Stewardess Fanfiction

Title: Ritual
Author: Stewardess
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John/Rodney
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After Rodney puts himself in danger again, John uses a shortcut to take him down. Spoilers for episodes up to and including Miller's Crossing. Warnings: see prompt. Word count 3,100.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but a plushy cat.

---

They were visiting, for the second time, via a stargate unknown to Elizabeth, a planet with… actually, Rodney didn't know anything about this world other than the name of its people, the Bynar. Lorne's team had come the first time, and Rodney had missed the briefing that morning because Radek had begged him to come to the lab.

But he had overheard in the mess Katie talking about the initial reconnaissance, when an Atlantean botanist discovered the Bynar practiced… siviculture? They grew trees with a berry containing a high concentration of C₈H₁₀N₄O₂. Nothing other than the promise of psychoactive fruit could have kept Rodney standing for nearly an hour, listening to the priestess drone on, in what passed for a Bynar place of worship.

John had volunteered Ronon to participate in the ritual, which was multi-purpose: appease the Bynar ancestors, give thanks for the harvest, acknowledge the new trading partnership, and show off the sheer garments worn only on special occasions.

Ronon, however, lying flat on his back on what looked uncomfortably like a stone slab Pre-Colombian Central Americans might have used when they were in a heart removing mood, was dressed normally, in something homespun and opaque. He and Rodney and John and the other Atlanteans had temporarily put aside their electronic and mechanical devices out of respect—"respect" as usual meaning giving in to an alien people's fear of advanced technology.

The priestess, who was old but vigorous, at last grew louder and more animated, potentially a sign the ceremony was ending. Finally. They could hand over medical supplies in exchange for the berries, and return to Atlantis. Or were they required (again) to break bread with the locals?

"Breaking" was appropriate, because it appeared from an earlier meal that leavening was unknown to the Bynar. Not even naturally occurring yeast? The Bynar didn't seem to have booze, either. Which came first in primitive societies, yeast for alcohol production, or yeast for leavening bread? He knew this… Jeannie! Of course. A few years earlier, his sister had served him an impenetrable barley "meat" loaf, lecturing him on the history of the earliest large scale grain cultivation—of barley—to make…

Beer. "Beer!" Rodney yelled incongruously in warning, but it was too late: the priestess raised a huge and until then unseen knife, plunging it down towards Ronon's chest.

Rodney reached for the gun that wasn't on his belt. John gripped his wrist.

"It's okay, Rodney," John said.

It was okay, because Ronon was sitting up and examining with professional interest the neat, shallow cut the Bynar priestess had made on his chest.

"Oh," Rodney said.

John released him. "You missed the briefing."

"That's not my fault, Radek begged me–"

"You didn't listen to me on the jumper on the way over," John said.

"What? I was, absolutely," Rodney said, although now he could remember John saying, Rodney, are you listening? when he maybe possibly hadn't. "I might have been distracted, but I would never ignore you, are you kidding?"

John looked at him. Rodney stopped talking. For a few seconds.

"After that, I could use a drink that suppresses the central nervous system," Rodney said.

"Liquor is unknown here," Ronon said as they left the decaying stone structure, following the Bynar back to their village.

"I know," Rodney said. "I ate the flat bread, emphasis on flat."

Ronon said, "What does that have to do with–"

"It's going to be in my large intestine for weeks."

"You almost screwed up the ceremony," John said when Ronon had moved out of ear-shot—which was many, many meters away.

Rodney tried to switch off the communicator he wasn't wearing, then said, "No, Colonel, I didn't." The locals, particularly the priestess, had looked amused by his outburst, not offended.

John still appeared to disagree, because Rodney saw him with the priestess later, probably making a completely unwarranted apology.

The rest of the day, John didn't speak to him except for the minimum. Dial the gate. Reports due at sixteen hundred. Hands off the berries, McKay. John knew how much Rodney hated the silent treatment, which made Rodney hate it even more. Which John also knew.

---

When John came to his quarters that night at eleven thirty, Rodney was more relieved than he was willing to admit. It didn't stop him from mouthing off, however.

"I'm not in the mood for hot make-up sex," Rodney said. "Any other sort of hot sex will be fine." To prove his sincerity, he sat up on his bed and closed his laptop.

John didn't sit on the bed but remained standing.

Rodney sighed, and slid across the bed until his feet touched the floor. "Fine, fine, we'll play that game."

"Which game?" John hadn't changed after the mission. He was in full gear.

"You know." Rodney was still uncomfortable with referring to it directly. "The one where you say On your knees." He waved his fingers in front of his mouth, indicating what came next.

John looked calculating, which was new, and oddly alarming. "Why should we do that?"

"Because it works," Rodney said impatiently. John would feel better afterward. He would feel better afterward.

"Why does it work for you?" John said.

It took a huge effort for Rodney to remain sitting on the bed while John was being deliberately annoying. They had already talked about this, months ago, before the first time they played at dominance and submission.

Rodney was usually all for talking, but after picking a safeword, and telling John what was off limits, there was nothing more to say about it. Unless it wasn't working for John any longer? Or was John actually stooping to withholding sex to punish him? Rodney wasn't going to play along with that.

"Because it's like that ceremony today. It's familiar." Rodney made reassuring shapes in the air with his hands. "And there are orgasms," he added, in case John was forgetting that point.

When John frowned, Rodney regretted mentioning the Bynar.

"If you're still angry about my disrupting the primitive performance art–"

"Performance art?" Understanding crossed John's face.

"Yes, yes! It was only a ritualistic, er, ritual. Didn't accomplish anything, but everyone was happy with its, you know, intent. Purpose." Rodney smiled, sensing a blowjob in his near future.

"On your knees," John said.

Trying not to smirk, Rodney knelt in front of John. When John bent over him, Rodney put his hands behind his back so John could slip on old-school metal handcuffs. Rodney breathed in, pressing his face against the buttoned fly of John's black BDUs.

Unexpectedly, John gripped the hair at the base of Rodney's skull and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

Rodney said, "Ow!" but it came out hoarse, muted. He hadn't realized his hair was long enough to grab.

"Holding your head in this position compresses your vagus nerve," John said.

Rodney grunted in acknowledgement. The nerve ran from his brain to… all over the place. Lungs? Heart. Intestines. Oh, hell, the bread. Tack on another week.

"It affects breathing. Speech. And your gag reflex," John said with irritating calm. He moved to stand at Rodney's side, the reason immediately apparent when he forced Rodney's head further back.

Rodney squeezed out a whine. He'd felt John's hard cock against his cheek for only seconds before John had grabbed his hair and forced his head away. By this time, John usually had his fly open and was slapping Rodney's face with his cock.

"I am still angry," John said. "You tried to draw on unarmed civilians."

Crap. If John was going to make a military discipline thing out of what was only a social faux pas, then Rodney was done. He'd give up on the Air Force boyfriend sex and cozy up to his laptop tonight, no problem. But–

"Knife," Rodney wheezed in his defense.

"It didn't have an edge, except at the tip," John said. "You should have known there was no threat when I didn't react. Unless you think your reflexes are faster than mine now?"

Great, John was making a military thing out of it. Next—maybe—John would accuse him of ignoring the chain of command. Which could actually be hot, but not like this, when the cuffs were scraping Rodney's wrists, he could only croak words out, and no one was naked. Was his gag reflex really suppressed? John should check.

Rodney tried something that had worked spectacularly once before. "I'm sorry, Sir." Wait, was he supposed to refer to himself in the third person?

"So am I, Rodney."

It was not the response Rodney wanted. He tried to squirm, just enough to show he was getting physically uncomfortable, but not enough to put a stop to things, because he hadn't given up all hope of getting a cock in his mouth. He looked up pleadingly at John. Not that he could look anywhere else at the moment.

"I hoped I wouldn't have to take any shortcuts, but today was too much," John said.

Rodney exhaled heavily when John eased his grip, letting Rodney's head up slightly.

"What's that?" Rodney squawked.

Stupid question. It was a huge knife, and John was holding it inches from Rodney's face.

"John, seriously… did you get that from the priestess?" Rodney was too alarmed to enjoy the sensation of reduced compression on his windpipe.

"Yes."

"Then it doesn't have an edge," Rodney said, trying for triumphant, settling for relieved.

"This one does. It's an original. One the Bynar used when their ritual ended a little differently."

Rodney squinted, trying to see. John had to be bluffing.

"She wouldn't give you something that valuable, not even for antibiotics."

"I gave her my Leatherman for it."

"The one Ford gave you on your birthday?" Rodney said, shocked.

John forced his head back again. Rodney got the hint. He'd never had to work so hard for sex in his life.

John let his head come up, enough for Rodney to see John was holding the knife to his throat.

"Tesla," Rodney said immediately. When John didn't release him, Rodney said, "Tesla!" again, louder.

"I remember your safeword, Rodney. We're not playing that game right now."

"John, look, I know we never talked about knives, because, well, knives, obviously not something I'm into–"

John stroked Rodney's neck with the edge of the knife. Rodney nearly pissed his pants. He felt angry, and betrayed, but mostly angry. Furiously angry. And completely incapable of movement. He breathed shallowly to remain as still as possible.

"Kolya," Rodney said.

"I know," John said softly. "Like I said, a shortcut. He laid the groundwork. If anything will get you down in a hurry… Well. It's this."

Why not the usual, Rodney fumed silently. The smell of John in his gear after a mission, getting on his knees, being "forced" to suck John's cock, calling John Sir… all of that worked just fine to get Rodney into a submissive mood. There was no need–

Rodney felt the knife dig in. "We are so breaking up—I mean, that is, if we're going together? John!"

He had no idea what had gotten into John. It couldn't be post traumatic stress disorder, not now, not after everything that had happened to them in the Pegasus Galaxy. If John was going to snap, he would have snapped ages ago.

Logic. That was the key. Think it through logically. It wasn't PTSD, and it wasn't insanity because John was clearly in control of himself. At least not ordinary insanity. Maybe John had been exposed to something on the Bynar world, like that damned glowing fungus. At least John wasn't holding a whale to his throat.

"I think you should go to the infirmary," Rodney said. "Get scanned. I'll go with you. I should get scanned. Everyone should get scanned." The knife pressed in harder. "Jesus Christ, there's a carotid artery there, in case you didn't know!"

John didn't speak.

Rodney needed to swallow, but the blade was in the wrong place for the motion. If he ended up drooling, then he didn't care about the consequences, he was going to get even—he'd never eat dinner with John again, never talk to him, definitely not have sex with him. Not for a month, at least.

"Okay, I get it," Rodney said, trying to sound as if he got it. "You were mad, you wanted to make your… your point, and… John, just no, you wouldn't cut a man's throat, I know you wouldn't, well, maybe in Afghanistan, if you had to, but you didn't, because you had guns. Damn it, John, I know you wouldn't even threaten a man this way, not in cold blood! So this has to be some kind of joke, a prank gone wrong, and I am not buying it."

"Wallace bought it," John said.

"Wallace, president of Devlin Medical Wallace? What are you saying, that you–"

"Actually, I had him with the pictures of Madison. But then he got cold feet."

"Wait, you, you…" Rodney fell silent, remembering Wallace in the body bag, the Wraith rejuvenated, John not looking him in the eye.

"Presented the situation," John said. "Told him it could be fast, or slow. He chose fast. The Wraith."

John wouldn't do that, threaten to kill a man. For Rodney's sister. For Rodney. John wouldn't, right?

"You're… you're not a bug?" Rodney asked.

"No, Rodney. Just me."

Rodney's words dried up, his brain too busy processing. He believed it, because he knew John had been one hundred percent himself when the Wallace thing had happened, so…

His situation was terrifying. If he looked at it objectively. But what was genuinely scaring him was that he didn't know what John wanted.

And John wanted something from him. Badly. Enough to hold a razor-sharp knife to his throat.

His legs were numb from kneeling for so long. He wasn't sure he could stand if he tried. His shoulders ached, his wrists burned, and his throat was wet, as if…

It was an enormous relief when he realized he'd been going at it wrong. It wasn't a puzzle he had to solve. It wasn't a test. That wasn't what John wanted from him. It was okay for him not to know.

"I don't understand," Rodney said, looking up at John.

"I'm not going to watch you get blown away because you won't manage your fear," John said, staring directly into his eyes. "Because you won't trust me."

Rodney could totally see it now. He'd overreacted to the knife, gone for a gun, and Christ how many times did a person have to watch Silverado before he figured out how badly that always ended?

He should have trusted John. John wouldn't let a member of the team get stabbed. John wouldn't let anyone hurt him. John had threatened a man for him. No. Really, honestly? John had killed Wallace. For him.

This wasn't about screwing up trading opportunities or military discipline. It was about John wanting him to stay alive.

"I'm sorry," Rodney said. "I won't do it again."

John relaxed his grip, still holding Rodney's hair loosely. He moved the knife a few inches away. Rodney could see blood on it.

"There's a problem. I don't know if I can ever be sure," John said. He sounded so fucking tired.

Assuming his legs still worked, Rodney could have stood up at that moment. He didn't, because he knew what John wanted, because John had just told him: absolute certainty that Rodney trusted him.

Rodney could do it. Could give him that. He straightened slightly, slowly, pain flooding through his folded legs, and bent down, until his mouth touched the flat of the knife John still held. He kissed it.

"Oh, good boy," John said. "Good boy, Rodney." John had called him that before, but never with so much rough approval in his voice it forced water out of Rodney's eyes.

"May I–"

John didn't wait for him to finish. He put the knife down, unbuttoned his pants, and gripped Rodney's head.

Rodney was sure he couldn't stand now. He was helpless, arms behind his back, John's hands pressed tight over his ears. When John began fucking his mouth, it was perfect. John keeping him steady so he wouldn't get dizzy from his head snapping back and forth, John's cock hard and swollen on his tongue, Rodney's lips already burning from the stretch.

John came quickly, without warning. Rodney swallowed his come, greedily sucking up all traces, until John pulled away.

"Please," Rodney said desperately. He had almost come in his pants.

John sat heavily on the floor. He held his hand over Rodney's crotch. Rodney looked down, and thought he had never seen anything hotter than John's hand not quite touching him.

"Get those knees apart," John said.

Rodney somehow spread his legs, pain twisting through him.

When John unzipped Rodney's pants and gripped his cock, Rodney imagined what he looked like right then, kneeling, legs spread, arms locked behind him, and, most of all, John's hand on him.

"So fucking hot," John said. "Come for me."

Rodney did, yelling, feeling no pain anywhere, feeling only John's hand.

John unlocked the handcuffs, helped Rodney to the bed. He eased Rodney's clothes off, rubbed his arms and legs until the fiery throbbing of returning blood eased, and washed the neat, shallow cut just below Rodney's Adam's apple. John brought him a glass of water, holding it to his lips until he drank it down. Then John undressed, and spooned behind him, sometimes sleeping, sometimes grinding against his ass, until they were both hard again.

When John fucked him, it wasn't boy and Sir any longer, it was Rodney and John, but when John gently stroked Rodney's throat, Rodney came immediately, moaning as John fucked him through it.

Exhausted, Rodney was only half-aware of John's orgasm. He let John roll him onto his side, planting his head on John's chest when it was offered. He dozed, almost too tired to sleep, while John's hands possessively skimmed over him.

He was still awake to hear John say, "You can really surprise me, McKay."

"Well, of course," Rodney said, and slept.

---

Notes: 1) C₈H₁₀N₄O₂ is caffeine. 2) Ignore everything I said about the vagus nerve. 3) I lifted the name Bynar from Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Thanks to anatsuno and cesare for improving my steering!

Prompt: telesilla said,"I want some seriously kinky SGA porn in which either John or Rodney brings the other down hard using either heavy pain or heavy humiliation or—ideally—both. And oh man, so many bonus points if it's Rodney—still himself: all pushy and stubborn right up to the point where he's not any more—on the bottom."