Chapter Text
Bernie had been having dreams. That was nothing new, of course, but having her…reactions to such fantasies be witnessed was something else entirely. It was mortifying, at first, to wake up to Dorothea grinning at her in a knowing, almost hungry way only to realise that she’d been grinding on her leg in her sleep and left a wet smear down her thigh. It took a lot of coaxing (and Petra nipping her shoulder which made her sit up with a squeak) to get Bernie to unfurl from her embarrassed foetal position.
She still spent most nights in her own room, alone. Petra and Dorothea neither objected nor complained - oh, how Bernie loved them. Being with others, talking and perceiving and being perceived was still hard work for her. Rewarding work, of course, as far as her lovers were concerned, but she still needed a respite nonetheless.
It did make her feel a lot less guilty about indulging herself. Goddess help her, she must have touched herself more in the last weeks than in the entire past year. Up until now it had been a means to an end, coming with an intense wave of shame and dysphoria after, but something had changed. She felt wanted. Felt desired. She’d wondered quite often now, when biting down on her pillow to muffle her moans while mindlessly rutting into her own hand, if Petra and Dorothea would want to see her like this, all wanton and wild, nothing but pleasure on her mind. She imagined them, too, telling her how cute she was, how good she looked like this…she could hear the words in their voices, echoing in her mind.
She should ask them. She was going to ask them. She was going to bare herself in all senses of the word and - it was scary. The most terrified she’d ever been, maybe. But she wanted it - wanted Petra and Dorothea - more than anything in the world. They’d been nothing but kind and patient, almost infuriatingly so, taking her on dates, kissing her breathless in empty alleyways and behind lush hedges in the palace gardens, and always reassuring her that they’d wait until she was ready. A part of her (the part that had started to rob her of any sleep as of recently to be precise) wanted them to just take her already like the protagonists of the more scandalous kind of gaudy romance novels. But in all honesty, if she wasn’t ready to put her desires into words, to tell her girlfriends what she wanted, she probably still needed some time until she was ready to…to…
Sleep with them. Formulating these words in her mind alone made blood rush to her cheeks. Bernie shook her head. She literally still wore the fingerprint shaped bruises on her thighs where Petra had hoisted her up against a wall, she knew Dorothea’s lips by heart and knew the way it made her sigh when she threaded her fingers into her hair to scrape her fingernails over her scalp - but saying the words out loud still seemed impossible to her. The shame still ran deep, she supposed.
But she wanted them. She wanted to touch them. She wanted to…
“I’m going to ask them to make love to me!” Bernie said, louder than expected. A lot louder.
“Good for you”, Linhardt drawled from the courtyard beneath her open window, where he lay in the shade of a tree. “But I’d be thankful if you didn’t make it my business.”
Bernie squeaked and slammed the window shut with a force that almost shattered the glass. Well, it wasn’t like their relationship was a secret. The palace staff had definitely seen her leave Dorothea’s room more than once, and she’d never be able to look the poor scullery maid that caught her and her lovers in a passionate moment in the eyes again.
Strangely, she didn’t mind the gossip all that much. Sure, it was embarrassing when Ferdinand had taken her aside, expression serious, almost anguished, and after a good five minutes of hemming and hawing and I am so incredibly sorry you had to find out this way telling her that Petra and Dorothea were already involved. What followed was another five minutes of really, I am beyond disappointed in our comrades for betraying your trust like this before Bernie could get a word in edgewise to tell him she was aware they were lovers, she was glad they were lovers and that this whole arrangement was consensual and wanted by all parties. That made him first go pale, then flush bright red and retreating among a litany of apologies, congratulations and a dozen unasked questions written plainly all over his face.
She used to hate the thought of, well, being thought of. Existing in the minds of the people around her was an unnerving thought, a Bernadetta that was fixed in the mind of her peers that she couldn’t argue on behalf of, that was undoubtedly the worst version of herself, was a prospect so terrifying it had kept her awake for many nights. But now, there was another feeling. A pride, a completely gluttonous, selfish pride at being known for having won the hearts of the beautiful Mittelfrank opera star and the Brigidian crown princess. Maybe the Bernie in their heads was still unworthy. But they didn’t really know her - oh, being known, actually known as who she was and not branded as who others thought her to be was such a wonderful experience.
Good for you, Linhardt had said. And yes, it had been a joke, but still. He did, if only in passing, approve. People wanted good things for Bernie. Bernie wanted good things for Bernie.
Bernie wanted her girlfriends’ hands on her. On her, in her, all over her, Goddess, she wanted to be had.
The walk over to Dorothea’s quarters was unnerving. She’s heard professor Manuela refer to the solitary trek back to one's own bed after a one night stand as a walk of shame , but this walk right here? Terrifying. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that every person she passed could read her intentions written on her forehead as brightly as they were carved into her brain.
On one hand she wanted the world to know she could be happy, could be loved and could love in return. But on the other hand - well. The shame ran deep. Bernadetta, what will the people say? Bernadetta, this will ruin you!
A small part of her wanted to turn back and hide. A larger part feared that she might legitimately die if she spent another night on her own, eyes tightly closed pretending that her own hand was Dorothea’s, that she was clinging onto Petra instead of her pillow.
She kept her head down more than usual as she rushed through the familiar corridors at sundown. She knew Petra stayed in Dorothea’s room more often than not - Petra talked about it freely, without any shame of fear or scandal, with everyone who asked. Bernie wished - no, she aimed to be this confident in herself, in their love. And this was the first step on the way to achieve that goal.
She knocked on Dorothea’s door and held her breath. It wasn’t like she meant to eavesdrop, she couldn’t help being naturally over-aware of the noises around her; too many years spent in fear to ever fully relax. All this to say that the breathless giggle and a few hushed Brigidian words from the other side of the door immediately flushed her mind clear of whatever anxieties she’d felt, mostly because it seemed to erase any form of thought. It didn’t take a genius spymaster to figure out what was happening behind the closed door - especially not after Dorothea’s “Who’s there?” abruptly ended in a moan and another laugh. Immediately, Bernie felt blood rush to her cheeks - she tried desperately not to picture the scene behind the closed door as if she was not trying to be a part of the proceedings as soon as possible.
“It’s me”, she said. Her heart made a little somersault in her chest at Petra’s delighted “Bernie!”. There was a shuffle, a commotion behind the door, then footsteps and finally, the door creaked open.
“Bernie? Is everything alright?”
Dorothea looked - well, she always looked resplendent. Still, Bernie was absolutely sure that she’d never taken her breath away as much as now, hair messy, lips swollen, lipstick marks trailing from the corner of her mouth and down her neck until disappearing under the silk robe clearly haphazardly thrown on in a hurry.
With a rush of embarrassment she realised that she’d been very openly staring at Dorothea’s cleavage, a fact that the songstress was very aware of if her fiendish grin was anything to go by. Bernie swallowed.
“I - I was wondering if I could spend the night here? If you want me to, that is.”
It was a start.
“What a coincidence”, Dorothea purred in that playful tone that always made Bernie’s knees go weak, “we were just talking about you!”
A blatant lie, of course, but Bernie still felt somewhat dizzy as she greeted Dorothea with a kiss and squeezed past her into her room. Dorothea’s room was always a little messy, not distractingly so, but there were still trinkets piled on her desk - with a sudden flash of childish euphoria she noticed her little felt hedgehog sitting on top of a half-written letter.
Petra was reclined on the bed, her position regal but her dark eyes nothing but gentle warmth. It was an expression Bernie had only seen on her around her lovers.
“Dorothea is telling the truth. I was just saying how much I was missing you, wishing you were here.”
Bernie stumbled, then caught herself. She had been thinking about it, in fact, it took most of her effort to pry her mind away from this image. Petra and her, cheek to cheek, side by side worshipping Dorothea’s breasts, her sitting on Petra’s lap with the princess’ hand around her dick, Dorothea whispering praises into her ear…
Bernie closed her mouth. When had she opened it? “You were?”, she asked, which was a patently stupid question, but what on earth was she supposed to say to that?
I missed you too. I want you too.
She shuddered as Dorothea’s arms snaked around her waist, embracing her from behind, placing a feather-light kiss on the crown of her head. “Have you come to cuddle up, Bernie-Bear ?”
“Mhm, yep, yes”, she said, leaning back against her girlfriend. Then, after a short break for courage: “Among other things.”
She could hear Dorothea’s breath hitch. She was semi-sure it was a good sort of hitch, the surprised but definitely on board kind of hitch. She hoped so, at least. Silently, Petra rose to her feet in one fluid movement, walking, no, prowling towards her. She always took great pleasure in teasing Bernie like this, taking her time, approaching her ever so slowly, giving her ample opportunity to say no if she had to - but mostly just making her squirm as her mind ran wild with possibilities.
“And what is Bernie thinking about?”, she hummed, trapping Bernie between her lean, muscled body and Dorothea’s soft curves. Bernie closed her eyes - she couldn’t meet Petra’s gaze, so full of want and unashamed of it - is this what she looked like? Beautiful, bold, with her need written all across her face like this. She heard her lovers kiss with her caught in between them, felt their bodies move against her as Dorothea began absent-mindedly caressing Bernie’s hip over the rough fabric of her uniform. Goddess, Bernie’s hands - what was she supposed to do with her hands? Indecisive as always, she let them hover over Petra’s hips before settling on the small of her back, holding onto her like a raft in a storm. Almost without her noticing she’d hooked a leg around Petra, pulling her closer. She needed more of her, needed to feel more of her skin on her. A breathless laugh, a strong hand against her abdomen, pushing her back.
A spark of anxiety flickered at the back of her mind. Did she do something wrong, distasteful? They’d gone this far before - farther, actually, but the poor scullery maid squeaking in shock when she’d caught Dorothea with her hands halfway up under Bernie’s shirt had put a damper on the mood at the time.
“Bernadetta”, Petra murmured as she rested her forehead against Bernie’s. Her voice was husky, almost strained. “Bernadetta, tell us what you are wanting.”
They were asking , Bernie realised, and felt herself caught in a tidal wave of affection. Dorothea and Petra had always been nothing but patient, always making sure she was alright, she was consenting every step of the way. But that also meant things weren’t moving forward until she found a way to voice what she wanted, no, needed from them. What Petra needed was clear as day, the miniscule movement of her hips dragging against Bernie’s thigh and the pressure of Petra’s arousal straining against her were a dead giveaway. The thought that it was her that had managed to affect the Brigidian warrior this much made Bernie’s head swim. In all fairness, her lovers had been getting started without her before her arrival, but not even her most self-deprecating inner voices could stand a chance against the way Petra looked at her, pupils blown wide with desire.
“I - I want you to touch me”, Bernie managed to say, grinding back against Petra in hopes of getting her point across. She should have known, of course, that her girlfriends would jump at any opportunity to tease her.
“Oh, but we are touching you”, Dorothea said, pressing a kiss onto her shoulder, and Bernie could hear the smile in her voice. Bernie huffed. Goddess, why did they have to torture her like this? The answer was that, naturally, Bernie loved to be tortured in this way, her heart beating out of her chest and her thoughts slow like honey and twice as sweet.
“I - ah”- (Dorothea had discovered a very sensitive spot at the base of her neck and immediately seized the opportunity to bite down) - “I need you to take me!”
She barely had the time to finish her sentence before Petra picked her up, making Bernie wrap her legs around Petra’s hip for balance and let out an embarrassing squawk.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it”, Dorothea grinned, and Bernie couldn’t resist burying her face in the crook of Petra’s neck anymore as she felt herself transported to the bed, catching a generous feel of the way Petra’s muscles shifted beneath her skin with the effort. The princess was, as always, uncannily perceptive, and Bernie was sure that it was for her benefit only that Petra made a show of throwing her down onto the bed quite roughly, yet her hand never left the back of Bernie’s head, making sure she didn’t hurt herself. In this moment, Bernie loved her so much she felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.
Bernie felt Petra’s weight upon her in a flash, but even through the haze of overwhelming excitement and delicious nerves, she noticed that Petra was careful to spread her weight out evenly, to avoid actually crushing her. Even so, Bernie knew she couldn’t escape if she tried - and she couldn’t even imagine wanting to try.
“It seems like I have caught us a little bunny rabbit”, Petra said, and even though she was addressing Dorothea, Bernie knew it was for her sake only.
“Is that so?” Dorothea answered, and mortifyingly, she seemed to know exactly what these words did to Bernie. She felt the mattress dip as Dorothea came to sit down near where Bernie’s head lay. A slender hand came to wipe a few stray strands of hair from her face, and out of a strange impulse, Bernie kissed it, kissed each clever finger.
“And what an affectionate little bunny she is!” Dorothea cooed, and Bernie couldn’t help but squirm. She wanted to hide her face in embarrassment, the good kind of embarrassment, the kind she’d revisited every night for the last week while biting down on the knuckle of her pointer finger so as not to let the whole palace know her desperation. But when Dorothea bent down beside her and caught her lips in a deep, slow kiss she figured her face was fine where it currently was.
She whined when Dorothea pulled away, trying to chase her plump, red lips with her own, but Dorothea stopped her with a single finger to Bernie’s lip.
“Come, sit up against me”, she instructed, spreading her legs for Bernie to sit in-between, rewarding her with another kiss when she immediately complied. And throughout it, Bernie could feel Petra’s eyes on her, hungry and wanting, watching them in a way that should terrify the archer but that only made her lean in further, deepen the kiss, chasing Dorothea’s tongue.
Another pair of hands deftly unclasped her collar with a click and Bernie’s fluttering heart stood still for a second or two.
“Is this alright?” Petra breathed, but Bernie didn’t even let her finish before she answered “Yes, please yes!”.
Her need made her braver than she thought possible. Or perhaps she was simply too preoccupied with the feeling of Petra’s hands under her shirt, on her skin, helping her rid herself of the first layer of clothing. Cool evening air hit her exposed skin and made her shiver, at least Bernie preferred to pretend that was the reason for her shudder, not daring to acknowledge the pang of nerves that had begun to grow in her heart once again.
She knew her body didn’t have much to offer, not when compared to the two gorgeous women she was with. She wasn’t as fit and gorgeous as Petra, and she certainly didn’t possess the soft, tempting curves of Dorothea. She swallowed as she looked down at herself, shoulders hunched and freckled, muscled arms like a -
Like an archer, Petra had said when she’d first confided in her about this particular insecurity of hers, like she knew what she was getting at, where the darkest corners of her mind immediately took her.
An archer’s arms. She could live with that.
Petra’s dark hands were caressing her pale skin, just below her modest breasts, ghosting over the unseemly scar on her abdomen, still puckered and red as if it were merely a month old. There was a feeling almost like nausea in the back of her throat, and Bernie had to look away. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.
They noticed, because of course they did. Dorothea drew her tighter into her embrace, now that she had gotten rid of her shirt Bernie could feel their skin pressed together, she swore she could even feel Dorothea’s heartbeat, just as frantic as hers.
Slowly, Petra pulled back, sitting on her haunches, but not before tracing the scar with her thumb all the way down its snaking path towards her hip.
“In Brigid”, she said, “we are celebrating our scars. Each one is a lesson learned, an experience gained, an adversity survived.” She paused for a moment, before taking off her own top, brazenly, just like that. “Look.”
Bernie was already looking. How could she not? Petra wasn’t even wearing any smallclothes underneath her traditional Brigid clothing, showing off her perfect breasts without a hint of apprehension. Beneath them Bernie could see the edges of a tattoo that had up until now been hidden from sight, the same magenta hue as the other tattoos marking Petra’s skin, a simple design following the outline of her ribs.
“Here, I was very young and made the experience of always checking the water for rocks before diving in”, Petra said, leaving Bernie a tad confused before realising that oh, yes, she was supposed to be looking at Petra’s scars. Bernie’s eyes flitted over exposed skin to the point Petra indicated, a rough, raised patch of skin just beneath her collarbone.
“And here, I learned that Faerghus lances hurt”, Petra said, pointing out a small but violent looking scar on her right breast.
Bernie had not been there for that particular battle, but she’d been there in the aftermath, bringing fresh flowers to Petra’s bedside for days. Her hands were already halfway on their way towards Petra’s chest, hovering over the soft swell, before Bernie realised what she was doing.
“Go ahead”, Petra said, sensing her hesitation, and Bernie didn’t need any more encouragement, gently cupping Petra’s breasts in her hands, basking in the sigh that fell from Petra’s lips as she leant forward into the touch. Emboldened, Bernie traced her thumbs over the dark nipples, hard under her touch, before continuing her exploratory foray further down to the tattoo, gently running her fingers over its edges. She’d almost expected the skin to be raised there, but the difference was imperceptible to her fingers.
“You are liking my tattoos.” It was not a question, because there really was no question, not when Bernie found herself leaning in to ghost her lips over the magenta mark. “They are scars too, you know? In Brigid, we have belief that some battles mark your heart or mind, and they should leave marks on your skin also, as a proof of invisible struggles you have survived.”
Petra’s hand settled over Bernie’s and the archer leaned back slightly as Petra guided their hands first to the tattoo under her eye - “Loss.” - to the pattern that sat between her shoulder blades - “Times of war.” - to the tattoo Bernie had just been caressing -”Separation.”.
Bernie just stared at her, awestruck. Her eyes flickered to one last tattoo, the band around her right arm. She was curious, of course, but given the very personal meaning of Petra’s tattoos she didn’t know if asking about it would be insensitive. Puzzlingly, Petra began to giggle sheepishly.
“This one I have given myself, I thought it was looking fierce. I had - I was fourteen years old.”
Bernie, despite her nerves, despite herself, joined in on the giggle. Now that she looked closer, she could see several spots on the tattoo where lines didn’t quite meet up, where ink had bled under the skin; marks of an unpracticed artist’s hand. She kissed each of the little mistakes, a gesture that she was sure was overly cheesy, but her lovers didn’t mind. Dorothea brushed the unruly strands of hair from her face again - Bernie felt reminded of the silly tuft of hair she’d worn in the beginnings of the war to keep her eyes free. There was movement behind her, and Petra hummed a phrase in Brigid - mo chroí - that Bernie had heard tumble from her lips before, in those stolen moments in (presumably) empty palace corridors, and then there was the unmistakable sound of her girlfriends kissing again.
“I thought this was supposed to be about Bernie, darling”, Dorothea teased, though her breathless voice robbed the words of any bite. It was not like Bernie minded at all. It was a reminder of the love they shared, all three of them shared, and if anything it made her feel more secure. Their love had led them here, so there was no reason for Bernie to believe her inexperience or her flaws and peculiarities would convince them otherwise now. She might not be able to see what they saw in her, but with them moving against her, enveloping her in their warmth, she could feel it.
“You do not sound like you have complaints”, Petra said, pulling back to let her gaze travel over Bernie’s exposed body. She squirmed again, not because she was uncomfortable, but because the raw want in Petra’s eyes filled her with a restlessness she couldn’t bear. She turned her head to the side when it became too much, too intense, hiding away in the crook of Dorothea’s neck, pressing kisses to the pale skin.
“Don’t be hiding from me, Bernie”, Petra cooed, forcing Bernie to meet her eyes with a single finger under her chin. “You have so much beauty, Bernie, I…may I show you?”
Just a few weeks ago Bernie would never have thought Petra, resilient, deadly, infallible Petra could sound so overcome, much less that she, anxious, twitchy, neurotic Bernie would be the cause of it.
She nodded frantically before she could do something embarrassing like moan out loud at the sheer thought, pulling Petra in for a kiss with clumsy, shaky hands. Petra kissed like she had nothing to hide, nothing to lose, simply passion laid bare. It left Bernie short of breath when she left a trail of hot, wet kisses and sharp bites down her neck - Bernie knew it would be impossible to hide the bruises later - over her collarbone and down to her breasts. Bernie could do nothing but watch, wide eyed, as Petra lavished kisses onto them, eyes closed in reverence - she was aware that she was probably staring like a deer in the headlights, blood rushing in her ears in a mixture of panic-pleasure at being so openly worshipped. A sudden warmth over her left hand told her Dorothea had covered the hand still resting on Petra’s head with her own, threading their fingers together, and unbidden, tears collected in the corner of her eyes, tears of joy, of love, tears of being too overwhelmed for words -
A sudden, white hot sting of pleasure-pain ripped through her like a lightning bolt as Petra dragged her teeth against Bernie’s nipple.
“Ah! S-sensitive!” she cried, louder than intended, her whole body jerking at the sensation. Manuela’s medicine had made her breasts terribly delicate, to the point where she had to sleep without a nightshirt at times because the feeling of the fabric dragging against her nipples was too uncomfortable.
“I know”, Petra purred, darting out her tongue and swirling it around her nipple almost apologetically. Bernie covered her mouth with her free hand to muffle her embarrassing whine as she bucked against Petra involuntarily.
The princess clicked her tongue in admonishment, hands moving further down to pin her hips to the mattress with ease.
“Have patience”, she said, tracing her lips over her abdomen, following the scar until it disappeared under the hem of her skirt.
“Please”, Bernie ground out before Petra could even ask, her voice muffled by her hand.
“What was that?” Petra asked, her grin telling Bernie that she understood exactly what she’d said. Removing her hand, Bernie repeated: “Please, Petra!”. She was ready to hear Petra’s lilting voice asking her “ please, what?”, but the teasing never came.
Petra removed her skirt and smallclothes in one smooth movement, the expression on her face positively ravenous. Bernie only noticed how constrained she’d felt by her smallclothes when the pressure was gone, her dick standing free, tip already wet with precum.
Bernie realised she was already panting, her breath coming in hot, shallow puffs, and she hadn’t even been touched yet. As if her body was desperately trying to fill the stillness of the moment, her hips ground uselessly against Petra’s grip. It didn’t grant her a modicum of relief.
“Like I was telling you before”, Petra said, voice deep and hoarse, “you have much cuteness. All of you.”
There was a sound like breath drawn between clenched teeth, and it took Bernie a few seconds to realise that it hadn’t come from her, that it’d come from Dorothea, and that the reason for the noise was her involuntarily digging the nails of her right hand into Dorothea’s thigh, leaving crescent-shaped indents behind. Before Bernie could apologise, Dorothea was already drawing soothing circles onto the back of Bernie’s hand where their fingers were intertwined, saying believe me, I don’t mind at all.
“And here I thought your little bunny was tame.” Oh, they were torturing her, they were tormenting her in the most delicious way, honing in on Bernie’s weak spots that only they knew with effortless ease.
“You must be having care, mo chroi”, Petra replied, “even pet bunnies can still scratch.”
Bernie had neither the wherewithal nor the shame to muffle her mewl this time.
“True”, Dorothea hummed, dragging the nails of both hands over Bernie’s abdomen, careful not to irritate the scar there, upwards over Bernie’s ribs, leaving light red streaks in their wake, “but so can I.”
Up, up, up trailed her nails until her hands came to cup Bernie’s breasts, the archer’s head lolling to the side, mouth dropping open in a moan as Dorothea’s thumbs began playing with her petal-pink nipples. Then Bernie lost all track of the sounds she made as warm, wet heat surrounded her dick without warning and she wrenched her eyes open - when had she closed them? - to see Petra’s lips closed around her dick.
Bernie wasn’t sure if she’d died and gone to heaven. Her anxieties ceased to exist, thoughts ceased to exist, all of time ceased to exist, reality collapsed into only sensation. Nothing was real except the ways her lovers could make every single nerve in her body sing. Bernie felt her eyelids droop, but whenever she closed them Dorothea would gently cup her chin, whispering at her to watch. Watch how pretty she was for them. Watch how she affected both of them, with Dorothea, who’d long since shrugged off her robe, shifting against her, hot, wet flesh pressing against the small of Bernie’s back and Petra using one hand to palm her own cock for relief. Watch how needy for their touch she was, with Petras nose pressed against her abdomen taking all of Bernie’s dick and Bernie’s hips still mindlessly grinding against her, searching for more, and Dorothea’s lips at her ear, alternating between pressing butterfly kisses against the lobe and whispering the gentlest, filthiest praises.
She tried her hardest to tell them she was about to cum, she really did. It was all so much, the twin sensation of Dorothea’s clever, practised fingers pulling the most desperate sounds from her throat and the pressure and friction of Petra hollowing her cheeks and her head bobbing up and down her dick pushing her close to the edge in what felt like no time at all. She was sure she said something, a garbled approximation of her girlfriends’ names between desperate, high-pitched whines, but she still released without warning into Petra’s mouth, vision going white as she shook apart in her lovers’ arms.
She came to gasping for air like a woman saved from drowning, sticky with sweat, limbs leaden. Petra released her softening dick with a sinful wet pop and gave the tip a kiss before moving up her body. The gesture was so sweet, despite everything that had transpired mere moments before, it made Bernie’s heart miss a couple of beats. She was aware she had to look like a mess. Yet, when Petra cupped her cheek and wordlessly gazed down at her for a few seconds, she felt like she was being studied like a work of art, committed to memory like a love poem, before Petra captured her lips in an almost chaste kiss. Her own taste on Petra’s lips was intoxicating in a way Bernie had never expected.
She sat up shakily, like a fawn’s first steps, leaning against her lovers for support. Before she even had the chance to overthink whether or not it was a foolish thing to say she breathed: “Thank you.”
Dorothea snorted. “You’re so polite, Bern. Believe me, it was my pleasure.”
Well, that was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? “N-not yet”, she mumbled, and Dorothea let out a delighted gasp, eyes twinkling with mirth.
“And what are you planning to do about it, Bernie?” asked Petra, giving her the tiniest push towards the songstress.
Oh. They wanted her to take initiative. A terrible decision, she thought, but maybe it was like archery, like being a general, like being Bernadetta: A task she would grow into. She cleared her throat.
“I, um, Dorothea - could I kiss you?”
Perhaps it was a silly question, considering that not a minute ago Petra had had her lips wrapped around her dick while Dorothea was playing with her nipples and now she was asking for something as innocent as a kiss, but Dorothea didn’t make fun of her. She just urged Bernie towards her, then down on top of her, as they met in a deep, loving kiss. Dorothea was experienced, she kissed like it was a song she knew by heart yet would never grow tired of, licking into Bernie’s mouth asking for, no, demanding more, taking her lower lip between her teeth and pulling gently, shifting beneath her until she found a good angle to rub her soaking cunt against Bernie’s thigh - they both gasped at the contact. Bernie had the presence of mind to tense the muscles of her thigh to provide her girlfriend a better surface to grind against. The mattress dipped beside them, and Bernie found Petra laying down next to them, watching them with hungry eyes, one hand languidly stroking her cock, her skirts lying in a hastily discarded heap at the foot of the bed.
“Pull her hair”, Petra instructed, “she is liking that greatly.”
“Not fair”, Dorothea hissed, smacking Petra’s shoulder playfully but cutting herself off with a moan as Bernie dug her hand into silky brown tresses and tugged experimentally.
“Like this?” Bernie asked, as if Dorothea’s visceral reaction wasn’t enough to go by, blatantly fishing for her lover’s praise.
“Yes, like that”, Petra grunted as Bernie gave another, sharper pull, and the sound she coaxed from Dorothea made the princess’ cock twitch visibly.
Bernie was almost amazed at herself when she slowly felt herself harden against Dorothea’s soft thigh again. She usually wasn’t one for multiples, one orgasm usually being enough to make her sink into a drowsy stupor. Still, this wasn’t about her, this was about Dorothea, so she busied herself with kissing and, feeling particularly bold, licking a trail down towards the songstress’ breasts.
Dorothea wasn’t as sensitive there as Bernie was by a longshot, but her breasts felt heavy and full in her hands and she deserved to indulge herself by lavishing kisses and gentle nips upon Dorothea’s dusky nipples. By now, Bernie’s thigh had to be thoroughly coated in Dorothea’s slick, with the woman needily grinding against her, searching for relief, yet Bernie just couldn’t tear herself away to take care of her long-suffering girlfriend just yet.
It was a testament to how lost she had become in all that was Dorothea that she almost jumped out of her skin when she felt Petra’s hands on the small of her back, gliding over her hips before stroking her half-hard dick. Bernie shuddered. She hadn't even noticed Petra kneeling over them, probably sick of rutting into her own hand.
“It is seeming like you aren’t quite finished yet, hm?”, Petra said, leaning so close that her arousal was pressing into her ass with implications. Involuntarily, Bernie pushed back into her, making Petra laugh at her sheer eagerness. Dorothea had pulled herself up into a sitting position, and Bernie looked up just to see her girlfriends share a devious look.
“Bernie”, Dorothea began, husky voice promising all manner of sinful things, “how good are you at multitasking?”
The truthful answer was not good at all, but now, with Petra stretching her open with three fingers and her face buried in Dorothea’s cunt, she had a feeling she was making it work quite nicely. She’d read many gaudy romance novels that described the taste of a woman’s juices with all manner of purple prose, comparing it to honey, nectar, ambrosia. The truth was far less flowery, but infinitely more carnal and addicting. Her first licks had been exploratory, but something about the tangy taste of Dorothea made her head swim and and her thoughts turn to nothing but more more more and soon after she’d found herself devouring her, tracing the taste to its source, her face covered up to her cheeks and down to her chin in Dorothea’s wetness. She was graceless but eager, especially after Petra first pushed into her with one finger aided by copious amounts of oil that Dorothea kept in her bedside table, but she was more than willing to learn and listen to what made Dorothea keen and wail the loudest.
Petra had been maddeningly gentle at first, and it wasn’t until Bernie had assured her that this wasn’t her first time experimenting with penetration, flushing a bright scarlet but still curiously unable to truly feel ashamed, that Petra had begun fucking her in earnest, stretching her open, preparing her. And damn if Petra didn’t put her own cursory explorations to shame, hitting some spot inside her that made bolts of pleasure rush up and down her spine, three of Petra’s fingers were already making her feel so full but there was a greedy part of her that couldn’t get enough, wanted more, always more.
“Petra, Petra please”, she mewled, knowing exactly that Petra was going to ask her please, what? but absolutely unable to pry herself away from Dorothea, not when her fingers were tightening in her hair and she was grinding her cunt into Bernie’s mouth so wantonly whenever she sucked on her clit.
As she expected, Petra refused to give her what she needed until she found a way to put it into words, as if forming coherent sentences were in any way feasible now, and gave her ass a stinging smack when she didn’t reply. Bernie cried out, one third surprise and two thirds pleasure, and Bernadetta knew that Petra would be filing that piece of information away for another day.
“Please fuck me!” she managed, finally, and cried out at the empty feeling as Petra removed her fingers without warning. She had to take a break, then, propping her head up against Dorothea’s thigh and breathing in through her mouth and exhaling slowly through her nose as she felt Petra push the head of her cock past her entrance. She was bigger than Bernie, and thicker by far than her fingers, and she felt every inch stretching her as Petra pushed in agonisingly slowly, molten-hot pleasure accumulating in the bottom of her stomach. Bernie is well aware of Dorothea watching them, slack jawed, a lovely blush blooming on her chest and cheeks, sweat-slicked hair sticking to her forehead. She’d snuck one hand between her legs to play with her clit, not fucking herself in earnest, just keeping her pleasure at a plateau while Bernie adjusted to the feeling of Petra’s cock inside her. It was so much, almost too much, the sheer intensity of it all bringing tears to her eyes, and then Petra’s lips where at her ear, praising her in a breathless mixture of Brigidian and Fódlanese, telling her how well she was taking her, how good she looked stretched out around her cock, how good she felt…
Suddenly, too much morphed into not enough.
She rocked into Petra’s hips for friction, hissing out a “Move, please Goddess move!” before kissing her way up towards the apex of Dorothea’s thighs again. She was soaking wet all down her inner thighs and leaving a sizable dark spot on the sheets below them, still frantically rubbing at her clit when Bernie indulged herself in her taste again.
Petra’s thrusts rocked her whole body, between that, the filthy sounds of their lovemaking and the blinding pleasure staying focused on her goal of giving Dorothea even a fraction of the pleasure she herself had felt was starting to become increasingly difficult. Luckily for her Dorothea was similarly affected, the muscles of her legs twitching under her hands where she was rubbing mindless circles into them, crying out higher and higher for her, hands twisted in her hair almost to the point of pain and -
When Dorothea came for her, it’s almost soundless, an odd contrast to how vocal she’d been up until now, her muscles locking up so tightly that nothing but a strange, choked-off noise could escape. Selfishly, Bernie couldn’t get enough of her taste, of her clit twitching under her tongue, so she just continued with her ministrations that sent Dorothea into a second, smaller orgasm chasing the first. It was intoxicating, all coming together with the breakneck pace with which Petra was ravaging her, hissing and grunting Brigidian expletives that she couldn’t understand but understood in a deeper way nonetheless and forming a perfect storm that Bernie had no way of withstanding.
As always, Petra was there to deal the killing blow, reaching around to stroke her girldick in a gesture almost too tender for the way she was thoroughly wrecking her. It only took two or three strokes for Bernie to shatter and crumble. She didn’t have much to give after already cumming once, but it was enough to make a mess of the sheets still. Her elbows finally gave out and she probably would have faceplanted into Dorothea’s stomach had Petra not held her up with one hand as her thrusts grew erratic and her grunts turned into little, overwhelmed groans until she spent inside her with a sudden yell. Petra’s arms were shaking from exertion by the time she lowered Bernie onto the bed.
They had to look wrecked, all of them, sticky and panting as they caught their breath. Bernie hadn’t yet found the strength to roll off of Dorothea and wasn’t quite present enough to worry about being too heavy or too sweaty, not when Dorothea was absent-mindedly petting her head and Petra was drawing lazy patterns on her back in a way that made her far too content and drowsy to move a single muscle.
A quiet, exhausted giggle finally made her lift her heavy head, squinting at Petra with a wordless question.
“Have my apologies”, she said, once she had recovered from her little fit, “It’s just - your hair. You are looking like our academy Bernie again, with your hair so messy.”
Bernie let out a theatrical wail and hid her face in a pillow, but she wasn’t really upset. Far from it! She did, however, enjoy her girlfriends trying to coax her out of hiding with kisses and praise.
Progress was strange like that, she mused. She didn’t feel like she had changed in any fundamental way, she was still the same Bernie-Bear who had to wrestle down her own fears and anxieties to leave her room, and yet, if academy Bernie had seen her like this, she wouldn’t have recognised herself in the brand new woman she was. But Petra was right: Everyone was changing, always, every single day.
And Bernie? Bernie had changed for the better.