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 (
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 12:38 pm (UTC)In absolutely no way do I think this is OOC, so you need to calm the fretting down. It is not defeatist. It is not full of OOC emo-angst. Your writing gives Laura's stream of consciousness a powerful edge, real bite and strength that prevents Laura sounding all "woe is me" and weak. Tha first paragraph is awesome. I wish I could have written something like that, or indeed something like this whole piece.
Seriously, I love it and I'm proud of you.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-10 07:15 pm (UTC)I made a somewhat hormone-induced comment to the comment you left to the Kara/Laura, so here I will simply say 'thank you', for being wonderful and supportive and not letting me get away with flailing.
And you give such very helpful and groovy feedback. *smushs you and weeps, because I am in that kind of state right now*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-10 11:04 pm (UTC)*smiles while she is being smushed*
no subject
Date: 2006-07-08 05:23 pm (UTC)Is Laura dying in the tv programme then or is that an invention of yours?
Me loves you and me loves your writing
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 06:01 pm (UTC)I'm happy you like and you read, even though you don't watch the prog! Hee, character-learning from fic is always fun.
Me loves you too. xxxxx.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 01:16 pm (UTC)*breathing shallowly*
I admit I was pained by her not-loving Bill (having been an A/R shipper too long) but it fit excellently and added to the existential disconnection and discomfort and to the truth of the piece.
In awe. Muchly.
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 06:04 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! And in awe! There is no need, it is not that good.
A/R shipping - I do ship them, but not in the forever-and-ever sense. Can still squee over them though ;)
no subject
Date: 2006-07-09 09:57 pm (UTC)But you managed to pull me in and without getting emo and verbose change my mood to a very pointed pang.
So why do you think "it's not that good"?
no subject
Date: 2006-07-10 07:13 pm (UTC)(On a shallow note, by GOD your icon is pretty.)
I am still very glad you came over here and read it. And commented. Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2006-07-10 08:52 pm (UTC)ah, those reasons. Okay. No need for those. Really *pets*
I came over based on the power of the fic you placed in the A/R comm.
I read lots of fic. But hardly ever track down a writer to her LJ.
You are good. I write fic myself. You are better. Sharper.
IMHO that is. :)
Re icon: yes isn't she beautiful?
(Allison Janney in The West Wing - icon made by
no subject
Date: 2006-07-10 09:13 pm (UTC)I don't know if I've read any of your fic; will come seek it out tomorrow, when I am not falling asleep at the computer. Am sure I am not better. Yours will be gooood with extra 'o's. Re: my reasons: Meh, I do not like these reasons.
Not seen much of TWW, have S3 though.
no subject
Date: 2006-11-13 03:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-11-13 06:43 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked.