All praise unto Primus, Who has bestowed phallic equipment upon Cybertron once more. The Constructicons react appropriately to this blessing.

Title: Ancient Dick Pics of Cybertron

Warning: Reference to rape. Sexual silliness. Breeding.Religion. The Constructicons' dildo collection.

Rating: R

Continuity: G1

Characters: Constructicons, Stunticons.

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

Motivation (Prompt): There was a prompt about stud-mechs being rare and highly desired, and I had this idea that wouldn't go away.

[* * * * *]

It was supposed to be a routine check of the newbies, just making sure they were running normal. Vector Sigma didn't remake Earth cars into Decepticons every day, after all. The abnormal surge of energy drawn from - myth said, and their best tracing of the power cords ended in absolute no source whatsoever, so what myth said was their best guess - Primus' AllSpark had turned Earth alloys into Cybertonium, shifted internal parts around into transformation points, and done several other impossible things nobody had the slightest clue how to explain. Everyone's understanding of what had happened boiled down to hand-wavy religious stuff. Megatron demanded, Primus answered, Vector Sigma obliged, and end result: Stunticons.

Crazy cars they might be, but they were mechs. Newbie Decepticon miracle mechs, Earth cars turned into warriors. The Constructicons were utterly baffled and more than a little alarmed that Megatron's demand of Vector Sigma actually resulted in something. At best, they'd been hoping the boss would be happy with car drones. They'd honestly expected Vector Sigma to fail. Sticking a spark into a car didn't result in a person; it resulted in a dead spark and a car with a big burn mark. Possibly an exploded car. Either way, the Constructicons had been discreetly preparing drone processors to put in the cars after Megatron was done screaming at one of their planet's oldest, most venerated holy objects for not bending to his will.

Bend it had, however, and now they had a handful of drone processors ready for their next project, which they'd get to after they checked on the rookies.

"Third request to renovate the chapel with more seating," Bonecrusher called from somewhere in the casting area, and Scrapper winced. Right. The project after that, then.

The lovely speedster he was examining turned a bland gaze on him. "Are we required to attend services?"

"Not exactly." Scrapper used his hardest voice, hoping to discourage questions. He wasn't about to explain that Dead End's mere existence had reignited faith in a big way among the Decepticons. The undersea base's chapel hadn't seen so much use since, well, ever. It'd been a glorified closet up until last week. Now everybody was reminded that Primus had His optics on them, and prayer had become a daily ritual once more.

Dead End sighed and turned his mask toward the wall with all the drama of a mech taking his last vent. "Fine. Execution for AWOL would be a quicker death than merely rusting from the damp of my quarters, I suppose."

"Mm-hm. Do you have a problem with rust?"

"No, but I will. It's inevitable."

Scrapper blinked at the gloomy answer. "I…see." Lovely, but about as much fun as Dirge. He made a note for Mixmaster to set those two up on a blind date. It'd been a while since his gestaltmate got to meddle with the chemistry between people instead of in the lab, and the base could use some matchmaking. A good frag might loosen Dead End up a bit.

"What do you mean 'itchy'?" Hook demanded from three repairberths over.

"I mean it itches!" The twitchy one was as pretty as his gestaltmate but twice as glitched. The Constructicons still took his gesture as an invitation to stare at his crotch with a great deal of interest. Glitchy or not, he had a nice shiny crotch. Breakdown immediately covered it with both hands and scowled. "Stop looking!"

"You're here for me to look at," Hook pointed out reasonably enough. His smirk was 100% sadism.

"Not like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like you want to dissect me!" Breakdown's knees drew up slightly toward his chest as the Constructicons continued to devour him with their gazes. Dissection was really the last thing on their filthy, filthy minds. "You don't all have to look at me!"

They relented when the whining hit a certain pitch. Also because they did have jobs to do, however tempting it was to drop everything and drool over the polished plating on the newbies. Primus, they were a pretty bunch of shinies.

Scrapper turned back to clinically prodding the death-obsessed Stunticon. Hook scraped up a molecule of professionalism in order to reassure Breakdown that they weren't all out to get him. Much. Today.

" - and I still need to know what you mean by 'itchy,'" he said over Breakdown's panicked hyperventilating. "If you've already got an infection in your valve, I won't be surprised. I've treated worse."

"Not my valve." For some reason, Breakdown curled even further into a defensive ball on the berth.

Dead End gave another over those overly dramatic sighs when Hook looked skeptical. "Breakdown doesn't enjoy interfacing with his valve. One can't blame him, considering Motormaster's size. It wouldn't surprise me if he splits us all in two, one by one, and wonders why our corpses won't combine into Menasor."

Hook and Scrapper gave him identical looks. Maybe it was time to sign him up for antidepressants. Mixmaster could always use an excuse to tamper with people's emotional subroutines via chemicals.

"I can't believe I'm going to have to schedule anger management counseling for one of you already," Scrapper said after a moment. He made another mental note. "Sticking your fist up someone's valve is not an acceptable disciplinary measure," he lectured. "Take a memo on this: if Lord Megatron won't do it to Starscream, then we're not allowed to do it to each other. Got that?"

Breakdown squeaked alarm as Hook tried to make him lie down, assuming the itching was from a badly healed valve. Fragging newbuilds and their idiocy. They'd have to get the whole combiner team in here to talk to if Motormaster had gone as far as using interfacing as a punishment. If it was just him fisting his subordinates as an extraordinarily stupid means of discipline, not knowing any better, then they were on their own. Scrapper wasn't touching that with a pole. He'd get Motormaster sat down and talked to about acceptable methods of beating on fellow Decepticons, and that would be the end of it.

Dead End interrupted his exasperated train of thought. "Why would he use his fist? Please don't suggest such a thing." He looked faintly ill.

"Oh, gross," Long Haul said from behind Scrapper somewhere. "What the slagging Pit has he been borking you with?"

"I didn't make 'em any dildos!" Bonecrusher called from the casting area. He seemed to be checking inventory. "Nobody's checked out any of the Devastators, either." While the Decepticons on Earth could and probably did make improvised interfacing aids from found Earth objects, most of the marginally intelligent ones just bought custom dildos from the Constructicons. The medbay had a whole section of rentals, too. The extra-large ones well beyond the Stunticons' design specs were popular, but Bonecrusher shook his head at the rest of the team. "Nobody would loan theirs to the new guys, so where'd Motormaster get his?"

"His d-dildo?" Breakdown said, tripping oddly over the new word.

Scrapper looked up, meeting Hook's visor in perfect understanding. Primus take the wheel. Teaching sex education wasn't anywhere in their job description.

"Not it!" Long Haul shouted, and five voices quickly piled on afterward.

"…frag me," Hook muttered. The thing about the gestalt bond was that it was fairly easy to tell who'd come in last. It worked great for the Interstellar Dibs Protocol, but not so much for the loser of the Not It Contest.

He growled his engine in supreme displeasure, then drew in a bracing vent. "Right. Fine. Listen up, you two." He pointed a stern finger at the two Stunticons, who looked somewhat alarmed by the Constructicons' collective interest in Motormaster's dildo. "The hole between your legs is called a valve. It's empty unless you put things up it, either by yourself or with the help of someone else. More than one someone else, if you're lucky. Putting things up it isn't supposed to hurt unless you're into that, in which case don't come crying to me because I won't fix you for damaging yourself on purpose. If someone else puts something in you and you don't enjoy it, stop them immediately. If they don't stop, call for help. If we don't kill them first, wait until they're recharging and do it yourself. It counts as Justifiable Revenge under several clauses of the Decepticon Code, and you're covered for anything up to and including a platoon of friends plus Starscream, although if anyone bothers to bring you up on charges afterward, you'll probably have to tell your side of the story to Lord Megatron in person for getting Starscream involved."

"It's just a formality," Scrapper assured them. "He prefers to know why Starscream's plotting murder from week to week." He didn't mention that Megatron got weirdly jealous whenever Starscream turned his attention to other people.

"Anyway," Hook said, "valve feels good equals good, well done, repeat until overload. Valve feels bad equals stop, perhaps kill. Got it?"

The two Stunticons seemed shellshocked by the Hook School of Sex Ed. "Okay?"

"But what about the dildo?" Breakdown ventured.

Hook looked at him like he'd blown some vital breakers somewhere in his brain module. "It's a dildo. Rub it around, lube it up, thrust it in, repeat. Don't try riding one that's out of your size range."

"Motormaster's scheduled for a talk," Scrapper said, resigned. "He won't do that to you again, even if I have to get Lord Megatron to make it a direct order." He shouldn't. Most Decepticons knew their limits, and abusing interfacing was a hard limit for the whole faction. It was either enthusiastic consent or no nookie, ever again. The rumor mill was brutal that way.

"It felt good for him, though," Breakdown whispered timidly. He curled on the berth, twisting against Hook's hands. "It hurts us, but he likes it a lot."

"I'm telling you, nobody's checked 'em out," Bonecrusher repeated when his gestaltmates shot him a look. Scrapper and Hook exchanged a disturbed look. The double-ended dildos were the most popular of all their collection, but they'd have noticed if the bigger ones rented out to one of the rookies.

"It does feel good," Dead End said suddenly. He kept his visor turned studiously away from Breakdown's wide, betrayed optics. "Wildrider and I tried it how he, ah, instructed," he nodded to Hook, "and it felt good." He hesitated and looked straight at Scrapper. "I would be interested in any methods of delayed gratification for the dildo side of activities. I did not last as long as Wildrider wished. We improvised using my fingers after I finished, but the lack of stamina irritated me at the time."

"You stuck it up Wildrider?!" Breakdown almost shrieked.

Scrapper shook his head. A prude among Decepticons? Breakdown wasn't going to last long down here. "It's not that hard. Just start on his valve first before putting the other end in yours," he explained.

"Where the frag did you get a double-ender?" Bonecrusher demanded. He sounded annoyed by now.

Dead End hesitated. "I…don't understand. Is it removable?"

Distracted, Breakdown asked, "Is that why it itches? I'm supposed to take it out? How do I do that?"

The Constructicons stared at them. The silence wasn't Scrapper's idea. It was just that every time he started to say something, another thing wrong with what the Stunticons had just said popped into the forefront of his mind, and the words abandoned him. He just - and they -

The conversation was going a dizzying dance of hypothetical rearrangement in his head, and there were possibilities whizzing every which way, up down and sideways. It went against all known science, but the Stunticons' very existence already did that. They were miracles of Primus. He - and they - but that wasn't - they couldn't -

Hook, bless his arrogant self-assurance, decided he'd obviously heard them wrong. Or they were delusional. Either way, he slapped his hand down on the berth and glared at Breakdown with all the annoyance of a pissed-off surgeon in home territory. "Stop being an idiot and just show me where you're itching."

Breakdown flinched down. Swallowing nervously, he sent a pleading look toward Dead End. Dead End shrugged. No help would be coming from him. He possessed nothing but the depressed resignation of the fatally inclined.

They really needed to get that mech on something soon.

Shutting off his optics, Breakdown laid back and opened his crotch plating.

The whole thing. Not just the heavy-duty armor protecting his valve opening and all the sensitive wiring nested around it in an complicated array of one of a Cybertronian's most vulnerable, beloved pieces of equipment, but the front plating that functioned as a protective crumple zone in front of the valve for every other Decepticon on Earth - every Decepticon on Cybertron - as well as every Autobot Scrapper had ever examined. Instead of an empty area, however, the front of Breakdown's pelvis span housed a -

A -

"Stop staring at me," Breakdown said, but none of the Constructicons heard him. They were too busy gaping at an exposed hydraulic system the likes of which hadn't been seen since the Functionalist Era. Before then. Long before then. There was graffiti down in the lower systems archeologists insisted pointed to proof of its existence. The Functionalists had erased the archeologists' reports, destroyed their 'proof,' and denied any rumor of the myth, the legend, the -

"Stop it," Breakdown said again, and Hook's visor went from wide to painfully rounded as the hydraulics began to move. It was amazing. It was incredible. They pumped, slow at first, and a hardened length began to emerge from a protective sheath underneath the main piston housings. "Stop looking! You're making it itch more!"

"Breakdown…" Dead End dragged a hand down his face as Breakdown squirmed uncomfortably. "It's supposed to do that. That's normal. Once you release your plating, the…dildo comes out and you can use it. There's nothing wrong with you."

"It itches!"

"Then maybe you should scratch it," Dead End suggested dryly. "It worked for me."

"I don't want to! Make it go away!"

"No!" Scrapper blurted, and half his team had lurched forward in alarm at the very idea of making this precious miracle of Vector Sigma, proof of Primus' blessing upon their entire species, go anywhere but right where it belonged.

In them.

They were going to have to put a lot more seats in the chapel after this. A berth would work quite well as a new altar. Worship services had just taken on a whole new meaning.

*Scrapper,* Hook said through the team frequency. His visor never left Breakdown's crotch, and he sounded strangely breathless. *Scrapper, how much energon do we have on hand?*

*Not enough,* he said back the same way.

*Enough!* Long Haul and Bonecrusher said. *Do it!*

Scrapper narrowed his visor at them, although it was difficult to look away as Breakdown's hand hesitantly moved toward the erection commanding the Constructicons' attention. *We don't have enough to try, so don't even think about it.*

*Scrapper, we're talking about a revival of Cybertronian biomechanics. Inherited spark traits. Metal memory recorded by spark ignition.* Hook was leaning forward over Breakdown as if magnetically attracted to the motion of the hydraulics. Visor wide and mouth parted in total fascination, he looked about ready to lunge down and bury his face in the Stunticon's crotch. *If even a fraction of legend is true, we could generate sparks compatible with our frametypes. Mingled frametypes. Hybrids! And minds, oh, imagine it, imagine crossbreeding for improved processing power. Oh. Oh, Scrapper, do you realize what this means? We could ignite a new generation based on ourselves!*

Forget a face full of new equipment. Hook trembled on the verge of mounting the Stunticon for science.

Breathing hard, he grabbed the edge of the berth and kneaded it in his hands, trying to keep control over himself. Scrapper couldn't wedge a word into the excited torrent of, *Get me as much energon as we have. All we need is a little more, I'm fully fueled, this will work. Get him in my valve, get his spark against mine, and - and - *

*You don't even know how it works!* Scrapper broke in finally. *For all you know, he has to be on top. And for all we know, hosting a new spark could kill you! Do you know how to transfer it from your spark chamber? And into what? We don't have any bodies built, and fragging Pit, Hook! We don't even know how long you'd have to host the thing. If you got it. Which you don't know if you could.*

"Why won't you stop looking at me?" Breakdown squeaked, but his hand had closed around the stiff length poking up from his pelvis. Mixmaster moaned. Bonecrusher was fumbling around with the dildos, if the crashing was any indication, and Scrapper didn't blame him in the least. The Stunticon pumped his hand, and Scrapper's knees went a little weak.

"Try twisting your hand at the tip," Dead End advised his gestaltmate.

"Ow!"

"Don't actually twist it, dolt."

*But don't you see?* Hook said in that soft, breathless voice. *If we don't do it now, Megatron will take them for himself. He'll use them to breed himself. Breed supersoldiers. A thousand copies of approved biomechanical spark signature ignited at his command only, and the rest of us won't ever get a chance. We're the repair mechs, remember? We get the last dibs on everything.*

*But maybe, if we do it now…* He swallowed as he watched Breakdown's hand pump, gliding over shiny new equipment while the Stunticon grunted, bucking into the tight grip according to Dead End's instructions. *It's supposed to ignite sparks with inherited traits. Both contributors influence body and mind. If we take this opportunity, maybe we'll ignite a new gestalt.* Visor shining, he tore his gaze away to give Scrapper a desperate, longing look. *Imagine what Megatron will do then, Scrapper!*

Scrapper couldn't help but imagine it. And he couldn't help but glance toward Dead End's lovely crotch.

This was a bad idea of terrible proportions, but…they were Constructicons. First and foremost, they built. The mere idea of building more of themselves, of improving, of turning themselves into blueprints for the next generation…it hit so many buttons in Scrapper's head that his valve primed 0 to Ready in five seconds flat.

*Get as much energon as we have on hand, and lock the medbay doors,* he ordered. Bonecrusher and Long Haul practically fell over themselves running to obey. *Mixmaster, you're best at this. He likes waxing, mirrors, and talking about his eventual death. Seduce away.* Mixmaster scrambled toward them.

Hook vibrated in place, expression eager but vaguely horrified because he was not the best at this. He was, statistically speaking, the worst at talking mechs into his berth. *Scavenger…*

"Soooooo," Scavenger said as he slid into place beside the surgeon. "How do you feel about blindfolds, Breakdown?"

Breakdown froze, looking like he felt not good at all. His hand squeezed, however, and hard metal stiffened somehow harder. "I…uh…"

This was a horrible idea. "I have one. I'll be right back," Scrapper said, and as he jogged into the back room to open his personal collection of interfacing aids, he prayed. Why not? Primus seemed to be in the listening mood, lately. Maybe they'd get lucky.

Mixmaster made a sound from up front. Dead End groaned. Lust and intense pleasure flooded the gestalt link, and Scrapper swore his optical sensors crossed behind his visor as his knees turned in, valve clenching between his legs in echoed reflex. Oh. Oh, if that was what the real thing felt like inside them, it didn't matter how much energon they had in the repair bay. None of the Constructicons were leaving until they'd had a turn.

Scrapper modified his prayer. It seemed they'd already gotten lucky.

[* * * * *]