Scenes and side-stories from Third Wheel.

Title: Spare Tires

Warning: This inhabits a weird area where it's a humor fic, but people sensitive to misunderstandings causing serious discomfort probably shouldn't read.

Rating: PG-13

Continuity: G1

Characters: Autobots. And some Decepticons. Everybody?

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): Scenes set in the Third Wheel fic universe without actually being in the story. This first part is ficlets I originally put in Candy From Strangers.

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Part One

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centerSunstreaker - "H = How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc."/center

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He didn't get at first why Sideswipe took up a guard position by the bunk. Privacy wasn't a big deal in the soldier barracks. Blinking at the frontliner's back, Smokescreen sank down on the bunk under Sunstreaker's insistent hands. The golden mech had been priming him all shift for this, however, and he quickly forgot that Sideswipe was glaring at anyone who even paused to take something out of a locker. He'd thought the other twin would be joining in, but apparently not. Well, that was fine. More attention for Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker pushed him down, straddled him, and caught him in a heated kiss that drove everything but lust from Smokescreen's helm. Big hands fondled his chest greedily. The outthrust nature of a Praxian frametype forced Sunstreaker to almost lunge over it, bearing downward to find his mouth, but that just gave him more of an advantage. He had Smokescreen down and helpless beneath him, and the rev of his engine betrayed how much he liked it.

Which was why it surprised Smokescreen when the bigger Autobot sat back slightly. With a wary glance over his shoulder at the rest of the barracks, Sunstreaker turned his attention back to the prone mech. Those black hands, fine tools of war, left Smokescreen's bumper and rose to slide up under the heavy gold shield of his own chest.

It clicked.

As Sunstreaker opened his hood, Smokescreen's fans stopped, and he suddenly understood. Sideswipe wasn't standing guard over them fragging. He was standing guard over a piece of art, like a security guard following around the last treasure of a long-destroyed gallery, something so precious he couldn't risk it being destroyed even by those he counted his allies.

And Smokescreen, the lone patron allowed in the private showing, looked into a spark chamber etched and whorled in achingly beautiful patterns, fragile carvings tucked behind immense layers of tough, crude slabs of armor plating. Across his face danced streaks of light from a glittering sun, a star so close he could touch it, hold it, feel its warmth.

But no one would ever capture it, not under Sideswipe's cautious guard.

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centerCliffjumper/Mirage - "B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner's) + Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)"/center

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"M'trying t' sleep," Cliffjumper mumbled into the bunk covering. Tattered as it was, the thick pad was still more comfortable than anything anyone else had. Pads were a luxury. Color him unsurprised that Mirage had managed to keep this one throughout multiple transfers, undercover missions, and the war in general. He preferred to recharge in Mirage's bunk because of it - alright, maybe because of the mech that came with the bunk, as well - but not when Mirage got all touchy like this.

The red minibot twitched, grunting.

"Cut it out."

A fine hand traced one of his helm projections with the lightest, tickling touch. The curved shape of the horn seemed to fascinate Mirage. Cliffjumper would never get a handle on what about him captivated the aristocratic spy, but that was probably intentional on Mirage's part. The noblemech liked his aura of mystery to remain intact. Cliffjumper liked to poke holes in it. They'd reached an understanding.

And that understanding included not molesting his helm after interfacing. He knew what that did to the minibot! "Stoppit," Cliffjumper tried again. "Gotta shift soon."

"Not so soon," Mirage whispered, and slender fingers cupped over one helm projection, pressing in and drawing up until they swirled around the pointed tip. The broad, wet surface of a tongue flicked a teasing lick up the same path.

Cliffjumper was suddenly very awake. Sleep wasn't the only use for that bunk pad under them.

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