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escritoireazulTitle: Into Her Dreams (Vampire Edit)
Author: Carla (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
escritoireazul)
Recipient:deifire for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
femslash07
Fandom: Kim Harrison - Dead Witch Walking
Pairing: Ivy Tamwood/Rachel Morgan
Rating: 13+
Word count: 1900+
Disclaimer: Kim Harrison owns Ivy and Rachel.
Spoilers: Dead Witch Walking and The Good, The Bad, and The Undead
Summary: Ivy dreams in black, white, and red.
Five dreams Ivy Tamwood never realized.
I. (pre-series)
II. (during Dead Witch Walking)
III. (post Dead Witch Walking)
IV. (during The Good, The Bad, and The Undead)
V. (post The Good, The Bad, and The Undead)
I.
There’s a witch in her bed.
That plus the handcuffs and the foggy remnants of a sleep spell sounds like a recipe for bad luck. (A witch in the bed is bad luck. Handle with care. Use plenty of bleach. Bleach would ruin her sheets.)
Ivy doesn’t believe in bad luck.
There are curses and wishes and (so many, she makes them so often, she’s such a failure because of her) mistakes, but there’s no such thing as bad luck and there’s no such thing as coincidence.
Rachel doesn’t say anything, the witch in the bed, she just sits there in leather and waits. Watches. Ivy can feel her, the heat from her body, can smell her, the last of her adrenaline, the sweat collecting under her breasts and in the creases of her thighs, the constant scent of magic, burnt amber and wet grass.
“Rachel…,” Ivy whispers the name, a plea, a promise. “Let me go.” That’s a demand.
They’ve only been partners for a few – has it been days? has it been weeks? maybe it’s been forever, it was always like this, Ivy can’t make herself remember – they’ve only been partners for awhile, but one thing has already become standard. Rachel doesn’t listen to demands, not Ivy’s, not anyone’s. She says how it will be, and she gets mad if you break her rules, but not if she breaks yours, or anyone else’s.
She leans over, and her hair brushes against Ivy’s face, red so bright, blood on fire. Charms dangle from her neck, clack together, form music and Ivy can almost hear the spells, all gone wrong, twisted backward.
Rachel’s breath is hot and spiced with blood just under the skin of her tongue, her gums, the insides of her cheeks. She’s so close Ivy could touch, if her hands were free, but all she can do is lift her head, strain forward and up.
(Touch me she whispers in her thoughts, but her mouth won’t move and the metal in the handcuffs cups her wrists, presses against her back. Kiss me.)
Rachel says something Ivy can’t hear (impossible, but she’s a witch, a witch, a witch with an itch in bed, does impossible, improbable things) and leans in and
kisses
her.
(Ivy, when she wakes, can taste witch on her tongue.)
II.
Rachel is melted sugar, sticky, sweet, wrapped in a black wrapper which smells like witch and like Ivy, mingled together, a breathtaking, mindstealing mix of sweat and pheromones and the promise
the silk-sweet promise of
(she can feel it on her teeth, the way the skin splits, parts, opens a rent, and her mouth, her throat, will work to take in the)
blood.
Rachel hesitates, her breath too fast, and sweat trickles down her neck. Her fingers twitch, and then she reaches out, just like she wants, just like Ivy wants, and puts her hands in Ivy’s hair, twists it around her fists, clings and tugs and pulls Ivy closer.
Ivy touches her then, cheek to cheek, her hands at Rachel’s stomach, her fingers inside the robe, under the nightgown. Rachel’s skin is warm, hot against her fingertips (burn the witch, fire to flesh, burn the witch) and her breath is like steam against Ivy’s throat.
She makes noises, soft cries without actual words, as Ivy runs her hands up Rachel’s ribs until she can cup her breasts, cover them with her hands. They’re so little, so delicate, practically prepubescent, but the nipples harden when Ivy touches them, thumbs across them, scrapes her nails to make Rachel shudder.
“Please.” Rachel’s sounds coalesce into just one word, exactly what Ivy wants to hear. She sighs and moans and, when she speaks, her hands clench in Ivy’s hair. “Please.”
Ivy bites, swift and smooth, and the saliva pumps into Rachel, and her cry of pain is cut off, then muted, then transmuted into pleasure, such delicious, delectable pleasure.
And Ivy
tastes
Rachel
tastes like wood, things growing from the dirt, living things green and lush and crunchy sweet.
When she cries out, she calls Ivy’s name, and comes so hard she shakes the chair, topples them backward, and Ivy is careful not to rip, not to tear, not to hurt. Rachel’s fingers are still in her hair, and Ivy strokes her cheeks, kisses her mouth, breathes in all she can.
(Ivy wakes, curled in on herself, her fingers in her mouth, and she can taste dirt.)
III.
That man
(he smells of rat, still, and she can almost taste fur on her tongue)
is touching Rachel. That man has cupped his arms around her, his hands beneath her clothes, his mouth on her face and her lips and her throat. That man smells of Rachel, of her sweat and her saliva and her lust.
(She smells, when she wants, when she needs, when the sex rises up in her, like new pennies and fresh wood tossed into the fire.)
Ivy saunters into the living room, drapes herself across a chair, head on one arm, legs hooked over the other, her body stretched between, long and lithe, encased in black leather and lycra and, under it all, lace taut across pale skin.
Rachel looks at her, steals quick glances, her face creased with worry, but that man ignores her, rests his chin on Rachel’s shoulder even when she sits up, cups her arms and pulls her closer when she tries to draw away.
Let her go.
Ivy doesn’t say it, but the words buzz on her lips, fall from her fingertips, drift out of every pore until the room is filled with the odor of her order, floating just beneath the surface of the mind, just past understanding.
The television is on, bright lights and flashy colors and distant crowds cheering, but it’s covered by the sound of Rachel’s heartbeat and the way it picks up whenever Ivy comes near.
She wants it
(Ivy, she wants Ivy, and Ivy is not an it, a thing, a monster. Ivy is just --
trapped
-- she is Rachel’s friend. Partner. Protector. She likes her roles and the way their lives entwine so well.)
wants Ivy close to her, in her, fingers and fangs.
(Don’t think about your failures, dear. Ivy can hear her mother’s voice inside her thoughts and shakes her head to knock it free. She’s not a failure
even though she fails
she’s really not. Not with Rachel.)
“Ivy,” Rachel says, and reaches for her. That man-rat holds her back, pushes down her arms, and Ivy vaults across the room, slick motion, slips between them, bones broken in her passing
(his)
and into Rachel’s hands, her touch, her frizzy halo of hair, a fire-angel who will purge Ivy clean.
She’s wearing leather, too, a skirt, and it’s so easy to reach up, high, past pale, pristine thighs, not marred by any mark
(magic)
and slide her fingers through short hair, soft, red, and inside, warm and slick and Ivy’s knuckle brushes flesh and Rachel bucks and is hotter, an inferno cradled beneath skin and Ivy’s caught
(magic)
and Rachel’s pulse is in her throat so fast, a little sparrow, a pixy on honey.
(Rachel tastes like honey, dirty honey, fresh from the hive
and
magic
and she coats Ivy in her golden glow.)
The rat is gone and Rachel tips back her head, opens her throat, and whispers Ivy’s name, a liturgy of desire, a prayer
(no, Ivy is the one who prays, cups her cross her in her hands and whispers pleas for freedom)
a spell. She cries out when Ivy kisses her, cries out into her mouth, and then, bucks, moves, twists, witch flesh so hot against her she will burn the vampire out of Ivy’s body, out of her cells, flame around her, flashfire
and make her clean.
(Ivy wakes with her fingers between her legs, sticky, and craves oranges and honey.)
IV.
She’s dead.
(You failure! She can hear her mother shriek. You killed my bloodline!)
Ivy is dead and she is not a mother and she can feel him
moving inside her
his blood so fast it rips and tears her open and she, her living blood, is sluggish, broken, dripping from her fingers and her tongue and the very edges of herself.
Ivy Tamwood is no longer the last living member of her family, the Tamwoods have no more living vampire bloodline, Ivy is a failure.
(She doesn’t say, I didn’t want this. I didn’t. I didn’t.
I did.
Instead she says “I told him no” and “I couldn’t stop” and “why”.)
Rachel holds her, guides her, and Ivy follows, meek as a lamb. She is dead, she is dead, she has nothing else to do but wait to wake unliving, undead, she can listen and follow directions, she can, she’s a good girl, she is.
(Why?
Her mother’s voice is back and it’s loud and heavy and –
Piscary
-- it’s not her mother, it is, it’s not, it is.
Why? Because you failed
my little girl, my sweet weak child
you failed but you shall
live
forever.)
“Am I dead?”
Rachel says nothing, just strokes her hair, and Ivy chokes on the memory of blood.
(Ivy is dead. Ivy is broken. Ivy is a breaker. Ivy has broken all she touches, all she will touch, everything, always. I am not Ivy, she thinks, I’m a good girl.
Ivy is a failure.)
There is an orange somewhere, peeled, the skin drawn back to reveal blood orange insides, flesh, pulp, bits and pieces
(broken)
she can smell it.
“I didn’t want this,” she says, and, “Am I dead?”
Rachel gives no answer, only holds her, and strokes her hair, and leans in, close, until the oranges line Ivy’s lips and slide over her tongue.
(It’s okay to be Ivy here, with Rachel, her only
lover
friend. Rachel knows and doesn’t say.)
“Love,” Rachel whispers and kisses and strokes until she drifts away, drowning in oranges, and the memory of blood fades like smoke, burnt away, only ashes.
(She isn’t sure she wakes or lives and cannot bear to try the sun, but oranges fall away.)
V.
Ivy has a plan.
She will wait, and Rachel will see how much her friendship means, how nice it is to be cherished. After the rat-man, after Kisten
(who is almost Ivy himself, they are so entwined, and if they had babies, tiny, little living vampires, they would be
im
perfect)
she will be ready for Ivy. Rachel will save Ivy, her witch fire and essence, she will fill Ivy until there’s no more room, until her skin is bursting with it, with magic and witch, and she will burn her down, burn her
up
free of the vampire.
Then Ivy will sit at her piano and play the tune which calls witches from their beds
(the pied
witch
piper)
and Rachel will come to her at last
(at last)
and tilt her head, open her throat, and want.
(Ivy understands want and need and how it
devours
overwhelms from the inside out.)
Rachel says it’s sex, and she doesn’t want sex, but it’s not, and she’ll see, she’ll learn. It’s not sex, though it can be, if she would like. Ivy knows the truth of it, deep inside, where she’s molded into something not quite human
(inhuman)
something just a little different
(monster)
it’s not sex
Rachel will learn, while Ivy plays and calls her forth from her slumber. Not blood, either.
It’s love.
End
Author: Carla (
escritoireazul)Recipient:
deifire for femslash07Fandom: Kim Harrison - Dead Witch Walking
Pairing: Ivy Tamwood/Rachel Morgan
Rating: 13+
Word count: 1900+
Disclaimer: Kim Harrison owns Ivy and Rachel.
Spoilers: Dead Witch Walking and The Good, The Bad, and The Undead
Summary: Ivy dreams in black, white, and red.
Five dreams Ivy Tamwood never realized.
I. (pre-series)
II. (during Dead Witch Walking)
III. (post Dead Witch Walking)
IV. (during The Good, The Bad, and The Undead)
V. (post The Good, The Bad, and The Undead)
I.
There’s a witch in her bed.
That plus the handcuffs and the foggy remnants of a sleep spell sounds like a recipe for bad luck. (A witch in the bed is bad luck. Handle with care. Use plenty of bleach. Bleach would ruin her sheets.)
Ivy doesn’t believe in bad luck.
There are curses and wishes and (so many, she makes them so often, she’s such a failure because of her) mistakes, but there’s no such thing as bad luck and there’s no such thing as coincidence.
Rachel doesn’t say anything, the witch in the bed, she just sits there in leather and waits. Watches. Ivy can feel her, the heat from her body, can smell her, the last of her adrenaline, the sweat collecting under her breasts and in the creases of her thighs, the constant scent of magic, burnt amber and wet grass.
“Rachel…,” Ivy whispers the name, a plea, a promise. “Let me go.” That’s a demand.
They’ve only been partners for a few – has it been days? has it been weeks? maybe it’s been forever, it was always like this, Ivy can’t make herself remember – they’ve only been partners for awhile, but one thing has already become standard. Rachel doesn’t listen to demands, not Ivy’s, not anyone’s. She says how it will be, and she gets mad if you break her rules, but not if she breaks yours, or anyone else’s.
She leans over, and her hair brushes against Ivy’s face, red so bright, blood on fire. Charms dangle from her neck, clack together, form music and Ivy can almost hear the spells, all gone wrong, twisted backward.
Rachel’s breath is hot and spiced with blood just under the skin of her tongue, her gums, the insides of her cheeks. She’s so close Ivy could touch, if her hands were free, but all she can do is lift her head, strain forward and up.
(Touch me she whispers in her thoughts, but her mouth won’t move and the metal in the handcuffs cups her wrists, presses against her back. Kiss me.)
Rachel says something Ivy can’t hear (impossible, but she’s a witch, a witch, a witch with an itch in bed, does impossible, improbable things) and leans in and
kisses
her.
(Ivy, when she wakes, can taste witch on her tongue.)
II.
Rachel is melted sugar, sticky, sweet, wrapped in a black wrapper which smells like witch and like Ivy, mingled together, a breathtaking, mindstealing mix of sweat and pheromones and the promise
the silk-sweet promise of
(she can feel it on her teeth, the way the skin splits, parts, opens a rent, and her mouth, her throat, will work to take in the)
blood.
Rachel hesitates, her breath too fast, and sweat trickles down her neck. Her fingers twitch, and then she reaches out, just like she wants, just like Ivy wants, and puts her hands in Ivy’s hair, twists it around her fists, clings and tugs and pulls Ivy closer.
Ivy touches her then, cheek to cheek, her hands at Rachel’s stomach, her fingers inside the robe, under the nightgown. Rachel’s skin is warm, hot against her fingertips (burn the witch, fire to flesh, burn the witch) and her breath is like steam against Ivy’s throat.
She makes noises, soft cries without actual words, as Ivy runs her hands up Rachel’s ribs until she can cup her breasts, cover them with her hands. They’re so little, so delicate, practically prepubescent, but the nipples harden when Ivy touches them, thumbs across them, scrapes her nails to make Rachel shudder.
“Please.” Rachel’s sounds coalesce into just one word, exactly what Ivy wants to hear. She sighs and moans and, when she speaks, her hands clench in Ivy’s hair. “Please.”
Ivy bites, swift and smooth, and the saliva pumps into Rachel, and her cry of pain is cut off, then muted, then transmuted into pleasure, such delicious, delectable pleasure.
And Ivy
tastes
Rachel
tastes like wood, things growing from the dirt, living things green and lush and crunchy sweet.
When she cries out, she calls Ivy’s name, and comes so hard she shakes the chair, topples them backward, and Ivy is careful not to rip, not to tear, not to hurt. Rachel’s fingers are still in her hair, and Ivy strokes her cheeks, kisses her mouth, breathes in all she can.
(Ivy wakes, curled in on herself, her fingers in her mouth, and she can taste dirt.)
III.
That man
(he smells of rat, still, and she can almost taste fur on her tongue)
is touching Rachel. That man has cupped his arms around her, his hands beneath her clothes, his mouth on her face and her lips and her throat. That man smells of Rachel, of her sweat and her saliva and her lust.
(She smells, when she wants, when she needs, when the sex rises up in her, like new pennies and fresh wood tossed into the fire.)
Ivy saunters into the living room, drapes herself across a chair, head on one arm, legs hooked over the other, her body stretched between, long and lithe, encased in black leather and lycra and, under it all, lace taut across pale skin.
Rachel looks at her, steals quick glances, her face creased with worry, but that man ignores her, rests his chin on Rachel’s shoulder even when she sits up, cups her arms and pulls her closer when she tries to draw away.
Let her go.
Ivy doesn’t say it, but the words buzz on her lips, fall from her fingertips, drift out of every pore until the room is filled with the odor of her order, floating just beneath the surface of the mind, just past understanding.
The television is on, bright lights and flashy colors and distant crowds cheering, but it’s covered by the sound of Rachel’s heartbeat and the way it picks up whenever Ivy comes near.
She wants it
(Ivy, she wants Ivy, and Ivy is not an it, a thing, a monster. Ivy is just --
trapped
-- she is Rachel’s friend. Partner. Protector. She likes her roles and the way their lives entwine so well.)
wants Ivy close to her, in her, fingers and fangs.
(Don’t think about your failures, dear. Ivy can hear her mother’s voice inside her thoughts and shakes her head to knock it free. She’s not a failure
even though she fails
she’s really not. Not with Rachel.)
“Ivy,” Rachel says, and reaches for her. That man-rat holds her back, pushes down her arms, and Ivy vaults across the room, slick motion, slips between them, bones broken in her passing
(his)
and into Rachel’s hands, her touch, her frizzy halo of hair, a fire-angel who will purge Ivy clean.
She’s wearing leather, too, a skirt, and it’s so easy to reach up, high, past pale, pristine thighs, not marred by any mark
(magic)
and slide her fingers through short hair, soft, red, and inside, warm and slick and Ivy’s knuckle brushes flesh and Rachel bucks and is hotter, an inferno cradled beneath skin and Ivy’s caught
(magic)
and Rachel’s pulse is in her throat so fast, a little sparrow, a pixy on honey.
(Rachel tastes like honey, dirty honey, fresh from the hive
and
magic
and she coats Ivy in her golden glow.)
The rat is gone and Rachel tips back her head, opens her throat, and whispers Ivy’s name, a liturgy of desire, a prayer
(no, Ivy is the one who prays, cups her cross her in her hands and whispers pleas for freedom)
a spell. She cries out when Ivy kisses her, cries out into her mouth, and then, bucks, moves, twists, witch flesh so hot against her she will burn the vampire out of Ivy’s body, out of her cells, flame around her, flashfire
and make her clean.
(Ivy wakes with her fingers between her legs, sticky, and craves oranges and honey.)
IV.
She’s dead.
(You failure! She can hear her mother shriek. You killed my bloodline!)
Ivy is dead and she is not a mother and she can feel him
moving inside her
his blood so fast it rips and tears her open and she, her living blood, is sluggish, broken, dripping from her fingers and her tongue and the very edges of herself.
Ivy Tamwood is no longer the last living member of her family, the Tamwoods have no more living vampire bloodline, Ivy is a failure.
(She doesn’t say, I didn’t want this. I didn’t. I didn’t.
I did.
Instead she says “I told him no” and “I couldn’t stop” and “why”.)
Rachel holds her, guides her, and Ivy follows, meek as a lamb. She is dead, she is dead, she has nothing else to do but wait to wake unliving, undead, she can listen and follow directions, she can, she’s a good girl, she is.
(Why?
Her mother’s voice is back and it’s loud and heavy and –
Piscary
-- it’s not her mother, it is, it’s not, it is.
Why? Because you failed
my little girl, my sweet weak child
you failed but you shall
live
forever.)
“Am I dead?”
Rachel says nothing, just strokes her hair, and Ivy chokes on the memory of blood.
(Ivy is dead. Ivy is broken. Ivy is a breaker. Ivy has broken all she touches, all she will touch, everything, always. I am not Ivy, she thinks, I’m a good girl.
Ivy is a failure.)
There is an orange somewhere, peeled, the skin drawn back to reveal blood orange insides, flesh, pulp, bits and pieces
(broken)
she can smell it.
“I didn’t want this,” she says, and, “Am I dead?”
Rachel gives no answer, only holds her, and strokes her hair, and leans in, close, until the oranges line Ivy’s lips and slide over her tongue.
(It’s okay to be Ivy here, with Rachel, her only
lover
friend. Rachel knows and doesn’t say.)
“Love,” Rachel whispers and kisses and strokes until she drifts away, drowning in oranges, and the memory of blood fades like smoke, burnt away, only ashes.
(She isn’t sure she wakes or lives and cannot bear to try the sun, but oranges fall away.)
V.
Ivy has a plan.
She will wait, and Rachel will see how much her friendship means, how nice it is to be cherished. After the rat-man, after Kisten
(who is almost Ivy himself, they are so entwined, and if they had babies, tiny, little living vampires, they would be
im
perfect)
she will be ready for Ivy. Rachel will save Ivy, her witch fire and essence, she will fill Ivy until there’s no more room, until her skin is bursting with it, with magic and witch, and she will burn her down, burn her
up
free of the vampire.
Then Ivy will sit at her piano and play the tune which calls witches from their beds
(the pied
witch
piper)
and Rachel will come to her at last
(at last)
and tilt her head, open her throat, and want.
(Ivy understands want and need and how it
devours
overwhelms from the inside out.)
Rachel says it’s sex, and she doesn’t want sex, but it’s not, and she’ll see, she’ll learn. It’s not sex, though it can be, if she would like. Ivy knows the truth of it, deep inside, where she’s molded into something not quite human
(inhuman)
something just a little different
(monster)
it’s not sex
Rachel will learn, while Ivy plays and calls her forth from her slumber. Not blood, either.
It’s love.
End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-03-12 10:41 pm (UTC)That's perfect. Just bloody perfect. That's amazing, the, the stylistic chances you took, and you've captured Ivy so well. Damn. This is great.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 02:49 pm (UTC)Thank you. I really needed to hear this, and you just absolutely made my day.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-03-16 01:39 am (UTC)I'm excited about it, too. I enjoyed Dead Witch Walking when I first read it (I worked at a bookstore back then, and so had the arc pretty early), but not very many people I know have read the series. This is good, finding more fans.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 02:52 am (UTC)Wow.
This was absolutely, positively amazing. Hot, twisted, and a wonderful view from inside Ivy's head. I love the imagery, the way you've captured Ivy's need and insecurities, and how her dreams are filled with scents and tastes:
Ivy bites, swift and smooth, and the saliva pumps into Rachel, and her cry of pain is cut off, then muted, then transmuted into pleasure, such delicious, delectable pleasure.
And Ivy
tastes
Rachel
tastes like wood, things growing from the dirt, living things green and lush and crunchy sweet.
Mmmm. Gorgeous prose, interesting stylistic choices that work, and the delicious lines are too many to list.
Rachel doesn't listen to demands, not Ivy's, not anyone's. She says how it will be, and she gets mad if you break her rules, but not if she breaks yours, or anyone else’s.
And this one made me laugh out loud a little, too, because it's so perfectly Rachel if the series were told from anyone else's, especially Ivy's, point of view.
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 02:52 pm (UTC)And this one made me laugh out loud a little, too, because it's so perfectly Rachel if the series were told from anyone else's, especially Ivy's, point of view.
It makes me laugh, too, and I almost cut it for that reason, I thought it seemed a little frivolous compared to the tone of the rest of the story, but it's so true! I couldn't leave it out.
Ivy is my favorite character in the series, and I was very excited to get the chance to write her. Thank you for your prompt, and again, I'm really glad you enjoyed the story. I had an absolute blast writing it.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 03:21 am (UTC)Hope you write more in this fandom. Unfortunately, I don't think Kim Harrison's going to go there with these two, which is too bad.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 02:56 pm (UTC)I don't think Harrison is going to do it, either, and that really disappoints me. There are hints at it, but then Rachel, like so many other POV characters in these type of books, is all, "Gay is fine for them, but I'm straight. Straight straight straight. Never any doubt. Straight." (Protesting a bit too much, I think.)
I'd really like to see a gay or bisexual POV character in these types of stories.
I think I will have to write some more in it. When I first started, I went looking for other fanfic and didn't find any. Do you know of any archives or authors?
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 10:08 pm (UTC)As much as I find Rachel's typical preternatural-romance/thriller "I am so straight, really!" attitude frustrating, my impression as of the last book was that Harrison might take her in a more queer/poly direction than I initially expected. Rachel's denial level would rise to ridiculous heights otherwise. I at least expect strong subtext, which would still be more than I've found in any other series in the genre. (But I haven't read any recent interviews or anything, so I could be clinging to wishful thinking.)
I found a grand total of three Rachel Morgan stories on Fanfiction.net last time I looked, but neither really stuck in my head. These are links, definitely not recs:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3049798/1/
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/3068943/1/
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2899468/1/
no subject
Date: 2007-03-16 01:43 am (UTC)(I know, I know, if you don't find something you like, write it yourself. I am doing that, too, but I don't get much of a kick out of reading my own stories. I'd still love to read books besides my own which deal with it.)
I definitely understand the links versus recs. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-17 05:12 pm (UTC)I'd still love to read books besides my own which deal with it.
Oh, me too! KH's books are the closest I've found yet to genre fiction with a bi, poly viewpoint character. Rachel's not there yet, but after book 4, it's a place she could believably go, I think.
no subject
Date: 2007-03-13 10:42 pm (UTC)There seems to be a few more stories now on ff.net besides the links below (thanks, btw) including some by meremortal2k3. She wrote some crazy BOP fics a few years back which I have to admit I enjoyed despite the lack of polish. I haven't read her Ivy/Rachel stories though.
There's definitely some major hints in the books, but based on Rachel's response to Ivy so far, I suspect Harrison is not comfortable with following through. She can only write about what she knows after all.
Hey, I would love to be wrong about that. She may surprise us. I'm glad some peeps think she may go there. For one thing I'm not sure I like where Ivy's going in the books. Unfortunately, at this point, either they will go forward or something bad may happen to Ivy to create more distance between the characters.
Anyways, maybe a little pimpage of this pairing as well as feedback for the fic writers will generate more fanfic :).
no subject
Date: 2007-03-16 11:56 pm (UTC)It's not like KH knows firsthand what it's like to be a witch or a vampire (and do we know for sure that KH is 100% straight?). People write about things they don't know all the time. That's why there's research.
I think it's more likely that she would decide not to alienate her straight audience who "just can't identify" with a heroine who has even the tiniest attraction to women (which makes me unutterably grouchy, since I had to identify with 100% straight characters ALL THE TIME, and it's not like Rachel's likely to be a lesbian at this point).
no subject
Date: 2007-03-17 12:45 am (UTC)I don't know about catering to the straight audience. I think she'd go there if she thought she could do it right, otherwise she wouldn't be writing this kind of stuff in the first place.
do we know for sure that KH is 100% straight?
I was wondering about that after reading some of the Rachel/Ivy scenes because she really teases us. But if I remember correctly her back page bio or dedications in the books pretty much convinced me she's straight. Would love to be wrong about that though.
I totally hear you about how tiresome it is to be reading mainstream fiction with 100% straight characters all the time. That's why I read less and less of it. KH is the first new writer I've read in a while.
So yay for fanfic!
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Date: 2007-03-17 05:15 pm (UTC)Well, yeah, but I really don't think it's impossible to write about characters with different sexual orientations--I don't think it's any harder for a straight woman to write from the POV of a lesbian/bisexual woman (especially in a fantasy world where species is probably more of an issue socially than orientation) than, say, a straight woman to write from the POV of a straight man, which happens all the time. Maybe easier, because at least the queer woman shares gender with the author.
But if I remember correctly her back page bio or dedications in the books pretty much convinced me she's straight.
I think she's married (?) or in a LTR with a man, but that doesn't mean she's straight. I would also be unsurprised if she's either polyamorous or has poly friends.
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Date: 2007-03-13 09:38 pm (UTC)I really loved this if anything because it was so unexpected to find someone writing in this fandom. Ivy and Rachel are so complicated and you really picked up on all that tension and flow between them.
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Date: 2007-03-16 01:49 am (UTC)I was actually surprised, when I went looking, that there isn't more of a fandom for this series, especially when you look at the fandom for Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake series.
I've only read the first three so far (I got Dead Witch Walking as an arc back when I worked at the bookstore, but since I left, I've only just picked up the fourth, and haven't even thought about buying the latest, though I will), but I do like the world she's built. I'm kind of eh about Rachel, but Ivy -- Ivy, I love.
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Date: 2007-03-17 10:50 pm (UTC)Squee!
Date: 2007-03-19 02:58 pm (UTC)This is wonderful. Poor Ivy. You capture her yearning so well.
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Date: 2007-03-21 05:05 am (UTC)(Ivy, when she wakes, can taste witch on her tongue.)
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Date: 2007-05-29 04:41 pm (UTC)Let me know if you write any more, or find any?
cinnamon_5575@yahoo.com
Thanks!
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Date: 2007-06-10 11:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-12 03:45 am (UTC)I like the style of interruption you use--it's almost Faulknerian at times. And that use of enjambment to make the object simultaneously the subject of the next verb was especially nice!
I'm disappointed to read in the comments here that so many people think Harrison isn't going to let Rachel/Ivy happen, but maybe they hadn't read For a Few Demons More yet. My concern is that Harrison is just going to drag it out too long, one obstacle after another keeping them from a full-fledged relationship. It's already so frustrating!
If you've written or know of any more Rach/Ivy fic, I'd appreciate knowing about it.
What other fandoms do you write in?