerge - and this wasn't enough!
Determination degenerated to desperation with another shaky plea. "Do.... do s-s-" and his words fell beneath a lustful cry when he thrust himself against Drag Strip in frustration, gripping the racer's slick with enough pent up arousal to leave dimpled impressions in the outer wall. "Some... something..." he breathed out on a quavering sigh.
There just had to be more!
His will to refuse the green mech's rapacious overture being chipped and chopped away, Drag Strip cringed at the wall. His every circuit screamed for surrender, to give in to this ravishment and satisfy his own seething needs.
As the tracker's rattling fingers reorganized around Drag Strip's arms, constricting with the inches they drew down toward his elbows, he narrowed his concentration, listening for the semi-rhythmic, in-out air exchange, and hid his own shallow panting in that of the Jeep's. Just then, Hound drew the yellow mech's arms back, making the racer arch with the force.
Not neccesarily uncomfortable as much as it was irritating, Drag Strip decided. Hound really never did anything to purposefully cause discomfort. But, he did occasionally like it rough, and the fact that Drag Strip wasn't straying down this path with him left the tracker in a coiled, hair-trigger condition. Because he lacked the truly nasty side, the nature of hostility, Hound could never bring himself to outright take in a situation like this. And, as a result, he ultimately became the victim. Drag Strip knew this, knew how potentially retarding the inability to release could be.
This is what the Decepticon was hoping for.
Sure enough, Hound's arms began to shake. They clattered noisily to the underside of his fenders, his axial rods impossibly tense in their moorings inside either gearbox. A faint, pitiful squawk sounded from the collision of winch and backplate when Hound collapsed forward against the other and shivered uncontrollably, tormented in the buildup to a moment that would not come.
Drag Strip flinched at the sensation, exhaling with all of his uncertainty to be steadfast, and decided then it was too much for him to retain his stubborn composure.
But, as he caved, so too did Hound.
"Please... fight back!" The Jeep's frazzled plea broke over the Stunticon's neck, hotly stammered past a stiff, quivering jaw.
Perfect moment to break the silence without losing face.
Once again, turning just enough to expose a defiant red optic band, and recollecting all of the resilience he could, Drag Strip responded coyly, "I am."
Finally, there was the broken train of thought, actions stuttering to a bewildered flash of blue optics. All of Hound's manic motions ceased. How rare an instance that his attention span faltered, distracted as so that his grip of the situation, and of Drag Strip's arms, slipped by the barest fraction, that his weight lessened at the lighter mech's frame.
Optics flickered now, fluttering without Hound's bearing, and his mouth hanging just so as to give him that 'disconnected battery cable' expression. And while it was actually enough to make Drag Strip laugh, he was far too disciplined a mech to let opportunity pass him by.
He did, however, allow for a private sigh of relief while he pivoted sharp enough to break the tracker's hold. He did allow for an induldgent growl of his own, as he effortlessly stole Hound's balance with a calculated slip of a leg between two green ankles and the scuffling of heavy feet, capturing the Jeep's left hand and his windshield frame to direct the inevitable and unpleasant crash. Drag Strip did allow for his previously restrained interest to dictate the fall of their bodies, and just how he wound up straddled over Hound's left hip, pinning his dark hands at his undercarriage.
The resounding clash and clatter echoed down the dim corridor, the duration of which lasted longer than the entire sequence of motion to bring it to be.
Hound's sharp groan bounced off the deck in such an after-the-fact manner, the yellow mech had to wonder if his processor was just now registering what had transpired. Blue optics fixated at the wall, mouth hanging agape with shock, Hound did not so much as move a hinge. Even the shakiness of the Jeep's limbs was absent. For a moment, the Stunticon suspected he'd burned out a motivity module in his primary systems cluster, but he was proven wrong shortly after.
"Good..." Hound choked out weakly, still staring straight ahead at the wall. Then, he tilted his head just enough to show a nervous, twitchy grin up at his advesary. "You... you're much too good at that."
"Better than you, you forget," Drag Strip pointed out in dark, uncharacteristically sleazy tones, his optic band pulsing once with brilliant deviance, to which Hound merely nodded. Then, the green mech hissed and winced as Drag Strip wrenched his forearms inward, forcing the backs of his pinky fingers together. The racer grasped them in one hand, a satisfied gleam to his expression, leaving the other hand free to conduct vengeful deeds. With a smirk, he asked, "Am I fighting back well enough to your liking, now?" And to those words, he grazed the back of that free hand across Hound's exposed flank, running the full length of the ridge of his waist.
The tracker arched sorely and awkwardly over structures that had no business bearing his weight in such a position. But, he sighed salaciously all the same. Especially for when Drag Strip exacted Hound's own tactics against him, changing pressure and, therefore, sensation by curling his fingers, so that only the edges of his knuckle joints made contact.
The precision, tip-light scratches sent shrill signals of exquisite pleasure speeding through Hound's tactual network. He gasped and contorted, his optics flickering wildly to the assault. Hip and thighs banged and bumped to the inside of either of the Stunticon's legs, as he tottered over a severely dented axial rod housing.
"Getting there..." Hound squawked in reply to the bigger mech's question, when Drag Strip shifted course along his side in a dangerous approach toward dainty and wholly vulnerable vent slats.
Delighted in his position of dominance, Drag Strip smiled insidiously down at the twisting, twitching collection of glistening green paint and chrome, dark burnished brown, and hazy, glowing gold trim that was Hound. The sight of him, frenzied thrashing shifting shadows and highlights, recasting the Decepticon's red as frenetically as a strobe light, stimulated the racer as much as the feel of it all.
And, oh... there was the ecstatic, mid-tenor cry of Hound's synthesizer, breathy and explicit as it filled up Drag Strip's audials. He bent closer and absorbed every erotic decibel as though it was touch rather than sound. A deep, enraptured groan rolled past the Decepticon's lips to penetrate the hind end of Hound's quarter panel that lay exposed just inches below Drag Strip's face. The Jeep's response was yet another wild and piercing cry, that sank in to scrape maniacally at Drag Strip's very wire leads, and inciting, for the first time in this whole scenario, his haptic augmentors.
With a savage surge in sensitivity levels, the yellow mech threw back his head and unleashed a depraved roar of euphoria, which slammed into the nape of the other's neck, his optic band blazing brightly as a star going nova and shading everything before him in a crimson wash.
In moments senseless with obscene delectation, Drag Strip constricted his legs at either side of the broad thighs between them, clinging to better feel the shivering that had once again erupted in the tracker's frame. His hand clamped harder into Hound's side, shaping the metal to his fingertips, and stealing a strained yelp from a vocoder already cluttered with incredible carnal sounds.
"Should I take that as your wanting for me to continue?" The racer prodded with a gently rolling, teasing inflection that perversely contrasted his aggressiveness. But his hand quickly caught up to his words, releasing its vice-grip to resume the taunting trail toward the intended target. "Like this?" He questioned lubriciously.
Hound squirmed within the confines of the Stunticon's body, optics pulsing erratically, and Drag Strip obliged his desires before giving him the chance to voice approval. No need to allow for such cumbersome things as choice now, as Drag Strip was fully in control of the devious proceedings, and was more than content to express this.
Gliding his palm so soft as to force the green mech to wriggle and bend for the contact, to manipulate every bit of sensation his sensors could receive and feed to famished microprocessors. Still, Drag Strip maintained that torturous, light touch, steadily and accurately, to every shift and jerk of Hound's body, until reaching the bottom edge of his quarter panel with a deliberate, delicious thump.
A clacking thwack erupted from the deck to the lashing of Hound's feet, the only range of motion left to outlet his swiftly cresting arousal, and he wanted for what lay beyond that peak.
But, with a tiny flash that showed at the rear seam of his hood, Hound's thermal regulators shorted. Instantly, his temperature spiked with the failing of fanblades, as sub-actuators dictated their shutdown to reroute the extra energy, compensating for what his impending resonance required. Hound gasped through the building heat, panting harder, and tried amid the tumult of physical distraction to manually rechannel power to the fanblade motors.
Another flick and sweep from the yellow mech's hand slinking up his side, and he just couldn't do it.
"Ohhh..." Hound breathed explicitly, burning air wavering his vision as he shuttered his optics.
"Is this how you wanted it?" The racer pressed again, his fingers stalking slowly like slender spider legs, closer and closer to the quarry, those frail, thin vents. They stirred up a curt, cringing intake of air with each tinny tap they made against the tracker's metal.
Indeed, he knew exactly where to bear down on. Nothing else in Hound's construction could catapult him to instantaneous multi-level resonance like his vents. So otherwise insignificant but for moments like this. They meant everything, now.
But, a circuit's breadth from touching that first delicate slat on Hound's side, Drag Strip paused, and he felt the Jeep's intense shudder of anticipation reverberating through his legs, his hips, spreading like a sensual virus into his abdomen.
"Like this?" He asked again around an aroused growl.
The rumbling of Drag Strip's words sought and touched Hound's resonance reciprocators, awakening them in a yowl of erotic information. He let loose a thick, prurient moan, rolling back over his damaged shoulder hard enough to separate the Decepticon's right leg from behind his thighs.
"Go there..." Hound begged raggedly between hot, heaving gasps.
"Like this," Drag Strip prompted again, allowing the very tip of his index finger to dip into the narrow crevice of the first slat, "Hound?"
And his name came out on such a tittilating expulsion, Hound snapped with blind, all-consuming desperation, coiling and writhing and rocking and, "Oh... do it!" He cried out on an explosive breath, his pitch wavering deliriously.
His sensor nodes ablaze with yearning for the scraping penetration, for that one delectable allowance of stimulus that would thrust his systems into an abyss of incomparable pleasure. His overheating internals would not sustain themselves for long. It had to happen now!
"Just do it! Drag Strip... please..."
Hound's windshield frame buckled when he was slammed hard on the deck, and he bellowed his hurt and surprise from beneath a yellow hand covering his mouth. His optics lit like a solar flare as, at once, to the crossing of the Stunticon's fingertip from one end of the slat to the other, Hound's body erupted in a vibratory maelstrom, with his first two oscillating systems coming to life in devastating, rapid-fire succession.
Excruciating in the initial moments, the Jeep could do little more than brace and scream up at the shadowed bulkhead, his arms flailing frantically to hammer at the cold, unyielding surface beneath him. High and mid-range resonant frequencies clashed like violent sleepwalkers needing to be shaken to, causing a flurry of racking alerts from his vibro-sensors, and sending his entire body into a fit of recoil spasms.
Seconds trickled past like minutes, intensifying the abusive, out-of-control rattling of his cogs and gear shafts, as they stuttered and tumbled and whirred, trying to smoothen pitch, and fall into a harmony between the two separate systems.
Exhaustion and over-heating taking their toll, Hound's wailing withered to a pathetic whimper, and it was then he felt the other mech's hand leave his lips to capture one of his battering fists. The hold was restrictive, firm, but gentle; a gesture of tenderness and supportiveness in the midst of intense physical chaos. Hound unfurled his fists and latched onto Drag Strip's hand with both of his, squeezing hard through the vicious, unrelenting alert pulses, until they finally began to subside with the coalescing of his resonant frequencies.
With a shuddering sigh, the green mech relaxed his rigid frame, the last trace of discord laying down like a newly-benign ghost inside of him, releasing him to induldgence.
"Mmm..." Hound hummed pleasurably to the euphoria, hearing a sweet, mellow return echoed by the yellow mech above him.
Waves of vibration lapped at and over one another and through the both of them, like a trance-inducing ripple of a pond perfectly mated with a breath-taking ocean tide. Coming on a gentle nudge, leaving in a seductive pull, over and over and over. The sensation itself like a a trembling hand that stroked, inside and out, every detail of their bodies, until Hound's extraneous power reserves gave out, and his oscillation drifted to a wholly satisfied, flaccid purr.
The tracker's optics strayed from the dark outlines above them to the racer's softly lit face, and he smiled tiredly and high. "Just like that," Hound panted out, freeing one hand from their cluster between them to caress Drag Strip's arm from the slick down to his wrist, leaving a whispery trail of vibration in its wake.
"Ahhngh..." Drag Strip rumbled out at the lovely touch, bowing his head and dimming his optic band, allowing himself, for a moment, to focus entirely on that blissful sensation.
But, he had neither the time nor the energy now to spare for his own arousal. Enduring with Hound's release had been difficult enough, as overwhelming and incredible as it was. It was all he could do to keep his own resonance systems in check... for the time being.
"Tell me something, Hound," Drag Strip said in an entirely subdued tone. He rearranged his hand at the green mech's side to press a thumb against the edge of the topmost vent slat, and lazily dragging it down over each one, creating a tinny tap-tap-tap as he went. "Is this some demented fantasy of yours?" He continued, unable to hide the gratified smile, as the tracker below him twitched and sharply grunted to each punctuated touch. "To be with a Decepticon?"
Hound flinched at the question, optics flickering briefly, as though he hadn't quite registered the question above the intoxicated murmur of his cogs. The lazy whir of his gears continued, vibration cascading and fluttering like a distant hoard of microscopic, mechanical butterflies, spreading in search of and to taste of summer's nectar. He'd be completely fritzed if all three systems had roused.
"Not going to speak to me?" Drag Strip added, his smile growing.
The words did little to shake Hound. Instead, it was the Stunticon's kind expression, that was entirely not his, that made his question sink in.
"My fantasy," the Jeep began in a worn out volume, but with a muddled grin, "demented or not, is to be with you, Mirage-"
"Oh, really?" The yellow mech broke in with lighthearted, sarcastic tones.
"And right now, Drag Strip never looked so good."
Hound explored the quizzical mech above him, picking out the finer and gentler features of the Autobot spy beneath the angular lines and red optic band. He could see in his hazy mind's eye the placement of that striking crest atop his helm, the grand accents of a faint, sky blue face framed by a darker, majestic blue, and the ever-beautiful optics that tracked him as much Hound himself tracked.
He could also see the raising of a browridge, an unspoken response of skepticism. Hound chuckled weakly at that, offering a compensatory explanation. "I thought I'd give you a hand getting in character for the mission."
"Yeah? And Hoist is going to drop cylinders when he sees what you've done to his work."
"It was worth it..." the green mech affirmed softly, before fading in a momentary depletion lapse as he finally managed to divert power back to his cooling fans.
"To help me get into character..." Mirage repeated with a 'you're full of it' huff, shaking his head while he began to rise, and pulling Hound to a stand, as well. Then, he worked to steady the teetering, trembling form in his arms, holding him in a careful embrace, waiting for Hound to look at him. When fringy, blue optics managed to make connection, Mirage stated with barely hidden interest and promise in his tone, "Personally, I think you should be more concerned about the character you'll be facing when I get back from this masquerade."
/deleted scene
Fandom: Transformers G1
Characters: Hound/Mirage (Drag Strip)
Prompt: Yellow
Word Count: 5,022
Rating: NC-17 (comparative mecha erotica, no human analogy)
Author's Notes: Deleted scene from the Gen. 1 episode 'Masquerade'.
At the first splash of yellow to emerge from the shadowy corridor, Hound sprang, grasping at shape rather than identifiable body parts. His fingertips connected with hard, flush surfaces waist-high and his hands cinched reflexively around two narrow forearms, giving a curt tug that jolted the both of them. In a split second, barely time enough for his target to grunt, Hound had thoroughly seized the taller mech, bringing him to a stunned halt.
He stared captivated into the glimmer of reflected light bounding off from a freshly clear-coated back panel like he would a paradise pond, breaking the evening sun's rays to recast them with a beauty no mere star could give them. It was that caliber of pristine, wet-looking finish, that demanded attention without touching. Cool and satisfying liquid sheen, and you dare not break the surface to spoil the splendor. And, while Hound would normally observe such a rule, this was no pond he held in his grasp, and he was up to having more than a swim.
Oh, yes. Spoil was certainly in this paint job's future. Hound would likely apologize for it later. Now, it was more of an issue determining just how much he could do to warrant an apology, as he delighted in the feel of an angular hip supporting him, the foreign thrum of another mech's systems penetrating his hull with rapid and rabid effect, and the scent of newly mounted, unridden tires.
"Hello, Drag Strip." The greeting was playful, though relatively soft, made in a volume set for secrecy despite the course rumble created in his effort not to topple. The initial impact had been worse than even he had expected. "I see now why it took so long for you to get out of there," he remarked in a tone that was much too slinky to pass for innocent admiration - as if the tracker had anything innocent in mind, anyway - and he slid further into an amative purr when he continued. "You know that's not going to last long? Not for what you'll be doing." He tilted his view to the back of Drag Strip's helm, expectant, but received no reply.
Neither struggle nor protest came from the Stunticon either, as both Hound and he remained motionless front to back in a dangerously sharp right lean. Advantage could easily have been claimed, he realized. Tempting, it was. Instead, in a move of orchestrated care, Drag Strip crouched slightly for bearing, then reclined left, pushing Hound to sync with his movement and setting their balance to rights. Then, merely and oddly, he did nothing more than stand there as a begrudged captive.
Pressing forward with a bare moan which he ensured would roll straight across the racer's audial housing, Hound then asked, "Not going to speak to me, huh?"
Both the moan and Hound's words skittered ticklishly around the curve of Drag Strip's helm, the very deliberate pounce from one pitch to another delivering perfectly to temptable sensor nodes and tweaking his receptiveness. But, he suppressed the urge to shake, and answered only with the swivel of his head. It just enough to catch the over-eager Jeep at the edge of his optic band with a dull glow of disapproval. The acknowledgement was brief, unrevealing of the interest that, in truth, began to nag in his processor. Then he turned away, determined to give up nothing.
Hound, on the other hand, had no such reservation of mind. He made his intentions distinctive in every action, every sound.
The muted hum of a nearby generator was swiftly overridden by wispy expulsions of air from his parted lips. Increasingly erratic and lewd, they said enough. Broken in lust, sharp with excitability, quiet as conspiracy, and they splayed across Drag Strip's back as the play he knew Hound's hands had yet to engage in.
Indeed, the Decepticon knew well that pattern of breathing. Coolant distribution that had fallen far behind long ago required the additional ventilation for Hound's heated internals, because he'd worked himself into an overzealous, motionless mechanism. Being driven purely - or, not so pure - by vivid scenes in his imaging program, and likely working out, databit by databit, he'd probably planned every minute action he wanted to execute on the shimmering yellow form. Yes, Drag Strip was fully aware of this, and aware of what was to follow.
Unfortunately - or, perhaps not - the very thought damned him to eventual capitulation to this liaison, as he could only too clearly predict for himself what Hound would be planning.
The introductory attack spoke in magnitude of the voracious need for uncivil, wrested pleasures. Grasping and writhing and shuddering release, there was want for something volatile and delicious, with synthesizers straining at their limits... Hound's vibrant tenor... Ah, but that was the racer's personal preferences sneaking into the erotic collage.
But, he was neither ready nor willing to go down this soon. Not like this, and not without the upper hand. Drag Strip resolved to keep his focus, to not give in under the expectation of the tracker's touch, however pleasurable - incredibly pleasurable - it could be.
Without relinquishing his hold, Hound stepped back now. He visually roved in magnificent discovery of new territory. Slowly up and down unfamiliar structures he searched, identifying ridges, flats, contours, crevices, and his optics sparkled more with each detail. Vastly different, but very enticing.
A relatively unadorned body painted in a sun setting glaze beckoned him like a warm, caressive dusk. His limbs were narrow, easy and undemanding without the intricacies, except for the smooth, fat slicks mounted at the shoulders that devoured the dim light, and devoured Hound's attention like never before. Oh, yes. Those he would have to touch, as it was unusual for him to otherwise do so.
Set atop a broad torso was a helm of deep apple red that almost melded with the dark hue of the wall. Mostly round until hitting decorative cuts at the front to either side of the face, and with an upward slanted, black protrusion both left and right, it framed the racer's features well, giving him a devilishly handsome presentation. Perfectly angular, aggressive lines. Perfect lines for a Decepticon.
Hound wondered what manipulation of those many Decepticon lines would yield, or, for that matter, which particular line to begin with. Oh, such innumerable possibilities!
Fingers loosened and tightened several times over, scraping, scrambling in short, lust-laden circuits over Drag Strip's forearms, before Hound finally settled on a course. And he roughly steered the taller mech to the left, directing him into the darker passage Hound had ambushed him from.
His body never out of contact with the other, Hound kept up the smother of his guard, both waiting for and wanting for the retaliation to be expected of an enemy. Suspicion of a violent thrash made his finger hinges ache with over-extension. Each footstep he planted firmly for leverage against a potential, sweet collision. Desire for this svelte form to tangle with his as they hit the floor, wrestling for supremacy, set his relays aflood with lascivious messages far cast in an affair not yet guaranteed.
The things they told of, the actions they preset his body to do, the unyielding tantilization of how it all would feel, prompted an uncontrolled spike in his electrical output. Hound flinched to the blowing of two fuses, hissing sharply through the prickly alerts as he spun a routine to disarm them. He could not afford such distractions, to lose focus over things as minor as headlamp and wiperblade control, not with the wondrous fantasy of climactic reward spread bare in his mind's eye. It tingled like ghost hands on his plating, sparking like a trillion electric tongues flicking at his tactual network.
No, he had to keep his wits.
With a short huff of a growl, Hound shifted sharply to the right, eliciting a loud grunt of surprise from his captive. And still, there came no resistance to the harsh treatment, not even when Drag Strip felt himself shoved face first against a wall. Immediately after he received the crush of a hard bumper jammed midway down his back; an act of anxiousness and fiery desire that made the yellow mech mentally swallow a gasp and a quiver.
But, it was the second growl, now, drawn out into a rich, quavering moan of stolen pleasure, which Hound sent rumbling straight down the middle of his back and into his legs, that forced the racer rigid with thrill... Still, nothing more.
"Are you really going to make it this easy for me?" Hound asked through that vibrant and explicit noise, and Drag Strip was somewhat grateful to have those low resonating tones just then to cover his own sudden suspiration. "Or," Hound continued with a tentative slide of his dark, burly hand up a light, slimline arm, "are you just hoping I'll take it easy on you?"
Switching erratically from delicately sweeping fingertips to pressing and pushing palm, Hound did not allow for Drag Strip to defend his increasingly suasible senses.
The Stunticon winced at the wall, feeling friction searing at gears locked tensely against motions Drag Strip refused to commit to. Conscious denial of automated responses spawned heated wars in dozens of sub-actuators throughout his body, with computing processes running panic-stricken, and burning in his microchips like electric fire. It made it all the more difficult to resist.
He couldn't prevent the split-second flicker of his optic band, and it gave away his distress like a signal flare over a target zone. Incited as a bull to red challenge, Hound aimed to bring down his advesary.
With a capacity that seemed unrealistic for his construction, Hound flexed and coiled the whole of his thick body to better meet the yellow mech's contours, and hurried the advance of his right hand toward supple, black rubber. The outer edge of his hand dragged smartly across the rear outer seam of Drag Strip's arm, unleashing a flurry of twinge-inducing, high end resonance upon barely reigned receivers. He could feel the stunted turn and jerk-halt of the other's shoulder gears, could imagine the dull grind of that motion, the pleasure-pain result of it, and he arched in time with the yellow mech experiencing it.
Optics zeroed in on his movements, following every inch up the Decepticon's arm, feeling the pressure of his touch on the other, Hound placed his self inside of the sensations he created, further exciting himself. He exhaled sharply, repetitively, and more loudly with each expulsion, his mouth close enough at Drag Strip's back as to recycle in and process the chemical taste of his own exhausted coolant vapor mingled with that of the Decepticon's, as he, too, expelled it in guarded, gasping breaths.
The pad of Hound's thumb impacted with the semi-firm and vestal tire, and he shuddered, sighing with an audible whine of ecstacy. His other arm contracted to his side, causing that hand to jerk loose of Drag Strip's left wrist to catch instead at his hip. Fingertips crept nimbly along the inside curve, feeling the fine-textured newness, almost waxlike under his touch. So different from touching only the metal, not soft, but pliant all the same, and cool that was quintessentially dry rather than mistakenly wet. Hound loved that feeling, it made him crazy.
The quickened pace of the assault further crippled Drag Strip's resistance, dizzying him with mixed bouts of crashing, then lapping waves of stimulus. The touch to his tire was unexpected, and unexpectedly intense, with a restrained, muffled reverb that drastically counterpointed the sharpness of Hound's non-stop scuffing. A soft whimper escaped him as he crumpled against the wall, both hands slapping its surface with an echoing crack.
Hound refused his distancing immediately, digging in his hold of Drag Strip's side and yanking him back, coercing a tinny yelp from the yellow mech as their hips clashed. Spilling heat from his chest grill burned at the Decepticon's back, and Drag Strip thought it would melt the newly-applied clearcoat right off his panels, if it wasn't gouged off first by Hound's bumper and fender fronts. The Jeep twisted and scraped harder and harder, forcing the frantic, jostling physical contact Drag Strip would not freely give.
"Come on... come on!" The tracker both begged and demanded, his voice a pathetic squall rolling inside of a deeper, coarser rumble, and speaking in and around his patternless panting.
As explosive as the capture had been, as unrelenting as his actions were being carried out, this lack of reciprocity was wildly agitating Hound. He'd revved himself up in a euphoric visual high, imagination driven by hardcore thoughts he rarely had. Anticipation had made him tremble, made him wait outside of that room for over two hours for Drag Strip to emerge - and this wasn't enough!
Determination degenerated to desperation with another shaky plea. "Do.... do s-s-" and his words fell beneath a lustful cry when he thrust himself against Drag Strip in frustration, gripping the racer's slick with enough pent up arousal to leave dimpled impressions in the outer wall. "Some... something..." he breathed out on a quavering sigh.
There just had to be more!
His will to refuse the green mech's rapacious overture being chipped and chopped away, Drag Strip cringed at the wall. His every circuit screamed for surrender, to give in to this ravishment and satisfy his own seething needs.
As the tracker's rattling fingers reorganized around Drag Strip's arms, constricting with the inches they drew down toward his elbows, he narrowed his concentration, listening for the semi-rhythmic, in-out air exchange, and hid his own shallow panting in that of the Jeep's. Just then, Hound drew the yellow mech's arms back, making the racer arch with the force.
Not neccesarily uncomfortable as much as it was irritating, Drag Strip decided. Hound really never did anything to purposefully cause discomfort. But, he did occasionally like it rough, and the fact that Drag Strip wasn't straying down this path with him left the tracker in a coiled, hair-trigger condition. Because he lacked the truly nasty side, the nature of hostility, Hound could never bring himself to outright take in a situation like this. And, as a result, he ultimately became the victim. Drag Strip knew this, knew how potentially retarding the inability to release could be.
This is what the Decepticon was hoping for.
Sure enough, Hound's arms began to shake. They clattered noisily to the underside of his fenders, his axial rods impossibly tense in their moorings inside either gearbox. A faint, pitiful squawk sounded from the collision of winch and backplate when Hound collapsed forward against the other and shivered uncontrollably, tormented in the buildup to a moment that would not come.
Drag Strip flinched at the sensation, exhaling with all of his uncertainty to be steadfast, and decided then it was too much for him to retain his stubborn composure.
But, as he caved, so too did Hound.
"Please... fight back!" The Jeep's frazzled plea broke over the Stunticon's neck, hotly stammered past a stiff, quivering jaw.
Perfect moment to break the silence without losing face.
Once again, turning just enough to expose a defiant red optic band, and recollecting all of the resilience he could, Drag Strip responded coyly, "I am."
Finally, there was the broken train of thought, actions stuttering to a bewildered flash of blue optics. All of Hound's manic motions ceased. How rare an instance that his attention span faltered, distracted as so that his grip of the situation, and of Drag Strip's arms, slipped by the barest fraction, that his weight lessened at the lighter mech's frame.
Optics flickered now, fluttering without Hound's bearing, and his mouth hanging just so as to give him that 'disconnected battery cable' expression. And while it was actually enough to make Drag Strip laugh, he was far too disciplined a mech to let opportunity pass him by.
He did, however, allow for a private sigh of relief while he pivoted sharp enough to break the tracker's hold. He did allow for an induldgent growl of his own, as he effortlessly stole Hound's balance with a calculated slip of a leg between two green ankles and the scuffling of heavy feet, capturing the Jeep's left hand and his windshield frame to direct the inevitable and unpleasant crash. Drag Strip did allow for his previously restrained interest to dictate the fall of their bodies, and just how he wound up straddled over Hound's left hip, pinning his dark hands at his undercarriage.
The resounding clash and clatter echoed down the dim corridor, the duration of which lasted longer than the entire sequence of motion to bring it to be.
Hound's sharp groan bounced off the deck in such an after-the-fact manner, the yellow mech had to wonder if his processor was just now registering what had transpired. Blue optics fixated at the wall, mouth hanging agape with shock, Hound did not so much as move a hinge. Even the shakiness of the Jeep's limbs was absent. For a moment, the Stunticon suspected he'd burned out a motivity module in his primary systems cluster, but he was proven wrong shortly after.
"Good..." Hound choked out weakly, still staring straight ahead at the wall. Then, he tilted his head just enough to show a nervous, twitchy grin up at his advesary. "You... you're much too good at that."
"Better than you, you forget," Drag Strip pointed out in dark, uncharacteristically sleazy tones, his optic band pulsing once with brilliant deviance, to which Hound merely nodded. Then, the green mech hissed and winced as Drag Strip wrenched his forearms inward, forcing the backs of his pinky fingers together. The racer grasped them in one hand, a satisfied gleam to his expression, leaving the other hand free to conduct vengeful deeds. With a smirk, he asked, "Am I fighting back well enough to your liking, now?" And to those words, he grazed the back of that free hand across Hound's exposed flank, running the full length of the ridge of his waist.
The tracker arched sorely and awkwardly over structures that had no business bearing his weight in such a position. But, he sighed salaciously all the same. Especially for when Drag Strip exacted Hound's own tactics against him, changing pressure and, therefore, sensation by curling his fingers, so that only the edges of his knuckle joints made contact.
The precision, tip-light scratches sent shrill signals of exquisite pleasure speeding through Hound's tactual network. He gasped and contorted, his optics flickering wildly to the assault. Hip and thighs banged and bumped to the inside of either of the Stunticon's legs, as he tottered over a severely dented axial rod housing.
"Getting there..." Hound squawked in reply to the bigger mech's question, when Drag Strip shifted course along his side in a dangerous approach toward dainty and wholly vulnerable vent slats.
Delighted in his position of dominance, Drag Strip smiled insidiously down at the twisting, twitching collection of glistening green paint and chrome, dark burnished brown, and hazy, glowing gold trim that was Hound. The sight of him, frenzied thrashing shifting shadows and highlights, recasting the Decepticon's red as frenetically as a strobe light, stimulated the racer as much as the feel of it all.
And, oh... there was the ecstatic, mid-tenor cry of Hound's synthesizer, breathy and explicit as it filled up Drag Strip's audials. He bent closer and absorbed every erotic decibel as though it was touch rather than sound. A deep, enraptured groan rolled past the Decepticon's lips to penetrate the hind end of Hound's quarter panel that lay exposed just inches below Drag Strip's face. The Jeep's response was yet another wild and piercing cry, that sank in to scrape maniacally at Drag Strip's very wire leads, and inciting, for the first time in this whole scenario, his haptic augmentors.
With a savage surge in sensitivity levels, the yellow mech threw back his head and unleashed a depraved roar of euphoria, which slammed into the nape of the other's neck, his optic band blazing brightly as a star going nova and shading everything before him in a crimson wash.
In moments senseless with obscene delectation, Drag Strip constricted his legs at either side of the broad thighs between them, clinging to better feel the shivering that had once again erupted in the tracker's frame. His hand clamped harder into Hound's side, shaping the metal to his fingertips, and stealing a strained yelp from a vocoder already cluttered with incredible carnal sounds.
"Should I take that as your wanting for me to continue?" The racer prodded with a gently rolling, teasing inflection that perversely contrasted his aggressiveness. But his hand quickly caught up to his words, releasing its vice-grip to resume the taunting trail toward the intended target. "Like this?" He questioned lubriciously.
Hound squirmed within the confines of the Stunticon's body, optics pulsing erratically, and Drag Strip obliged his desires before giving him the chance to voice approval. No need to allow for such cumbersome things as choice now, as Drag Strip was fully in control of the devious proceedings, and was more than content to express this.
Gliding his palm so soft as to force the green mech to wriggle and bend for the contact, to manipulate every bit of sensation his sensors could receive and feed to famished microprocessors. Still, Drag Strip maintained that torturous, light touch, steadily and accurately, to every shift and jerk of Hound's body, until reaching the bottom edge of his quarter panel with a deliberate, delicious thump.
A clacking thwack erupted from the deck to the lashing of Hound's feet, the only range of motion left to outlet his swiftly cresting arousal, and he wanted for what lay beyond that peak.
But, with a tiny flash that showed at the rear seam of his hood, Hound's thermal regulators shorted. Instantly, his temperature spiked with the failing of fanblades, as sub-actuators dictated their shutdown to reroute the extra energy, compensating for what his impending resonance required. Hound gasped through the building heat, panting harder, and tried amid the tumult of physical distraction to manually rechannel power to the fanblade motors.
Another flick and sweep from the yellow mech's hand slinking up his side, and he just couldn't do it.
"Ohhh..." Hound breathed explicitly, burning air wavering his vision as he shuttered his optics.
"Is this how you wanted it?" The racer pressed again, his fingers stalking slowly like slender spider legs, closer and closer to the quarry, those frail, thin vents. They stirred up a curt, cringing intake of air with each tinny tap they made against the tracker's metal.
Indeed, he knew exactly where to bear down on. Nothing else in Hound's construction could catapult him to instantaneous multi-level resonance like his vents. So otherwise insignificant but for moments like this. They meant everything, now.
But, a circuit's breadth from touching that first delicate slat on Hound's side, Drag Strip paused, and he felt the Jeep's intense shudder of anticipation reverberating through his legs, his hips, spreading like a sensual virus into his abdomen.
"Like this?" He asked again around an aroused growl.
The rumbling of Drag Strip's words sought and touched Hound's resonance reciprocators, awakening them in a yowl of erotic information. He let loose a thick, prurient moan, rolling back over his damaged shoulder hard enough to separate the Decepticon's right leg from behind his thighs.
"Go there..." Hound begged raggedly between hot, heaving gasps.
"Like this," Drag Strip prompted again, allowing the very tip of his index finger to dip into the narrow crevice of the first slat, "Hound?"
And his name came out on such a tittilating expulsion, Hound snapped with blind, all-consuming desperation, coiling and writhing and rocking and, "Oh... do it!" He cried out on an explosive breath, his pitch wavering deliriously.
His sensor nodes ablaze with yearning for the scraping penetration, for that one delectable allowance of stimulus that would thrust his systems into an abyss of incomparable pleasure. His overheating internals would not sustain themselves for long. It had to happen now!
"Just do it! Drag Strip... please..."
Hound's windshield frame buckled when he was slammed hard on the deck, and he bellowed his hurt and surprise from beneath a yellow hand covering his mouth. His optics lit like a solar flare as, at once, to the crossing of the Stunticon's fingertip from one end of the slat to the other, Hound's body erupted in a vibratory maelstrom, with his first two oscillating systems coming to life in devastating, rapid-fire succession.
Excruciating in the initial moments, the Jeep could do little more than brace and scream up at the shadowed bulkhead, his arms flailing frantically to hammer at the cold, unyielding surface beneath him. High and mid-range resonant frequencies clashed like violent sleepwalkers needing to be shaken to, causing a flurry of racking alerts from his vibro-sensors, and sending his entire body into a fit of recoil spasms.
Seconds trickled past like minutes, intensifying the abusive, out-of-control rattling of his cogs and gear shafts, as they stuttered and tumbled and whirred, trying to smoothen pitch, and fall into a harmony between the two separate systems.
Exhaustion and over-heating taking their toll, Hound's wailing withered to a pathetic whimper, and it was then he felt the other mech's hand leave his lips to capture one of his battering fists. The hold was restrictive, firm, but gentle; a gesture of tenderness and supportiveness in the midst of intense physical chaos. Hound unfurled his fists and latched onto Drag Strip's hand with both of his, squeezing hard through the vicious, unrelenting alert pulses, until they finally began to subside with the coalescing of his resonant frequencies.
With a shuddering sigh, the green mech relaxed his rigid frame, the last trace of discord laying down like a newly-benign ghost inside of him, releasing him to induldgence.
"Mmm..." Hound hummed pleasurably to the euphoria, hearing a sweet, mellow return echoed by the yellow mech above him.
Waves of vibration lapped at and over one another and through the both of them, like a trance-inducing ripple of a pond perfectly mated with a breath-taking ocean tide. Coming on a gentle nudge, leaving in a seductive pull, over and over and over. The sensation itself like a a trembling hand that stroked, inside and out, every detail of their bodies, until Hound's extraneous power reserves gave out, and his oscillation drifted to a wholly satisfied, flaccid purr.
The tracker's optics strayed from the dark outlines above them to the racer's softly lit face, and he smiled tiredly and high. "Just like that," Hound panted out, freeing one hand from their cluster between them to caress Drag Strip's arm from the slick down to his wrist, leaving a whispery trail of vibration in its wake.
"Ahhngh..." Drag Strip rumbled out at the lovely touch, bowing his head and dimming his optic band, allowing himself, for a moment, to focus entirely on that blissful sensation.
But, he had neither the time nor the energy now to spare for his own arousal. Enduring with Hound's release had been difficult enough, as overwhelming and incredible as it was. It was all he could do to keep his own resonance systems in check... for the time being.
"Tell me something, Hound," Drag Strip said in an entirely subdued tone. He rearranged his hand at the green mech's side to press a thumb against the edge of the topmost vent slat, and lazily dragging it down over each one, creating a tinny tap-tap-tap as he went. "Is this some demented fantasy of yours?" He continued, unable to hide the gratified smile, as the tracker below him twitched and sharply grunted to each punctuated touch. "To be with a Decepticon?"
Hound flinched at the question, optics flickering briefly, as though he hadn't quite registered the question above the intoxicated murmur of his cogs. The lazy whir of his gears continued, vibration cascading and fluttering like a distant hoard of microscopic, mechanical butterflies, spreading in search of and to taste of summer's nectar. He'd be completely fritzed if all three systems had roused.
"Not going to speak to me?" Drag Strip added, his smile growing.
The words did little to shake Hound. Instead, it was the Stunticon's kind expression, that was entirely not his, that made his question sink in.
"My fantasy," the Jeep began in a worn out volume, but with a muddled grin, "demented or not, is to be with you, Mirage-"
"Oh, really?" The yellow mech broke in with lighthearted, sarcastic tones.
"And right now, Drag Strip never looked so good."
Hound explored the quizzical mech above him, picking out the finer and gentler features of the Autobot spy beneath the angular lines and red optic band. He could see in his hazy mind's eye the placement of that striking crest atop his helm, the grand accents of a faint, sky blue face framed by a darker, majestic blue, and the ever-beautiful optics that tracked him as much Hound himself tracked.
He could also see the raising of a browridge, an unspoken response of skepticism. Hound chuckled weakly at that, offering a compensatory explanation. "I thought I'd give you a hand getting in character for the mission."
"Yeah? And Hoist is going to drop cylinders when he sees what you've done to his work."
"It was worth it..." the green mech affirmed softly, before fading in a momentary depletion lapse as he finally managed to divert power back to his cooling fans.
"To help me get into character..." Mirage repeated with a 'you're full of it' huff, shaking his head while he began to rise, and pulling Hound to a stand, as well. Then, he worked to steady the teetering, trembling form in his arms, holding him in a careful embrace, waiting for Hound to look at him. When fringy, blue optics managed to make connection, Mirage stated with barely hidden interest and promise in his tone, "Personally, I think you should be more concerned about the character you'll be facing when I get back from this masquerade."
/deleted scene