SGA Ficlet: Attack Of The Giant Robot From Outer Space
Title: Attack Of The Giant Robot From Outer Space
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word Count: 2,000+
Rating: Uh, R, for themes and slight language?
Summary: John wants to hug it, and possibly use his tongue in inappropriate ways.
A/N: Almost robot!porn, but not really. At all. Floofy crack? Anyway, totally unbeta'd and irredeemable and John really, really loves robots. For real.
Attack Of The Giant Robot From Outer Space
Thing is, Rodney has more than his fair share of obsessive quirks - John suspects he’d turn tricks for decent chocolate - but John. Well, John has an enormous crush on anything robotic. It’s actually kind of embarrassing.
Especially when he makes a choked squeaky noise over the little ancient doodad that’s shaped like a tiny cylindrical trashcan but has these crab-like eye stems and four spider legs that double as arms.
It’s making a clacking sound at him.
John wants to hug it, and possibly use his tongue in inappropriate ways.
“What does it do?” he asks breathlessly, and Rodney flashes him these hot eyes that he’s never flashed John’s way before and licks his lips and, Christ, if Rodney was a robot, John would have trouble controlling himself. Which is sick and so very wrong, but John goes instantly hard and his hips contemplate rubbing off against the half-cocked computer console.
Robot. Shiny, metal robot.
“We’re not sure yet,” Rodney says, but his chin is tipped up in that smug, look-what-I-found! way, and John thinks really hard: what do you do? at it, and then the robot clacks louder, zips between Zelenka’s legs, and one of its arms shoots up to snatch a life-signs detector off the lab table.
Rodney frowns, starts forward and snaps, “Careful!” and then, “Don’t put that in your mouth!” and, “Spit it out! Spit it out right now, you useless heap of scrap-metal!”
John thinks maybe he should defend the robot, except the robot just ate a life-signs detector. And grew about an inch. Even with his all encompassing love for robotics, John knows that actually isn’t a good sign. “Um, Rodney?”
Rodney’s eyes are no longer hot, but big and round and tinged with oh, crap.
*
John has fantasies about small enclosed spaces and Rodney and robots, but he’s only enjoying himself a very little bit. This is possibly because Zelenka is trapped three shelves above them in the dark supply closet and the robot, crashing and clacking around, is already six feet tall from eating most of the Ancient tech in the lab.
Luckily, all the other scientists made it out into the hall before John was forced to lock the lab doors with his mind.
“This is a big problem,” Zelenka says heavily.
“Thank you for pointing out the most blatantly obvious facet of this nightmare,” Rodney growls. He’s sitting crosslegged on the ground beside John, knees touching, and they have armfuls of Ancient objects surrounding them, whatever they could grab on their mad dash from the outer lab. A few of them blink and wink suggestively at John.
John’s really starting to think it’s funny; being trapped in a closet by a robot.
God, it’s sort of sexy, too.
He squirms on his ass and Rodney snaps, “Oh my god, would you sit still?” and John lets out an honest-to-god giggle.
Above them, Zelenka snorts.
And then the clacking gets louder and John holds his breath as the robot blocks the thin line of light seeping under the door. He grabs Rodney’s leg and squeezes.
Rodney is busy digging through the mess of Ancient devices piled around them, muttering under his breath, and he jumps when the robot bangs on the door. Once.
Then it says, “Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard,” in a flat, mechanical voice that’s equal parts creepy and mind-numbingly hot.
John shudders and slips his palm up the inside of Rodney’s thigh and just barely suppresses a moan.
“Are you kidding me?” Rodney hisses, but doesn’t shove his hand away. “Robots?”
John thinks Rodney might’ve been trying for ‘disgusted,’ but he’s gone all breathy and John remembers the hot eyes from earlier and he so isn’t alone in this kink.
Zelenka clears his throat. “Please. Do not hold back on my account,” he says dryly.
And then the robot intones, “Dr. Rodney McKay,” and Rodney tightens up like a bow string under John’s hand.
*
After an hour, the robot is still listing every member of the current expedition in order of rank - although it seemed confused on Elizabeth’s placement and shuffled her between Ronon and Teyla - and John’s slowly mapping out Rodney’s neck with his teeth and tongue, leaning over him as Rodney leans against the wall, panting and tense and clenching his fingers spasmodically in the front of John’s t-shirt. John’s hand is buried in his lap, petting him lightly over the stiff material of his pants.
Zelenka is humming something loudly.
“Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” Rodney murmurs, and John wouldn’t have guessed that thick German words were as sexy as robots, but they totally are.
Then the humming suddenly breaks off and Zelenka says into his comm., “No, no, Dr. Weir, Colonel Sheppard has not yet been able to turn it off.”
Truthfully, John deep down doesn’t want it off - robot! Robotrobotrobot! - so he really hasn’t tried all that hard.
“It seems to have swallowed a great deal of the database,” Zelenka goes on, which makes sense, given that it’s currently spewing mission reports at them, like that would entice them out of the closet.
Instead, John’s honestly more turned on than he’s ever been, and if Zelenka wasn’t perched somewhere above them like a tiny Czech vulture, he completely wouldn’t be wearing pants.
And then halfway through what John had thought was Major Lorne’s report on the planet where everyone shaved their eyebrows and walked without moving their arms, he realizes the robot is actually talking, using thinking sentences, and somewhere along the way it’s taught itself… English.
“I will not hurt you,” it says in its deviously inflectionless voice, and John’s hips stutter, hand convulsively closing on Rodney’s dick, and Rodney breaths, “Fuck,” and, “Stop,” and, “Jesus Christ, it’s trying to communicate.”
“It is communicating,” Zelenka says, “and I would appreciate less porn noises. If you cannot be quiet, I will start dropping boxes on you.”
“I will not hurt you,” the robot repeats. “You may open the door.”
Zelenka shouts, “Ha!” and Rodney hisses, “It’s evil,” and an evil robot forcing John to have sex with Rodney is one of his top ten all time favorite fantasies.
Granted, that isn’t exactly the situation, but John has a pretty good imagination.
*
Finally, finally, John’s mouth finds Rodney’s and they’re being quiet as church mice and there is absolutely no call for Zelenka to bean them with what feels like a box of rocks.
Rodney yelps, “Ow!” and Zelenka chuckles, then says, “Dr. Weir wishes to speak with you, Colonel Sheppard.”
John had lied before and said his and Rodney’s comm. radios had been robot casualties - when really he’d taken them off and buried them in the pile of blinking Ancient tech so he wouldn’t have to listen to Elizabeth hounding him about shutting off the robot - so he reaches blindly for Zelenka’s.
She’s already calling his name before he has it up to his ear: “John. John, are you there? John?”
“Elizabeth,” he drawls.
Outside the closet, the robot is reciting notes on spatial distortion and every time it hits pi, Rodney whimpers.
John wishes Rodney could see his face, see the wicked smile he’s slicing him, see the intention in his eyes, because John is seconds away from sucking his cock, despite Zelenka’s hovering presence.
“Have you or Rodney made any progress?” Elizabeth asks, her voice clipped and precise and tinged with more annoyance than worry.
John thinks maybe Zelenka squealed.
He clears his throat and uses his best we-are-absolutely-not-making-out-and-are-behaving-strictly-professional voice to say, “We’re on top of it.”
Elizabeth murmurs something like, “I bet you are,” which is vaguely sexual and nonsensical at the same time.
John brightly adds, “Want to talk to Rodney?” and shoves the radio at him without waiting for a reply.
Rodney’s greeting is more strained, since John’s decided he’s wearing too many clothes and is busy pushing up his polyester zip-front shirt and spanning his naked belly with his hands, thumbs smoothing close to his navel and fingers playing along his sides. He wants to rub all over Rodney like a cat.
“Yes, uh, of course we tried that,” Rodney attempts to snap, but his heart really isn’t in it. He’s yanking John closer by his hair. John obliges and licks one of his nipples.
Rodney twists up and groans, and tosses away the comm. with Elizabeth still running a tinny diatribe.
John thinks he hears, “robots,” and, “now,” and, “I mean it.”
Zelenka snickers and drops another box on them with a totally unrepentant, “Oops.”
*
John’s shirt is half off and Rodney’s fly is open and John has a plan.
He’s actually trying to stop the robot now, because as cool as it is - robot! - and as hot as being trapped by said robot is, Zelenka is really starting to cramp his style. He’s humming again, except he’s off Mozart and onto Final Jeopardy, which just reminds John of his mom.
The good thing is: he got through to the robot, thinking off, off, turn off.
The bad thing is: he knows he got through to the robot because it broke off in the middle of graphically detailing DHD crystal permutations to say, “No. No. No. No,” in a strange ‘Danger, Will Robinson!’ tone.
So. “It really doesn’t want to shut off.”
“What does it want?” Zelenka asks.
“It wants to eat our faces,” Rodney grouses. He’s snuggled into John’s side, and the faster they can get out of there, the faster they can get back to making out.
Provided Rodney’s okay with making out without robotic influence.
John frowns. “Rodney,” he draws out, and Rodney says, as if handily reading his mind, “Yes, you’re hot, this is only partly because of the robot and your scary fetish.”
“Good.” He grabs for one of the discarded radios and hooks it back over his ear. “Elizabeth?”
“John.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
*
When Ronon and Lorne and Miller and Jones are in place, John unlocks the door. The sweet sound of gunfire fills the lab outside their closet, and John feels a little bad about the robot. It’s still saying “No. No. No. No,” except the words are winding down, vowels elongating, electronic voice thick and low before silencing completely. Yeah, he feels bad.
Maybe Rodney can fix it, though. Make it less evil. Maybe give it wheels, since wheels on robots are awesome.
Zelenka climbs down and bounces out of the closet ahead of them, thanking the marines profusely and giving Lorne and Ronon one-armed hugs.
He wags a finger at John and Rodney, and John thinks he’s never going to let them live this incident down. But that’s okay. He’s got some stuff on Zelenka. Well, Rodney probably has some stuff on Zelenka. He’s not too worried at any rate.
The robot has been reduced to a pile of smoking metal rubble, arms and eyes poking up, shiny casing sharp with tears, wires twitching out of its guts. It’s a sad, sad sight.
“This was your idea?” Rodney demands, standing over the mess, arms flailing. His pants are fastened, but his shirt’s still unzipped and his hair is falling weirdly across his forehead and the skin around his unhappy mouth is red.
John thinks he probably doesn’t look much better.
“You can fix it?” John asks, tentative and sheepish and hopeful, because the robot is a lot more destroyed than he’d been picturing.
Rodney scowls in determination and annoyance and says harshly, “Of course I can fix it,” which, considering the state of the thing, is equivalent to Rodney saying he can build one. A robot. For John.
“I think I love you,” John blurts out. He’s well aware he sounds heartfelt and earnest.
Lorne and Miller and Jones all back up a step, and Lorne says, “I didn’t hear that,” and Ronon ignores everybody and digs a sandwich out of his coat pocket.
Rodney gives him his fondest you-are-such-a-moron look.
Miller starts whistling.
There’s exactly ten seconds of awkwardness - John’s counting - and then Rodney snaps into motion and grabs his elbow and starts herding him out of the lab.
He says, “All right, let’s go,” and, “Stop gaping, Jones,” and, “I think I can give it wheels,” and John is pretty sure he’s never been so happy in his entire life.
“Love,” he stresses, nodding, and Rodney’s hot eyes are a promise.
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word Count: 2,000+
Rating: Uh, R, for themes and slight language?
Summary: John wants to hug it, and possibly use his tongue in inappropriate ways.
A/N: Almost robot!porn, but not really. At all. Floofy crack? Anyway, totally unbeta'd and irredeemable and John really, really loves robots. For real.
Attack Of The Giant Robot From Outer Space
Thing is, Rodney has more than his fair share of obsessive quirks - John suspects he’d turn tricks for decent chocolate - but John. Well, John has an enormous crush on anything robotic. It’s actually kind of embarrassing.
Especially when he makes a choked squeaky noise over the little ancient doodad that’s shaped like a tiny cylindrical trashcan but has these crab-like eye stems and four spider legs that double as arms.
It’s making a clacking sound at him.
John wants to hug it, and possibly use his tongue in inappropriate ways.
“What does it do?” he asks breathlessly, and Rodney flashes him these hot eyes that he’s never flashed John’s way before and licks his lips and, Christ, if Rodney was a robot, John would have trouble controlling himself. Which is sick and so very wrong, but John goes instantly hard and his hips contemplate rubbing off against the half-cocked computer console.
Robot. Shiny, metal robot.
“We’re not sure yet,” Rodney says, but his chin is tipped up in that smug, look-what-I-found! way, and John thinks really hard: what do you do? at it, and then the robot clacks louder, zips between Zelenka’s legs, and one of its arms shoots up to snatch a life-signs detector off the lab table.
Rodney frowns, starts forward and snaps, “Careful!” and then, “Don’t put that in your mouth!” and, “Spit it out! Spit it out right now, you useless heap of scrap-metal!”
John thinks maybe he should defend the robot, except the robot just ate a life-signs detector. And grew about an inch. Even with his all encompassing love for robotics, John knows that actually isn’t a good sign. “Um, Rodney?”
Rodney’s eyes are no longer hot, but big and round and tinged with oh, crap.
*
John has fantasies about small enclosed spaces and Rodney and robots, but he’s only enjoying himself a very little bit. This is possibly because Zelenka is trapped three shelves above them in the dark supply closet and the robot, crashing and clacking around, is already six feet tall from eating most of the Ancient tech in the lab.
Luckily, all the other scientists made it out into the hall before John was forced to lock the lab doors with his mind.
“This is a big problem,” Zelenka says heavily.
“Thank you for pointing out the most blatantly obvious facet of this nightmare,” Rodney growls. He’s sitting crosslegged on the ground beside John, knees touching, and they have armfuls of Ancient objects surrounding them, whatever they could grab on their mad dash from the outer lab. A few of them blink and wink suggestively at John.
John’s really starting to think it’s funny; being trapped in a closet by a robot.
God, it’s sort of sexy, too.
He squirms on his ass and Rodney snaps, “Oh my god, would you sit still?” and John lets out an honest-to-god giggle.
Above them, Zelenka snorts.
And then the clacking gets louder and John holds his breath as the robot blocks the thin line of light seeping under the door. He grabs Rodney’s leg and squeezes.
Rodney is busy digging through the mess of Ancient devices piled around them, muttering under his breath, and he jumps when the robot bangs on the door. Once.
Then it says, “Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard,” in a flat, mechanical voice that’s equal parts creepy and mind-numbingly hot.
John shudders and slips his palm up the inside of Rodney’s thigh and just barely suppresses a moan.
“Are you kidding me?” Rodney hisses, but doesn’t shove his hand away. “Robots?”
John thinks Rodney might’ve been trying for ‘disgusted,’ but he’s gone all breathy and John remembers the hot eyes from earlier and he so isn’t alone in this kink.
Zelenka clears his throat. “Please. Do not hold back on my account,” he says dryly.
And then the robot intones, “Dr. Rodney McKay,” and Rodney tightens up like a bow string under John’s hand.
*
After an hour, the robot is still listing every member of the current expedition in order of rank - although it seemed confused on Elizabeth’s placement and shuffled her between Ronon and Teyla - and John’s slowly mapping out Rodney’s neck with his teeth and tongue, leaning over him as Rodney leans against the wall, panting and tense and clenching his fingers spasmodically in the front of John’s t-shirt. John’s hand is buried in his lap, petting him lightly over the stiff material of his pants.
Zelenka is humming something loudly.
“Eine kleine Nachtmusik,” Rodney murmurs, and John wouldn’t have guessed that thick German words were as sexy as robots, but they totally are.
Then the humming suddenly breaks off and Zelenka says into his comm., “No, no, Dr. Weir, Colonel Sheppard has not yet been able to turn it off.”
Truthfully, John deep down doesn’t want it off - robot! Robotrobotrobot! - so he really hasn’t tried all that hard.
“It seems to have swallowed a great deal of the database,” Zelenka goes on, which makes sense, given that it’s currently spewing mission reports at them, like that would entice them out of the closet.
Instead, John’s honestly more turned on than he’s ever been, and if Zelenka wasn’t perched somewhere above them like a tiny Czech vulture, he completely wouldn’t be wearing pants.
And then halfway through what John had thought was Major Lorne’s report on the planet where everyone shaved their eyebrows and walked without moving their arms, he realizes the robot is actually talking, using thinking sentences, and somewhere along the way it’s taught itself… English.
“I will not hurt you,” it says in its deviously inflectionless voice, and John’s hips stutter, hand convulsively closing on Rodney’s dick, and Rodney breaths, “Fuck,” and, “Stop,” and, “Jesus Christ, it’s trying to communicate.”
“It is communicating,” Zelenka says, “and I would appreciate less porn noises. If you cannot be quiet, I will start dropping boxes on you.”
“I will not hurt you,” the robot repeats. “You may open the door.”
Zelenka shouts, “Ha!” and Rodney hisses, “It’s evil,” and an evil robot forcing John to have sex with Rodney is one of his top ten all time favorite fantasies.
Granted, that isn’t exactly the situation, but John has a pretty good imagination.
*
Finally, finally, John’s mouth finds Rodney’s and they’re being quiet as church mice and there is absolutely no call for Zelenka to bean them with what feels like a box of rocks.
Rodney yelps, “Ow!” and Zelenka chuckles, then says, “Dr. Weir wishes to speak with you, Colonel Sheppard.”
John had lied before and said his and Rodney’s comm. radios had been robot casualties - when really he’d taken them off and buried them in the pile of blinking Ancient tech so he wouldn’t have to listen to Elizabeth hounding him about shutting off the robot - so he reaches blindly for Zelenka’s.
She’s already calling his name before he has it up to his ear: “John. John, are you there? John?”
“Elizabeth,” he drawls.
Outside the closet, the robot is reciting notes on spatial distortion and every time it hits pi, Rodney whimpers.
John wishes Rodney could see his face, see the wicked smile he’s slicing him, see the intention in his eyes, because John is seconds away from sucking his cock, despite Zelenka’s hovering presence.
“Have you or Rodney made any progress?” Elizabeth asks, her voice clipped and precise and tinged with more annoyance than worry.
John thinks maybe Zelenka squealed.
He clears his throat and uses his best we-are-absolutely-not-making-out-and-are-behaving-strictly-professional voice to say, “We’re on top of it.”
Elizabeth murmurs something like, “I bet you are,” which is vaguely sexual and nonsensical at the same time.
John brightly adds, “Want to talk to Rodney?” and shoves the radio at him without waiting for a reply.
Rodney’s greeting is more strained, since John’s decided he’s wearing too many clothes and is busy pushing up his polyester zip-front shirt and spanning his naked belly with his hands, thumbs smoothing close to his navel and fingers playing along his sides. He wants to rub all over Rodney like a cat.
“Yes, uh, of course we tried that,” Rodney attempts to snap, but his heart really isn’t in it. He’s yanking John closer by his hair. John obliges and licks one of his nipples.
Rodney twists up and groans, and tosses away the comm. with Elizabeth still running a tinny diatribe.
John thinks he hears, “robots,” and, “now,” and, “I mean it.”
Zelenka snickers and drops another box on them with a totally unrepentant, “Oops.”
*
John’s shirt is half off and Rodney’s fly is open and John has a plan.
He’s actually trying to stop the robot now, because as cool as it is - robot! - and as hot as being trapped by said robot is, Zelenka is really starting to cramp his style. He’s humming again, except he’s off Mozart and onto Final Jeopardy, which just reminds John of his mom.
The good thing is: he got through to the robot, thinking off, off, turn off.
The bad thing is: he knows he got through to the robot because it broke off in the middle of graphically detailing DHD crystal permutations to say, “No. No. No. No,” in a strange ‘Danger, Will Robinson!’ tone.
So. “It really doesn’t want to shut off.”
“What does it want?” Zelenka asks.
“It wants to eat our faces,” Rodney grouses. He’s snuggled into John’s side, and the faster they can get out of there, the faster they can get back to making out.
Provided Rodney’s okay with making out without robotic influence.
John frowns. “Rodney,” he draws out, and Rodney says, as if handily reading his mind, “Yes, you’re hot, this is only partly because of the robot and your scary fetish.”
“Good.” He grabs for one of the discarded radios and hooks it back over his ear. “Elizabeth?”
“John.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
*
When Ronon and Lorne and Miller and Jones are in place, John unlocks the door. The sweet sound of gunfire fills the lab outside their closet, and John feels a little bad about the robot. It’s still saying “No. No. No. No,” except the words are winding down, vowels elongating, electronic voice thick and low before silencing completely. Yeah, he feels bad.
Maybe Rodney can fix it, though. Make it less evil. Maybe give it wheels, since wheels on robots are awesome.
Zelenka climbs down and bounces out of the closet ahead of them, thanking the marines profusely and giving Lorne and Ronon one-armed hugs.
He wags a finger at John and Rodney, and John thinks he’s never going to let them live this incident down. But that’s okay. He’s got some stuff on Zelenka. Well, Rodney probably has some stuff on Zelenka. He’s not too worried at any rate.
The robot has been reduced to a pile of smoking metal rubble, arms and eyes poking up, shiny casing sharp with tears, wires twitching out of its guts. It’s a sad, sad sight.
“This was your idea?” Rodney demands, standing over the mess, arms flailing. His pants are fastened, but his shirt’s still unzipped and his hair is falling weirdly across his forehead and the skin around his unhappy mouth is red.
John thinks he probably doesn’t look much better.
“You can fix it?” John asks, tentative and sheepish and hopeful, because the robot is a lot more destroyed than he’d been picturing.
Rodney scowls in determination and annoyance and says harshly, “Of course I can fix it,” which, considering the state of the thing, is equivalent to Rodney saying he can build one. A robot. For John.
“I think I love you,” John blurts out. He’s well aware he sounds heartfelt and earnest.
Lorne and Miller and Jones all back up a step, and Lorne says, “I didn’t hear that,” and Ronon ignores everybody and digs a sandwich out of his coat pocket.
Rodney gives him his fondest you-are-such-a-moron look.
Miller starts whistling.
There’s exactly ten seconds of awkwardness - John’s counting - and then Rodney snaps into motion and grabs his elbow and starts herding him out of the lab.
He says, “All right, let’s go,” and, “Stop gaping, Jones,” and, “I think I can give it wheels,” and John is pretty sure he’s never been so happy in his entire life.
“Love,” he stresses, nodding, and Rodney’s hot eyes are a promise.