Femslash February - day 1 - Xin'trea

After all of it, the screams and wails still echoing in her head as a reverberation of her own, Francesca curls shivering onto the cold ground and aches. She has stretched herself to almost nothing in her act of vengeance, her grief and rage pulling raw chaos from the very marrow of her bones, and now, she cannot manage much more than a whisper of magic without strain.

It is not quite full dark, the rest of their meager camp still awake around flickering cooking fires, though there is little to cook. They do not disturb her, letting her rest turned away from them. She can hear Filavandrel speaking in low tones to his ward, Dara, and the voices of others nearby.

So few of them now, only those in her closest inner circle who had refused to see her ride off to her doom alone. 

This hit me with angst very early in the month 😭 super well done and I love getting to see Frinfran! 💛

I never had a partner ...me either

"We could maybe take a walk outside together "The voice bring her back from thoughts over running Cintra. Fringilla loked up to door meeting beautiful eyes of Francesca.

The elf had beautiful features and Fringilla sometimes wondered how much and for once she was glad she doesn't share her thoughts with Francesca.

"Oh sounds very nice "She said getting up. "My partner "She slightly tested these words. Something about them felt right.

It make her shrugged slightly as they eyes meet. Francesca offer her hand and their fingers connected.

They together left Fringilla room and walked together to stairs which lead to garden. "You seems tired ,"

"I am tired "She agreed ad they walked. "Emphyr should arrive soon and it means all have to be in shape "She admitted. Fringilla was stressed about it.

They walked in next long moment in the silence. "Forget about him for moment "Francesca said gently as they walked. They walked slowly together to the fountain. It was place where they like to sit. Hiden from everyone sigh.

"I know maybe I should "She agreed gently as they sit down and both female for moment loked to each other eyes.

"You should not stress yourself more then its need " Francesca said touching her face. There they felt it. It felt right. They eyes meet again.

Fringilla touched her hand gently too. She smiled and her eyes for moment wondered to her lips. That urge was so new but also felt right.

Francesca loked go her eyes and slowly lean closer. "You are beautiful to be stressed "She said quietly.

She then lean in and kissed her lips softly.

@witcherladiesamirite

Kicking off Femslash February with Day One: Xin’trea this is absolutely fabulous work!

“To beautiful to be stressed” oh my gosh my WHOLE HEART. I love these two together so much!! 🥺 🌹

Witcher Femslash February - Swords

Renfri has been in a strange mood all morning. She’s been stalking around Yennefer’s workshop since breakfast, touching things she knows better than to touch, apparently unable to settle down.

“If you’re going to stomp around like a spoiled princess,” Yennefer says, without looking up from the ingredients she’s preparing for a spell, “I’d prefer you did it somewhere else.”

Yennefer regrets the words even before she’s done speaking. Alluding to Renfri’s royal upbringing is one of the easiest ways to draw her ire, and it works like a charm. “Fine,” she snarls, and leaves through the door that’s enchanted to let out into the forest, slamming it behind her so hard the vials on Yennefer’s workbench shake.

Nohorn pokes his head in from the other room and says, “Any casualties?”

Yennefer shoots Renfri’s second-in-command a poisonous glance. Now she’s going to have to run after Renfri and apologize, all because she can’t stop herself for going for the throat, even when she doesn’t really mean it.

She finds Renfri by the river, crouched down to check the fish traps Nimir and Vyr set up there.

“I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me,” Renfri says, without looking up from the swirling current.

Yennefer sighs. Renfri really is such a child sometimes—though Yennefer hardly has room to talk, given her own trouble controlling her temper. Still, someone has to be the bigger woman, and she supposes this time it’s going to be her. “You weren’t really stomping around all that loudly,” she says, and, well, it’s not her best apology, but it’s a start.

Renfri, however, chuckles, and gets to her feet. “Yes, I was.”

“So are you going to tell me what’s the matter?” Yennefer hates this. She much prefers it when the two of them work in almost uncanny harmony, and they don’t have to have unseemly conversations about their feelings. She suspects Renfri prefers it that way, too, but nevertheless here they are.

“Nothing.” She closes the distance between them. “It’s stupid.”

“I’d believe that from Nohorn, but not from you.”

Renfri rolls her eyes. “It’s just …” She blows out a breath. “It’s been a year, and I thought I should do something to mark it somehow, so …” She’s holding out a parcel, Yennefer realizes, long and narrow and wrapped haphazardly in rough cloth.

Only Renfri would think to commemorate their murder of Stregobor with a present. Yennefer bites her lips to keep from smiling, not wanting to insult Renfri any further but unable to quell the warmth that unfolds in her at this brave and bloody-minded girl.

“Oh, fuck you,” Renfri says. “I told you it was stupid. I’ll take it back.”

“You will not.” Yennefer takes the parcel from Renfri, dancing back from Renfri’s half-hearted attempt to grab it away from her. When she unwraps the cloth, she finds she’s holding a dagger, its scabbard delicately engraved, and a little amethyst set into the pommel. She draws the dagger to admire its blade, narrow and gleaming bright. The grip fits beautifully in Yennefer’s palm, and the balance is impeccable even to Yennefer’s unschooled senses. On closer inspection, Yennefer realizes the pattern on the scabbard is little sprays of blossoms and small round berries, and she feels tears spring to her eyes. “No one will ever take it from me,” she says, meeting Renfri’s gaze. “It’s mine now.”

Witcher Femslash February - Lesson

What did they learn, Fringilla wonders. It’s her first night in Nilfgaard, and she’s lying awake, staring at the ceiling because she cannot sleep. Perhaps it’s the small hours of the night turning her maudlin, or else the day’s upheaval has made this feel like a time for summing up. She thought she would feel wiser by now, more in control of her own fate. What did Aretuza teach them, really, in the last four years?

That power has a price. No one learned that faster than she did, Fringilla thinks, flexing her newly restored left hand. Yennefer was there to comfort her in those first weeks, promising her that everything they suffered would be worth it once they were powerful sorceresses with court assignments and influence in the world. Fringilla believed her, too, and resigned herself to paying for the freedom she could never earn.

That power is a finite resource, a zero-sum game. Yennefer told her what happened to Anica and Doralis and Lark, whispering the truth in an excited rush against Fringilla’s shoulder as they lay side by side in bed on a long, quiet, sleepless night much like this one. Fringilla wept for those girls she couldn’t quite call friends. “Why doesn’t anyone stop it?” she wondered, tears dripping down her cheeks. “Why would they?” Yennefer asked, too thrilled at being let in on this secret to understand Fringilla’s grief. In the years since, whenever she caught sight of the glow of Aretuza’s great waterfall, Fringilla has been reminded that others lost control so she might gain it.

That no one will help them, not in any way that counts. After the others carried Doralis out of Tor Lara, Yennefer had appeared in the door of Fringilla’s room and said, “How does it feel to be in Tissaia’s good graces now?” Fringilla said nothing, because despite the gleaming bottle in her hands, despite that tangible proof that she might actually be able to do what she had come here to accomplish, she had never felt further away from attaining her goals. She understood then—in a way that Yennefer apparently did not—that no one at Aretuza cared about training the adepts, but were only waiting to see if they’d succeed.

That they are, in the end, alone. When Yennefer was struggling with thought transference, they sat for hours practicing together, long after the formal lessons were done. How determined Yennefer was, has always been. Fringilla would have done anything for her, in those days. They never managed to make the connection during those practice sessions, but she still remembers how clear the violet of Yennefer’s eyes looked then, like a crystal pool with no end in sight. Fringilla thinks now that already something precious was slipping away from them, though perhaps it was something she never really had, but only imagined that she did.

Witcher Femslash February - Flowers

Triss pulls up to the curb just as her client is getting out of her car. Judging by her rumpled black suit and thunderous expression, she’s had a long day at work. This was a terrible mistake, Triss thinks. She should just drive off now, or pretend she put the wrong address in her GPS—but it’s too late, because the dark-haired woman is already leveling a curious look at Triss’s pickup truck.

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time!” Triss calls out the open window of her truck.

When her client—Triss has blushed more than once remembering the way she said, Call me Yennefer—looks up, her expression softens slightly. “Come to admire your work?” The wry quirk of her lips emboldens Triss, despite her better judgment.

Triss shuts the driver’s side door behind her and stands on the sidewalk, taking in the wild riot of color blooming before her. “It does look good, doesn’t it?” When she was hired, the front yard was dead and brown, and now it’s full of life and color and beautiful scents drifting on the evening breeze. This really has been one of her favorite jobs, and not only because every time her client stopped by to check on her progress, she found herself getting butterflies in her stomach, a feeling she’s heard people describe but never actually though people really felt.

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Witcher Femslash February - Crown

When she tells people she’s a princess, they never believe her. She does it for effect, to make pretty girls laugh or to revel in the momentary confusion on some prick’s face before she punches him in the throat. Though in all fairness, she can’t really blame anyone for doubting it. In dirty jeans and a banged-up leather jacket, she looks about as far from picture-perfect tabloid royalty as someone possibly could be.

It’s not often that she tells someone the whole story, because it’s less fun to watch people react to the truth. Tell someone, Oh, yeah, I’m a minor noble from a country that doesn’t exist anymore, and I haven’t been home since I was sixteen because my step-mom tried to have me assassinated, and suddenly you get accused of harshing the vibe at the party or whatever.

Not that it comes up all that often. She’ll go weeks, even months without thinking about it, herself. And then she’ll catch the scent of apple cake from a nearby bakery and have to resist the urge to smash every plate glass window she passes until the urge to cry subsides. Or she’ll see an SUV with tinted windows approaching slow and her whole body will tense as if she’s about to be shoved inside.

But, hey, what’s staggering, unshakeable trauma if you can’t use it to pick up chicks? When she recognizes the song that comes over the bar’s sound system, she just can’t resist the opportunity. She turns to the dark-haired beauty down the bar and gives it her best shot.

Witcher Femslash February - Wedding

When they reach the nearest village, they find the locals celebrating a handfasting. There is singing and hapless dancing and a wizened old man fiddling while guests press trinkets and small coins into the pockets of the bride’s embroidered apron.

“How provincial,” Yennefer says, her lip curling in disdain.

Someone in the crowd hails them and invites them to stay for the wedding dinner. It’s good luck to offer strangers hospitality on your wedding day, one of the elders explains. It’s not much, as parties go—a long table piled high with food and several barrels of mead—but it’s more kindness than anyone’s shown them in a long time.

“They must not recognize us,” Renfri muses, studying the small crowd of revelers. She’s used to people shuttering their doors when Shrike and her band of cutthroats come to town. Maybe it’ll be different now, she thinks, but she doesn’t dare believe it.

“Mead’s pretty good,” Nohorn puts in, over the rim of the mug someone’s just pressed into his hands.

“You’d think horse piss was pretty good, if it was free,” Yennefer replies sharply, but Nohorn doesn’t rise to the bait for once.

Renfri glances cautiously at Yennefer, trying to gauge the nature of her displeasure. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, whether the sorceress is being harsh because she’s angry, or because she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s not. “You want to keep moving?”

Yennefer looks back at her, and her scowl softens slightly. “If you want to stay, we’ll stay.”

So they stay. They all eat their fill and the men get drunk on mead, and later, when the bride tosses her crown of flowers into the crowd, it lands at Renfri’s feet, and she places it reverently atop Yennefer’s dark curls, just to piss her off. Even glaring at her, Yennefer looks perfect, like the queen of spring, and Renfri thinks again, Maybe it’ll be different.

Yennefer walks through the great hall, tracking stinking mud on the lush blue carpet. She hears the murmurs of the courtiers watching her go; she wonders if they can see the blood still caked in the grooves of her armor, won just outside the city gates while they cowered behind stone and wood. Her calf is pulsing and the battle lust swims under her skin still. She keeps her eyes fixed on the resplendent figure waiting at the far side.

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Witcher Femslash February - Swords

Renfri has been in a strange mood all morning. She’s been stalking around Yennefer’s workshop since breakfast, touching things she knows better than to touch, apparently unable to settle down.

“If you’re going to stomp around like a spoiled princess,” Yennefer says, without looking up from the ingredients she’s preparing for a spell, “I’d prefer you did it somewhere else.”

Yennefer regrets the words even before she’s done speaking. Alluding to Renfri’s royal upbringing is one of the easiest ways to draw her ire, and it works like a charm. “Fine,” she snarls, and leaves through the door that’s enchanted to let out into the forest, slamming it behind her so hard the vials on Yennefer’s workbench shake.

Nohorn pokes his head in from the other room and says, “Any casualties?”

Yennefer shoots Renfri’s second-in-command a poisonous glance. Now she’s going to have to run after Renfri and apologize, all because she can’t stop herself for going for the throat, even when she doesn’t really mean it.

She finds Renfri by the river, crouched down to check the fish traps Nimir and Vyr set up there.

“I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me,” Renfri says, without looking up from the swirling current.

Yennefer sighs. Renfri really is such a child sometimes—though Yennefer hardly has room to talk, given her own trouble controlling her temper. Still, someone has to be the bigger woman, and she supposes this time it’s going to be her. “You weren’t really stomping around all that loudly,” she says, and, well, it’s not her best apology, but it’s a start.

Renfri, however, chuckles, and gets to her feet. “Yes, I was.”

“So are you going to tell me what’s the matter?” Yennefer hates this. She much prefers it when the two of them work in almost uncanny harmony, and they don’t have to have unseemly conversations about their feelings. She suspects Renfri prefers it that way, too, but nevertheless here they are.

“Nothing.” She closes the distance between them. “It’s stupid.”

“I’d believe that from Nohorn, but not from you.”

Renfri rolls her eyes. “It’s just …” She blows out a breath. “It’s been a year, and I thought I should do something to mark it somehow, so …” She’s holding out a parcel, Yennefer realizes, long and narrow and wrapped haphazardly in rough cloth.

Only Renfri would think to commemorate their murder of Stregobor with a present. Yennefer bites her lips to keep from smiling, not wanting to insult Renfri any further but unable to quell the warmth that unfolds in her at this brave and bloody-minded girl.

“Oh, fuck you,” Renfri says. “I told you it was stupid. I’ll take it back.”

“You will not.” Yennefer takes the parcel from Renfri, dancing back from Renfri’s half-hearted attempt to grab it away from her. When she unwraps the cloth, she finds she’s holding a dagger, its scabbard delicately engraved, and a little amethyst set into the pommel. She draws the dagger to admire its blade, narrow and gleaming bright. The grip fits beautifully in Yennefer’s palm, and the balance is impeccable even to Yennefer’s unschooled senses. On closer inspection, Yennefer realizes the pattern on the scabbard is little sprays of blossoms and small round berries, and she feels tears spring to her eyes. “No one will ever take it from me,” she says, meeting Renfri’s gaze. “It’s mine now.”

Femslash Feb 2021 - Hands

So like. This is very light on the “slash” part of femslash but you wanna tell me Noted Queer Cirilla doesn’t have a huge crush on some lady or other she knew as a teenager? It’s a highly wlw experience I sure as hell had one and only realized how gay I was being once I got to university. So here we go, baby gay Ciri having a big baby gay crush on Triss who is amused and fond about it. And also some digressions on how the Witchers in Kaer Morhen all dote on their kiddo.

From the prompt list posted by @bamf-jaskier, rated G, no major warnings. Will get posted on AO3 sometime that is not 1 am

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Witcher Femslash February - Beauty

It used to be a favorite topic of idle conversation amongst the adepts of Aretuza, speculating about what they’d look like once their enchantments were complete. Yennefer has fond memories of those old flights of fancy—how Anica insisted she would be ten feet tall so she could stomp on anyone who dared to defy her, or how Doralis cried once, because she wished her faded copper hair was a rich, deep red, and they all made fun of her for weeks. They were the daydreams of children who knew nothing of the world.

Now that their initiation is finally close at hand, Yennefer finds that all those daydreams amount to nothing. She tries to imagine what will be and finds only anger for what is. All she longs for, it seems, is the absence of things she has always known—no more clothes that aren’t made to fit her, no more ache in the curve of her spine at night, no pitying looks or people who speak to her in slow, loud voices, as if she can’t comprehend their condescension. But can that really be all this transformation has to offer her? Doesn’t she want more than not this? Doesn’t she want everything?

But the trouble with everything is that it fails to appear in her mind’s eye.

“Do you know?” Yennefer asks Fringilla one night. They’re in the gardens, collecting moonflowers for a tincture.

Fringilla looks surprised. “Of course.”

“Well?”

“I’m …” Fringilla bends to cut one of the white blossoms with her little silver knife, her thick curls falling to obscure her face.

“Or maybe you don’t know, after all,” Yennefer scoffs, unable to help herself.

“I want to be fearless,” Fringilla says at last. “Someone who carries a fire inside her. Someone who fights for what she wants.”

Yennefer wrinkles her nose. “None of that is about how you look.”

“Isn’t it?” Fringilla cuts another flower from its stem, all her attention fixed carefully on the working of her knife. “I can see just what she looks like now.”

Witcher Femslash February - Music

“Having fun?” Yennefer asks, lips against Tissaia’s ear—probably, Tissaia thinks sourly, so she can make herself heard over the miserable drone of synthesizers blaring over the sound system. Beyond the dim corner where Tissaia’s been hanging back, people writhe on the dancefloor, the most dismal orgy Tissaia’s ever seen.

“You know I’m not.”

Yennefer laughs, and Tissaia closes her eyes against the waxy drag of Yennefer’s lipstick against the shell of her ear. “You said you’d try this with me.”

“I never promised I’d have a good time.” When she agreed to come with Yennefer tonight, it was because Yennefer has largely given this sort of thing up since they started seeing each other more seriously, and she wanted to—show willing, she supposes, or prove she’s not the dour prude people seem to take her for. But she can’t say that watching people grope one another to a dirgelike beat of holds much fascination for her.

Yennefer’s arm slides around Tissaia’s waist, drawing her back against Yennefer’s body. She sways slowly, guiding Tissaia to move with her—less a dance than the slow press of their bodies together. Tissaia has never cared for making a public spectacle of herself on the dancefloor, but she can admit the appeal of Yennefer’s body close against her, her hands possessive on Tissaia’s hips. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself,” Yennefer says.

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Witcher Femslash February - Lightning

Fringilla wakes in a tumult, thunder still ringing in her ears. Rain lashes at the high window while the wind screams around corners.

It’s been a long time since Fringilla lay awake nights with her head in her nursemaid’s lap because she was afraid the Wild Hunt would come and steal her from her bed. She’s not a little girl anymore, and she’s found other things to fear. But Aretuza is so exposed to the storms that blow up from the sea that on nights like this it’s easy to feel that there’s little separating her from the tempest raging outside.

The storm is so loud she almost mistakes the creaking sound she hears for the noise of trees bending in the wind—but there are no trees on the barren cliff where Aretuza stands. Then a flash of lightning reveals the slight figure standing in her open door.

Yennefer’s hair is sleep-mussed, her feet bare on the stone floor, and she looks for all the world like it’s their first year again and she just woke from a bad dream of home. But the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth has nothing of the frightened little girl about it. “I knew you’d be awake,” Yennefer says smugly.

Fringilla wonders what that means—that Yennefer expects her to be a coward? or only that she’s glad she can count on someone to be her late-night companion? She can never tell with Yennefer, can never predict what she’ll do next. “You’re up, too,” she points out, the words coming out more petulantly than she intends.

“Some of us never went to sleep.” Yennefer glances back to check the corridor, then shuts the door behind her. “Budge up, it’s freezing out here.”

“Go back to your own bed, if you’re so cold,” Fringilla objects, but Yennefer is already climbing under the covers, her toes icy against Fringilla’s legs. Fringilla yelps in protest, and Yennefer, laughing, sprawls on top of her to clap a hand over her mouth.

Yennefer weight above her makes something like a tide turn in Fringilla, and her breath staggers in her chest. She stares up at Yennefer like she’s been caught, hot all over and aching, suddenly, to be pressed down or held tight. Yennefer stares back at her, wide eyes searching Fringilla’s face—for what, Fringilla can’t begin to guess, only knows she wants the promise that gaze holds. Whatever Yennefer sees there, it seems to make up her mind, because she leans down to replace her silencing hand with her lips, and Fringilla surges up to meet her.

Outside, the storm is receding, but Fringilla pays it no mind.

Witcher Femslash February - Apart

Prompt from @bamf-jaskier’s list. 

Time has gained a new relevance for Tissaia.

In her youth, a year had been unending. Summers were infinite and filled with sun and promise. Winters brought the thrill of snow and ice and evenings by the fire while stories danced from the mouths of the village elders.

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Witcher Femslash February - Disguise

The intruder doesn’t make it two steps before Renfri has a knife at his throat. He’s big, but Renfri’s handled bigger.

“Tell me what you’re doing here and maybe I’ll let you live.” She won’t, of course, but that fact doesn’t generally encourage people to tell the truth.

The man laughs, a low, dark rumble, and says, “You’re even better than I gave you credit for.”

“Better start talking,” she says, and lets him feel just how sharp the edge of her knife is. “That offer of mine’s about to expire.”

“Oh, for—it’s me,” says the man, speaking now, of all things, in Yennefer’s voice.

Renfri springs away and turns the person in front of her roughly so she can get a look at the intruder’s face. She keeps her knife at the ready, just in case. As she watches, the man’s burly frame melts away into Yennefer’s slight one. His ruddy, pock-marked complexion fades, replaced by Yennefer’s impossibly smooth brown skin. The red line from Renfri’s knife remains, however, as deadly as it is fine.

“Fuck,” Renfri mutters, her stomach twisting viciously. The adrenaline calm of a moment ago is gone, replaced with a frantic rushing in her ears.

“I’m impressed,” Yennefer says coolly, and brushes off her sleeves like it’ll dispel some lingering trace of the enchantment.

“I could’ve killed you,” Renfri chokes out. Not just could have. She was ready to—knew she would. 

Yennefer raises her perfect eyebrows. “I doubt it.” She searches around for a handkerchief, and applies it to her throat, just above the riboon that holds her obsidian star. The cut is so thin it’s barely bled.

Renfri swallows hard against the sour churning in her gut. “Let me—” She gestures toward the table where the crew tends to dress their wounds after a fight.

“I am a mage, you know,” Yennefer says scornfully.

“Just—let me, you stubborn bitch,” Renfri mutters, and Yennefer smiles like this is the highest compliment anyone has ever paid her. She does, in the end, allow Renfri to herd her into a chair and fuss over her.

Renfri tries not to let her hands shake as she removes Yennefer’s necklace and dabs at Yennefer’s throat with alcohol and a clean cloth. She follows it with a salve Yennefer mixed up to keep her men’s endless array of wounds from turning to rot. It’s such a small cut there’s not much risk of infection, but Renfri doesn’t want to risk it. She’d rather not be reminded of what she is, what she’s capable of, every time she looks at the woman she loves. 

“There,” she says, tying a thin strip of gauze around her throat. “And don’t fucking sneak up on me like that ever again.” She thumps Yennefer’s shoulder with the heel of her hand. “What is wrong with you?”

“I have to keep you on your toes somehow,” Yennefer says, smiling at her again with a secret bemused expression that makes Renfri’s throat close up for entirely different reasons. “Otherwise you’ll get bored and find someone else to slit throats for.”

“Nah,” Renfri says, and oh, her heart, her stupid fucking heart. “You’ve spoiled me for all other criminal masterminds. I only want to slit throats for you.” 

Witcher Femslash February - Burned

Prompt from @bamf-jaskier’s list.

“Jesus fuck!”

Tissaia is startled from her reading by the exclamation. She sets her book aside and urges the cat from her lap, earning a disgruntled glare in the process. She stands and hurries to the kitchen.

“Yennefer?” 

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