kathierif_fic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kathierif_fic) wrote2011-12-31 10:20 pm
kathierif_fic) wrote2011-12-31 10:20 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Wraithbait (SGA, FRT-13, gen)
Title: Wraithbait
Author: Kathie
Fandom: SGA
Pairings: gen.
Warnings: none? Um. Slavery?
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Getting caught by slave traders as Wraithbait.
A/Ns: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hc_bingo, prompt Slaves. Now whose perspective is it? :D
The rope is rough and tight around his wrists and throat, barely enough slack in it to let him breathe without black spots marring his vision. His wrists are slick and wet and aching, his hands started turning blue hours ago - at least that#s what it feels like. Realistically, he thinks it was less time. He still has feeling in them, can still move his fingers against each other, even if he can't free himself.
The foul taste of mud and blood fills his mouth. A quick check with his tongue makes sure that his teeth haven't been knocked loose, for which he is stupidly thankful, not just because he doesn't want to choke to death on them.
A dull throb has started to pulse through his knees. He wants to shift, to stretch them out, but he doesn't dare to move. One eye is already swollen shut from a vicious blow to the head by one of the overseers who are dressed in thick wool and leather and smell of sweat and bile, sickly sweet and stomach-churning.
Talking is forbidden. He watched as the overseers sewed a kid's mouth shut for crying for his mother, and he has decided to bite his tongue rather than suffering the same fate.
Fuck, he just hopes his team managed to get away. He hasn't seen them since his capture, and he puts all his hope in them and their skills.
They know what they're doing. He's sure they made it back to Atlantis.
He's also sure that they didn't see where these people took him, and that his chances of getting rescued are slim at best. His fate is pretty much sealed here. They don't get food, only a little water, and soon he'll be too weak to do anything but fall over and give up, like so many of the others caught by these people already have since they came here, to this clearing in a forest on a planet that he doesn't know the address to and that is too bright, too green.
They aren't alone in the forest. He can hear voices over the dull throb of his own blood in his ears, and every now and then, more people step onto the clearing, heavily armed and stone-faced.
He knows what this is, and why nobody cares about the sorry state they're in. They're nothing more than Wraithbait, bought by people who thought that they could makea deal with the Wraith to save their own lives in exchange for others.
He makes sure to glare as much as he can at the people who dare to come closer, especially the group that wordlessly points at the kid with the sewn-shut mouth and drop two coins into a filthy outstretched hand.
He wants to believe the kid is lucky, that he will have a better life, escaping from here, but he can't.
In the meantime, his shoulders start to throb in the same painful rhythm as his knees. He doesn't know how much time passes. Everything becomes blurry. The next thing he's awere of is boots in front of his face, but he doesn't remember them coming closer. Sometime during the day, he must have slumped to the side and come to rest against the cool mossy ground.
The boots are familiar. His brain prods at him, but he's too exhausted, too dehydrated, too weak to make sense of the thoughts whirling around his head. His hands are numb, his tongue feels raw and swollen in his dry mouth.
Vaguely, he hears the sound of coins clinking, and then, strong hands grab him and haul him to his feet.
Pian shoots through his entire body, and he whimpers pitifully before sinking down again. His legs are too shaky to hold his weight.
Before he hits the ground, he is caught. Sharp steel is pressed against his throat, and with sudden, unexpected clarity, he realizes that this is it.
He's going to die here.
The knife nicks his skin. He's acutely aware of the little cut, even if it's minor compared to the rest of his injuries.
His captor - his owner - hisses a curse under his breath. The voice - he's heard this voice before, many times, he's sure of that now, and with that comes the realization that he hasn't once tried to look up, into the man's face.
The knife returns to his throat, a little more careful this time, and moments later, the rough rope falls away, quickly followed by the rope around his wrists. Blood burns its way back into his fingers with agonizing pain, but suddenly, his hands are caught in a strong grip and gently massaged until the worst of the pins-and-needles-feeling disappears.
He should pay better attention to his surroundings, he thinks, and finally looks up.
"Ronon."
Speaking is unexpectedly hard, his voice rough and hoarse from misuse and the abuse of his throat.
Ronon liftes his flask to his lips and lets him drink, his hands steadying him.
He's too weak to walk, but Ronon doesn't even blink before grabbing him and swinging him up, across his shoulders, like a ragdoll, as if he doesn't weigh a thing.
The trek back to the Gate is silent. He's sure he passes out on the way, but it's hard to say if he really loses consciousness or if he just blinks slowly. The forest doesn't change much around them.
"Team?" he rasps, when they're out of earshot of the slave traders.
Ronon grunts. "Safe."
"Good."
Ronon doesn't reply, but his hands are gentle where they hold him, and he knows he's returning home, to the safety of Atlantis and its people, people he can trust.
Ronon stops, and when he forces his eyes open, he realizes that they are in another clearing, and in the middle of it, shaded by a bright green canopy of leaves, the Stargate.
"You want me to carry you, or you want to walk?" Ronon rumbles while dialling the gate.
He doesn't need to think for long about it.
"Let me down," he requests, and Ronon puts him back to his feet, holds on to him with a mixture of gentleness and casual indifference, as if rescuing military officers from slave traders is something he does regularly.
Considering Ronon's on a team with Sheppard, he can almost believe it, but he doesn't say anything, just gives Ronon a nod as the wormhole establishes and he is allowed to walk back to Atlantis on his own two feet, body broken and bruised, but with his head held high.
Author: Kathie
Fandom: SGA
Pairings: gen.
Warnings: none? Um. Slavery?
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Getting caught by slave traders as Wraithbait.
A/Ns: for
hc_bingo, prompt Slaves. Now whose perspective is it? :DThe rope is rough and tight around his wrists and throat, barely enough slack in it to let him breathe without black spots marring his vision. His wrists are slick and wet and aching, his hands started turning blue hours ago - at least that#s what it feels like. Realistically, he thinks it was less time. He still has feeling in them, can still move his fingers against each other, even if he can't free himself.
The foul taste of mud and blood fills his mouth. A quick check with his tongue makes sure that his teeth haven't been knocked loose, for which he is stupidly thankful, not just because he doesn't want to choke to death on them.
A dull throb has started to pulse through his knees. He wants to shift, to stretch them out, but he doesn't dare to move. One eye is already swollen shut from a vicious blow to the head by one of the overseers who are dressed in thick wool and leather and smell of sweat and bile, sickly sweet and stomach-churning.
Talking is forbidden. He watched as the overseers sewed a kid's mouth shut for crying for his mother, and he has decided to bite his tongue rather than suffering the same fate.
Fuck, he just hopes his team managed to get away. He hasn't seen them since his capture, and he puts all his hope in them and their skills.
They know what they're doing. He's sure they made it back to Atlantis.
He's also sure that they didn't see where these people took him, and that his chances of getting rescued are slim at best. His fate is pretty much sealed here. They don't get food, only a little water, and soon he'll be too weak to do anything but fall over and give up, like so many of the others caught by these people already have since they came here, to this clearing in a forest on a planet that he doesn't know the address to and that is too bright, too green.
They aren't alone in the forest. He can hear voices over the dull throb of his own blood in his ears, and every now and then, more people step onto the clearing, heavily armed and stone-faced.
He knows what this is, and why nobody cares about the sorry state they're in. They're nothing more than Wraithbait, bought by people who thought that they could makea deal with the Wraith to save their own lives in exchange for others.
He makes sure to glare as much as he can at the people who dare to come closer, especially the group that wordlessly points at the kid with the sewn-shut mouth and drop two coins into a filthy outstretched hand.
He wants to believe the kid is lucky, that he will have a better life, escaping from here, but he can't.
In the meantime, his shoulders start to throb in the same painful rhythm as his knees. He doesn't know how much time passes. Everything becomes blurry. The next thing he's awere of is boots in front of his face, but he doesn't remember them coming closer. Sometime during the day, he must have slumped to the side and come to rest against the cool mossy ground.
The boots are familiar. His brain prods at him, but he's too exhausted, too dehydrated, too weak to make sense of the thoughts whirling around his head. His hands are numb, his tongue feels raw and swollen in his dry mouth.
Vaguely, he hears the sound of coins clinking, and then, strong hands grab him and haul him to his feet.
Pian shoots through his entire body, and he whimpers pitifully before sinking down again. His legs are too shaky to hold his weight.
Before he hits the ground, he is caught. Sharp steel is pressed against his throat, and with sudden, unexpected clarity, he realizes that this is it.
He's going to die here.
The knife nicks his skin. He's acutely aware of the little cut, even if it's minor compared to the rest of his injuries.
His captor - his owner - hisses a curse under his breath. The voice - he's heard this voice before, many times, he's sure of that now, and with that comes the realization that he hasn't once tried to look up, into the man's face.
The knife returns to his throat, a little more careful this time, and moments later, the rough rope falls away, quickly followed by the rope around his wrists. Blood burns its way back into his fingers with agonizing pain, but suddenly, his hands are caught in a strong grip and gently massaged until the worst of the pins-and-needles-feeling disappears.
He should pay better attention to his surroundings, he thinks, and finally looks up.
"Ronon."
Speaking is unexpectedly hard, his voice rough and hoarse from misuse and the abuse of his throat.
Ronon liftes his flask to his lips and lets him drink, his hands steadying him.
He's too weak to walk, but Ronon doesn't even blink before grabbing him and swinging him up, across his shoulders, like a ragdoll, as if he doesn't weigh a thing.
The trek back to the Gate is silent. He's sure he passes out on the way, but it's hard to say if he really loses consciousness or if he just blinks slowly. The forest doesn't change much around them.
"Team?" he rasps, when they're out of earshot of the slave traders.
Ronon grunts. "Safe."
"Good."
Ronon doesn't reply, but his hands are gentle where they hold him, and he knows he's returning home, to the safety of Atlantis and its people, people he can trust.
Ronon stops, and when he forces his eyes open, he realizes that they are in another clearing, and in the middle of it, shaded by a bright green canopy of leaves, the Stargate.
"You want me to carry you, or you want to walk?" Ronon rumbles while dialling the gate.
He doesn't need to think for long about it.
"Let me down," he requests, and Ronon puts him back to his feet, holds on to him with a mixture of gentleness and casual indifference, as if rescuing military officers from slave traders is something he does regularly.
Considering Ronon's on a team with Sheppard, he can almost believe it, but he doesn't say anything, just gives Ronon a nod as the wormhole establishes and he is allowed to walk back to Atlantis on his own two feet, body broken and bruised, but with his head held high.