BSG Fic: That Dying President, R.
Jul. 6th, 2006 07:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moogingI come bearing fic - and it's not the photocopier fic or the crack!crossover fic. I fail. However, it is a thing that came into my head at midnight last night while I was trying to sleep and I had to write it.
I'm trying to pin down a take on Laura Roslin but she is frakking difficult to write. She doesn't seem quite right in this either, a little too defeatist in places. The fact that I am determined to write a fic with her that I don't shriek OOC!! at in various places means you may be subjected to a few more. I = sorryful. Especially to you poor non-BSG friend people.
Title: That Dying President
Rating: R, I think. I haven't had this beta-d, and I don't know what's enough to make things certain ratings. So, R to be safe.
Word Count: 563
Disclaimer: Not mine. Will never be mine. I just admire and faff about with words a little.
Warnings: Female/female sex, male/female sex. Sex without love (I'm sure that isn't a warning any of you care about). Handle that?
A/N: I cannot write Laura. I cannot write sex. Considering this fic is about Laura and sex and death, you are forewarned. This piece is un-beta-d, all mistakes are my own. I still hate tenses a little tiny bit. Comments are good things. Con crit is fine, no out and out nastiness. Thank you for reading.
Summary:One day, if she's lucky, she just won't wake up
She is dying and no amount of chamalla can change that. One day, if she's lucky, she just won't wake up and someone will have the misfortune to shake her and gasp and call for help while her waxy-white skin mocks them and their futile efforts. If she's unlucky, she will die after days of suffering, fevers and illness and hallucinations, visitors and pity and the press. Either way, she is dying and one day one death will happen. She knows this. Some nights, shivering through dressing gowns and blankets and half-dreams, she wonders who will mourn her and who will scorn her, that dead President, the great pretender.
It's because she's dying that she can be cold and cruel and cutting. She will get these people to a planet, to safety and a life worth living, she will see them smile; she won't die having abandoned them to space and time and inevitability. She won't.
She is dying and she won't have regrets or sighs; it's not even death that frightens her. It's not wanting to be alone and not wanting to be in company, it's not wanting to feel and not wanting not to, it's not wanting to lose her mind. She doesn't want to have survived apocalypse only for her own body to destroy itself. It seems pointless and idiotic and she won't let it happen, she won't feel as hollow as she does.
She takes chances she would have taken anyway but feels more secure in them. She fraks Lee Adama in a supply cupboard with her skirt creasing round her waist and her legs around his; he is young enough to support her and she aches enough to let him. He is discreet and so is she, and they won't talk about it. She watches Kara Thrace as she saunters around Galactica, not-flirting and back-chatting, strong and defensive and so very tattered at her edges. Laura kisses her hard on the mouth one evening, against a cold wall near Kara'a bunk, and then they draw the curtains so Laura can thrust her fingers inside Kara, taunting her and putting the pad of her thumb firmly on Kara's clit and keeping it there. Laura watches the abandon on Kara's face as she bucks and shudders and comes, then she licks her fingers clean and walks away, shaking from lust and want and need. She won't turn around. Kara won't call her back.
Bill Adama keeps smiling at her until one night she finds herself in his bed. He groans and thrusts in all the right places and all the right times with too-great sincerity while she fakes all the same underneath him, not happy and not upset, not aroused and not disgusted. When he lies asleep with one arm thrown over Laura's stomach, she realises he loves her and she knows she doesn't love him. She slides away, and he doesn't wake up even when she stumbles as she is pulling on a shoe. Her heels tap tap tap as she walks away down the corridor and she wonders what will change.
She is dying and she pretends the pain is strength or courage.
That dying President. The great pretender.
Again, I like comments (because I am insecure because I like knowing what people think). Thank you if you read it, and I hope you liked it!
I'm trying to pin down a take on Laura Roslin but she is frakking difficult to write. She doesn't seem quite right in this either, a little too defeatist in places. The fact that I am determined to write a fic with her that I don't shriek OOC!! at in various places means you may be subjected to a few more. I = sorryful. Especially to you poor non-BSG friend people.
Title: That Dying President
Rating: R, I think. I haven't had this beta-d, and I don't know what's enough to make things certain ratings. So, R to be safe.
Word Count: 563
Disclaimer: Not mine. Will never be mine. I just admire and faff about with words a little.
Warnings: Female/female sex, male/female sex. Sex without love (I'm sure that isn't a warning any of you care about). Handle that?
A/N: I cannot write Laura. I cannot write sex. Considering this fic is about Laura and sex and death, you are forewarned. This piece is un-beta-d, all mistakes are my own. I still hate tenses a little tiny bit. Comments are good things. Con crit is fine, no out and out nastiness. Thank you for reading.
Summary:One day, if she's lucky, she just won't wake up
She is dying and no amount of chamalla can change that. One day, if she's lucky, she just won't wake up and someone will have the misfortune to shake her and gasp and call for help while her waxy-white skin mocks them and their futile efforts. If she's unlucky, she will die after days of suffering, fevers and illness and hallucinations, visitors and pity and the press. Either way, she is dying and one day one death will happen. She knows this. Some nights, shivering through dressing gowns and blankets and half-dreams, she wonders who will mourn her and who will scorn her, that dead President, the great pretender.
It's because she's dying that she can be cold and cruel and cutting. She will get these people to a planet, to safety and a life worth living, she will see them smile; she won't die having abandoned them to space and time and inevitability. She won't.
She is dying and she won't have regrets or sighs; it's not even death that frightens her. It's not wanting to be alone and not wanting to be in company, it's not wanting to feel and not wanting not to, it's not wanting to lose her mind. She doesn't want to have survived apocalypse only for her own body to destroy itself. It seems pointless and idiotic and she won't let it happen, she won't feel as hollow as she does.
She takes chances she would have taken anyway but feels more secure in them. She fraks Lee Adama in a supply cupboard with her skirt creasing round her waist and her legs around his; he is young enough to support her and she aches enough to let him. He is discreet and so is she, and they won't talk about it. She watches Kara Thrace as she saunters around Galactica, not-flirting and back-chatting, strong and defensive and so very tattered at her edges. Laura kisses her hard on the mouth one evening, against a cold wall near Kara'a bunk, and then they draw the curtains so Laura can thrust her fingers inside Kara, taunting her and putting the pad of her thumb firmly on Kara's clit and keeping it there. Laura watches the abandon on Kara's face as she bucks and shudders and comes, then she licks her fingers clean and walks away, shaking from lust and want and need. She won't turn around. Kara won't call her back.
Bill Adama keeps smiling at her until one night she finds herself in his bed. He groans and thrusts in all the right places and all the right times with too-great sincerity while she fakes all the same underneath him, not happy and not upset, not aroused and not disgusted. When he lies asleep with one arm thrown over Laura's stomach, she realises he loves her and she knows she doesn't love him. She slides away, and he doesn't wake up even when she stumbles as she is pulling on a shoe. Her heels tap tap tap as she walks away down the corridor and she wonders what will change.
She is dying and she pretends the pain is strength or courage.
That dying President. The great pretender.
Again, I like comments (
