Dreamt Reality (fanfiction)
Title: Dreamt Reality
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Kara/
Rating: M for semi-graphic sex
Summary: They dream, until they can stop them.
She wants so badly for this not to be a dream.
Somewhere, deep inside of her, she knows that it is, but at the same time it is not. It's all in her mind, she knows that, but it isn't like a dream, not really. There's some quality to it that is too... tangible. Her eyes see, her skin feels, her mind thinks almost as if it were all real. This is comforting to her. She doesn't know why.
The light, like delicate candle glow falling through butterfly wings, it tingles on her skin like the light of a real sun. It dances all over the edges of a red dress, as the fabrics flicks this way and that, the wearer running swiftly.
Kara is suddenly following after the swish of red, the cool, high grass under her feet and against her bare legs feeling as real as any that has ever touched her skin before. It is deep green at the root, bright through the shaft, pale yellow in dead and dying parts. It all flickers in her vision as she races after the crimson dress, human like blood and yet alien against the earthy green of the field.
She runs, hard, and the air that pumps through her lungs is sweet and cool, like real air, not the recycled air of Galactica or the tight, plastic air of the Viper cockpit. Her lungs feel big and hot, her body heavy and... human.
She breathes the real but not real air thickly into her real but not real lungs, closes and opens her real but not real eyes slowly. They see color so intensely, hyper real color. The cool green of the grass, the hot pink and yellows and golds of the setting sun, the clean, high blue in a sky dotted with emerging stars, the flash of deep red as the dress keeps just ahead of her.
Her ears hear giggling, too, a tinkling and childish yet womanly sound, floating back to her from just ahead. She is catching up with her. The sound grows louder, the breathing of a woman growing more rapid and shallow. The sound of her breathing is echoing and cool in Kara’s ears. She can feel the almost real desperation, the want to catch her, and simultaneously sense the joyful, playful fear of the woman in the red dress. She wants to be caught, but she does not want to be caught. She wants Kara to earn it. Kara knows this, somehow. This is how she knows this is all not real; she can almost hear the thoughts of the woman in the red dress. She simultaneously feels her own heart, thumping loudly in her chest, and the quick, wing beating sound of the heart wrapped tightly within the crimson dress.
Time, irrelevant, flows and evaporates around them. She could have been chasing for hours or moments, when the red is somehow now inches from her hard hands. They ache to touch it, feel it, pull it, rip it. She can already feel it against the sensitive skin of her fingers. She is already touching it. She is already...and yet she is not. She is not holding that dress, that woman, she can never catch her, she knows this. The red of the dress turns to blood, and it hits the grass and leaves small droplets of life upon it, hot red slashes across cool green. She keeps running, running hard, as the droplets become red gashes in the field, as the dress begins to melt, as the playful panic of the woman becomes desperation and ragged fear. And she will never catch her, Kara will never catch her, she knows this, but she keeps running. She will keeping running and running and running and running until until until --
"Kara."
The real world floods violently back into her, the shock of real sound so loud in her ears that she has to swallow hard against the pain in her head. She swallows again, feeling the real sensation of the saliva going slick down her throat, of her dry lips pressing roughly together, so real they are like sandpaper.
"Kara? Kara, wake up. Wake up - you're having a bad dream."
The touch on her wrist is like the weight of a thousand pounds pressing down on her, though she knows it is the most delicate of caresses. She breathes in sharply and all the air in the world fills her lungs. It is all too real, like the dream, all too real...
"Kara Thrace, wake up NOW."
Her eyes snap open at the command. The colors are... dull. Simple. Real. Not overly so just... real.
Pale eyes, soft and crinkled, look down on her. Dark auburn hair falls over Kara’s pale skin, soft and tickling.
"You were dreaming," Laura Roslin says simply. Kara nods.
"Was it about me?"
Kara does not wonder how she knows. She nods again.
"I'm still right here," she says, but Kara is so unsure. Everything has been a blur, she doesn't trust what's right in front of her.
"I'm okay," she says, and takes Kara's right hand carefully. She brings it to her own chest. Laura holds Kara’s gaze intently as she presses the hard, strong hand to her chest with both of her own thin, delicate hands. Kara bites her lip as she feels the damaged but healed flesh.
"Laura "
"Shh," she says, tossing her head back and luxuriating in the real feeling of Kara's hand on her. Kara feels Laura’s soft nipple harden beneath her hand from the very simple, innocent friction. Kara shuts her eyes fiercely; her breath comes quicker to her; her head whirls.
"I'm safe," she hears Laura say, the words and her breath floating down and over Kara, soft, warm. "Your dreams are just dreams," she promises. Kara wants so badly to believe her. Laura knows she does not.
Laura lets Kara’s hand down gently and shifts, straddling Kara’s hips. Laura's dark hair brushes over Kara's naked chest as she leans over her, kisses her lips gently. Her lips are thin and soft against Kara's rough, full ones.
"This is real," Laura tells her, taking Kara's hands and cupping her own breasts with them. She rocks into Kara, sending sudden and startling sparks through Kara's body, and Kara whimpers, shocked, as always, at how her body gives in to Laura even when her mind has not yet caught up. Laura caresses herself with Kara's hands, continues to rock against her, and Kara feels reality filling her again with every movement. Her body is so very, very alive as Laura lowers her hands to Kara's breasts and teases her nipples with surprisingly firm fingers, never stopping the slow and steady rocking of her hips.
Kara's mouth opens, needy, and Laura lowers herself again to kiss Kara greedily, pressing their bodies together. She spreads her legs and pulls Kara's right hand between them, pressing her fingers against her heat, murmuring and panting. Kara strokes the soft wetness with hesitant fingers, until Laura cups Kara’s hand and presses her own fingers inside with Kara's.
"This isn't a dream," she whispers hotly into her ear. Kara and her fingers move slickly inside of her, and she rocks into their hands, molded together as one. "This is real," she says, kissing Kara's bottom lip. She lets her tongue dip into Kara's mouth, tasting her softly, lapping at Kara's wide, slow tongue.
Kara can feel Laura, soft and tightening around their joined fingers. The friction between them is like an itch that she can’t scratch and Kara is unconsciously rocking in time, her own need rising in response to Laura's whimpers and moans in her ears. Yes, she thinks, finally. This is real. Laura’s body, hot and frantic, was telling her that it was real.
"Come with me," Laura says, deep and throaty. She takes Kara's other hand and puts their twin fingers smoothly, quickly, familiarly, inside of Kara. Their hands move without awkwardness, from the grace that Laura so easily commands, and soon they move as one, thrusting and panting, fingers moving more quickly, harder, until Kara is gasping and quivering, say "frak, frak, frak" quietly, almost angrily, over and over. "This is real," Laura tells her, as many times as she can manage between stuttering breaths and small curses to the gods. "This is real."
And as everything goes black and she feels like she’s being blown backwards out an airlock, Kara wants to believe this is all not a dream. But she doesn't know if anything will ever feel as real as her dreams, so what is the reality and what is the dream? Kara wishes she knew, for certain.
Kara wants so badly for this, for the panting woman bathed in invisible crimson, coming down from such heights in her arms, to be real. But as long as the battle-stations alarm steals her from her little bed, as long as the non reality of recirculated air and dull color is her reality, nothing will ever be real. Not until they stop them.
Kara doesn’t let herself think of the other possibility, but instead opens her arms to the momentary reality of Laura Roslin coming into her embrace.
Laura sighs, content, falling into Kara’s arms. "This is real," she says softly, dreamily. "This is real." She says it because she wants it to be true, too.
Laura wants very badly for this not to be a dream.
This hot body next to her, male and female violently combined by the gods, wanting her, needing her, to root her to reality. But every time Kara closes her eyes, she goes somewhere else, somewhere that Laura cannot follow. For the small, small moments where they move as one, it is real, it is all too real. Beyond that, Laura does not know.
And as Kara shuts her eyes and her breathing slows with her temporarily restored contentment, Laura settles more comfortably against her, praying that her own dreams, of a viper cockpit full of flames, is just as false of Kara’s night runnings through fields of red dresses. In truth, she doesn’t know what’s real and what’s dreams of visions anymore. And she won’t, she knows that, until they stop them.
Or until they themselves are gone.
She doesn’t want to think about that. She wishes she had the luxury of Kara’s brassy and naïve refusal to even acknowledge that possibility. But when you face death once… you aren’t so scared to face it again. You don’t want to, certainly, but you can do it. It has nothing to do with bravery. It is simply… reality.
Laura sighs, not fighting sleep as it eases around her like Kara’s careless arms embracing her. She will sink, she hopes, into a dreamless sleep. At least until the next alarm, the next crisis, separates them both…maybe for good.
Until then she will stifle the visions of a viper cockpit, of a roar of pain, of a life without this skin and heartbeat beneath her. Until they can stop the cylons, or until they themselves are gone… they will dream.
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica
Pairing: Kara/
Rating: M for semi-graphic sex
Summary: They dream, until they can stop them.
She wants so badly for this not to be a dream.
Somewhere, deep inside of her, she knows that it is, but at the same time it is not. It's all in her mind, she knows that, but it isn't like a dream, not really. There's some quality to it that is too... tangible. Her eyes see, her skin feels, her mind thinks almost as if it were all real. This is comforting to her. She doesn't know why.
The light, like delicate candle glow falling through butterfly wings, it tingles on her skin like the light of a real sun. It dances all over the edges of a red dress, as the fabrics flicks this way and that, the wearer running swiftly.
Kara is suddenly following after the swish of red, the cool, high grass under her feet and against her bare legs feeling as real as any that has ever touched her skin before. It is deep green at the root, bright through the shaft, pale yellow in dead and dying parts. It all flickers in her vision as she races after the crimson dress, human like blood and yet alien against the earthy green of the field.
She runs, hard, and the air that pumps through her lungs is sweet and cool, like real air, not the recycled air of Galactica or the tight, plastic air of the Viper cockpit. Her lungs feel big and hot, her body heavy and... human.
She breathes the real but not real air thickly into her real but not real lungs, closes and opens her real but not real eyes slowly. They see color so intensely, hyper real color. The cool green of the grass, the hot pink and yellows and golds of the setting sun, the clean, high blue in a sky dotted with emerging stars, the flash of deep red as the dress keeps just ahead of her.
Her ears hear giggling, too, a tinkling and childish yet womanly sound, floating back to her from just ahead. She is catching up with her. The sound grows louder, the breathing of a woman growing more rapid and shallow. The sound of her breathing is echoing and cool in Kara’s ears. She can feel the almost real desperation, the want to catch her, and simultaneously sense the joyful, playful fear of the woman in the red dress. She wants to be caught, but she does not want to be caught. She wants Kara to earn it. Kara knows this, somehow. This is how she knows this is all not real; she can almost hear the thoughts of the woman in the red dress. She simultaneously feels her own heart, thumping loudly in her chest, and the quick, wing beating sound of the heart wrapped tightly within the crimson dress.
Time, irrelevant, flows and evaporates around them. She could have been chasing for hours or moments, when the red is somehow now inches from her hard hands. They ache to touch it, feel it, pull it, rip it. She can already feel it against the sensitive skin of her fingers. She is already touching it. She is already...and yet she is not. She is not holding that dress, that woman, she can never catch her, she knows this. The red of the dress turns to blood, and it hits the grass and leaves small droplets of life upon it, hot red slashes across cool green. She keeps running, running hard, as the droplets become red gashes in the field, as the dress begins to melt, as the playful panic of the woman becomes desperation and ragged fear. And she will never catch her, Kara will never catch her, she knows this, but she keeps running. She will keeping running and running and running and running until until until --
"Kara."
The real world floods violently back into her, the shock of real sound so loud in her ears that she has to swallow hard against the pain in her head. She swallows again, feeling the real sensation of the saliva going slick down her throat, of her dry lips pressing roughly together, so real they are like sandpaper.
"Kara? Kara, wake up. Wake up - you're having a bad dream."
The touch on her wrist is like the weight of a thousand pounds pressing down on her, though she knows it is the most delicate of caresses. She breathes in sharply and all the air in the world fills her lungs. It is all too real, like the dream, all too real...
"Kara Thrace, wake up NOW."
Her eyes snap open at the command. The colors are... dull. Simple. Real. Not overly so just... real.
Pale eyes, soft and crinkled, look down on her. Dark auburn hair falls over Kara’s pale skin, soft and tickling.
"You were dreaming," Laura Roslin says simply. Kara nods.
"Was it about me?"
Kara does not wonder how she knows. She nods again.
"I'm still right here," she says, but Kara is so unsure. Everything has been a blur, she doesn't trust what's right in front of her.
"I'm okay," she says, and takes Kara's right hand carefully. She brings it to her own chest. Laura holds Kara’s gaze intently as she presses the hard, strong hand to her chest with both of her own thin, delicate hands. Kara bites her lip as she feels the damaged but healed flesh.
"Laura "
"Shh," she says, tossing her head back and luxuriating in the real feeling of Kara's hand on her. Kara feels Laura’s soft nipple harden beneath her hand from the very simple, innocent friction. Kara shuts her eyes fiercely; her breath comes quicker to her; her head whirls.
"I'm safe," she hears Laura say, the words and her breath floating down and over Kara, soft, warm. "Your dreams are just dreams," she promises. Kara wants so badly to believe her. Laura knows she does not.
Laura lets Kara’s hand down gently and shifts, straddling Kara’s hips. Laura's dark hair brushes over Kara's naked chest as she leans over her, kisses her lips gently. Her lips are thin and soft against Kara's rough, full ones.
"This is real," Laura tells her, taking Kara's hands and cupping her own breasts with them. She rocks into Kara, sending sudden and startling sparks through Kara's body, and Kara whimpers, shocked, as always, at how her body gives in to Laura even when her mind has not yet caught up. Laura caresses herself with Kara's hands, continues to rock against her, and Kara feels reality filling her again with every movement. Her body is so very, very alive as Laura lowers her hands to Kara's breasts and teases her nipples with surprisingly firm fingers, never stopping the slow and steady rocking of her hips.
Kara's mouth opens, needy, and Laura lowers herself again to kiss Kara greedily, pressing their bodies together. She spreads her legs and pulls Kara's right hand between them, pressing her fingers against her heat, murmuring and panting. Kara strokes the soft wetness with hesitant fingers, until Laura cups Kara’s hand and presses her own fingers inside with Kara's.
"This isn't a dream," she whispers hotly into her ear. Kara and her fingers move slickly inside of her, and she rocks into their hands, molded together as one. "This is real," she says, kissing Kara's bottom lip. She lets her tongue dip into Kara's mouth, tasting her softly, lapping at Kara's wide, slow tongue.
Kara can feel Laura, soft and tightening around their joined fingers. The friction between them is like an itch that she can’t scratch and Kara is unconsciously rocking in time, her own need rising in response to Laura's whimpers and moans in her ears. Yes, she thinks, finally. This is real. Laura’s body, hot and frantic, was telling her that it was real.
"Come with me," Laura says, deep and throaty. She takes Kara's other hand and puts their twin fingers smoothly, quickly, familiarly, inside of Kara. Their hands move without awkwardness, from the grace that Laura so easily commands, and soon they move as one, thrusting and panting, fingers moving more quickly, harder, until Kara is gasping and quivering, say "frak, frak, frak" quietly, almost angrily, over and over. "This is real," Laura tells her, as many times as she can manage between stuttering breaths and small curses to the gods. "This is real."
And as everything goes black and she feels like she’s being blown backwards out an airlock, Kara wants to believe this is all not a dream. But she doesn't know if anything will ever feel as real as her dreams, so what is the reality and what is the dream? Kara wishes she knew, for certain.
Kara wants so badly for this, for the panting woman bathed in invisible crimson, coming down from such heights in her arms, to be real. But as long as the battle-stations alarm steals her from her little bed, as long as the non reality of recirculated air and dull color is her reality, nothing will ever be real. Not until they stop them.
Kara doesn’t let herself think of the other possibility, but instead opens her arms to the momentary reality of Laura Roslin coming into her embrace.
Laura sighs, content, falling into Kara’s arms. "This is real," she says softly, dreamily. "This is real." She says it because she wants it to be true, too.
Laura wants very badly for this not to be a dream.
This hot body next to her, male and female violently combined by the gods, wanting her, needing her, to root her to reality. But every time Kara closes her eyes, she goes somewhere else, somewhere that Laura cannot follow. For the small, small moments where they move as one, it is real, it is all too real. Beyond that, Laura does not know.
And as Kara shuts her eyes and her breathing slows with her temporarily restored contentment, Laura settles more comfortably against her, praying that her own dreams, of a viper cockpit full of flames, is just as false of Kara’s night runnings through fields of red dresses. In truth, she doesn’t know what’s real and what’s dreams of visions anymore. And she won’t, she knows that, until they stop them.
Or until they themselves are gone.
She doesn’t want to think about that. She wishes she had the luxury of Kara’s brassy and naïve refusal to even acknowledge that possibility. But when you face death once… you aren’t so scared to face it again. You don’t want to, certainly, but you can do it. It has nothing to do with bravery. It is simply… reality.
Laura sighs, not fighting sleep as it eases around her like Kara’s careless arms embracing her. She will sink, she hopes, into a dreamless sleep. At least until the next alarm, the next crisis, separates them both…maybe for good.
Until then she will stifle the visions of a viper cockpit, of a roar of pain, of a life without this skin and heartbeat beneath her. Until they can stop the cylons, or until they themselves are gone… they will dream.