Chapter Text
Geisel has to wonder whether - if the instructors at Rosenkreuz knew what they were doing, really knew who they were dealing with - whether they'd act differently. But he has no interest in rocking the boat: he likes his situation well enough even at the worst of times.
As it is, everyone's just sort of accepted that Berger's in charge of him, that they'll be a team once they're done with training, probably with Layla along, as well; sometimes people treat them like they already are. It's probably true, anyway; he can't see any other reason why they'd put Berger in charge of punishing him if it weren't some weird kind of training thing.
But, by now, Berger is good enough that everything he wants to stay private between them, stays private: he's by far the best telepath at Rosenkreuz, and - in Geisel's opinion - probably the best out of it, too; it's what they were made to be, after all.
So no one knows just how Berger punishes him; he suspects no one really cares, so long as they're satisfied it's getting done.
This time, when he gets back to their rooms, he finds word of his latest little problem (he'd set fire to a newcomer in the middle of the school for insulting Layla) has arrived before him; Berger's sprawled on the couch in front of the door, waiting for him, red folder in hand. "Fighting again?" he says, a smirk curling the corners of his lips.
Geisel thinks, possibly, that Berger might enjoy this a little much: not what he does, but the facade of power Rosenkreuz has given him by putting him in charge, even if it's barely more than a sham. He shrugs, slamming the door shut behind him, peeling off his uniform coat and throwing it into the corner.
Good, Berger says, privately between them, and Geisel hides a smile: if Berger wants to play it serious out loud, he can do that. It's hot that way, sometimes, even if neither of them are exactly brilliant actors. He kicks off his boots as well, then comes to stand in front of Berger, looking down at him, waiting.
Berger grins up at him, obviously doing his best to make it look menacing. "Kneel down."
Dropping instantly as ordered, Geisel kneels in front of the couch, between Berger's legs. He licks his lips, slowly, deliberately, showing off the silver-bright flash of the stud through his tongue.
He stays for a while like that, Berger watching him, making him wait. By the time he finally undoes his pants, squirms out of them, Geisel's impatience is making the air around him shimmer hot, his cock leaking pre-come into his underwear though he knows he won't be touching it for hours.
And although Geisel knows what comes next, he also knows to wait for the order, which comes quick enough: "Blow me," Berger says, spreading his legs wider and leaning back into the couch.
Geisel does, sucking him hungrily, working his tongue over every inch, dipping the rounded ball of the stud into the slit and rubbing it hard and solid over him. Berger's hands fist in his always-messy hair, pull him down and hold him there, so far that all he can do is suck and try not to choke - but Berger, in his mind as always, knows just how long he can take it, lets him up just in time. He gasps for air, bringing his hand up to stroke Berger's cock instead, wet and slick with his spit, and when he's recovered, bends his head to tongue his balls.
Berger likes that, as always - and when Geisel does something just right, licks in just the right place or runs his thumb over his cock just so, he shares it, just a little, enough to keep Geisel aching in the tight confines of his pants.
Eventually, though, he pushes Geisel away, rolls over, looks back over his shoulder through that long fall of green hair. The order this time isn't verbal, not even mental: it's just an arched eyebrow, the implication that Geisel knows what to do. Which he does, of course; he bends down, licks his balls one last time, then traces up the short patch of skin to his hole, playing his tongue across it, tip and flat, tracing the edge with the stud.
"More," Berger demands, putting a little growl into it, and, obligingly, Geisel rakes his fingernails over Berger's sides, leaving long red lines, making him shudder, tremble with the pain of it. He wants to do it again, but knows - deeply connected as they are - that Berger wants more, needs more. They can't risk fire, not now, but - he pulls away, making Berger moan from the loss of his tongue, sets his teeth to the inside of his thigh and bites down hard, deep enough to leave a mark, to give Berger the pain he wants.
When he licks over that, blows warm air over it, Berger gasps, shuddering as he comes without a touch, over the smooth vinyl of the couch. He rolls off, lying on his back across the edge of it, breathing hard, but manages to catch Geisel's hair with his hand, push him towards the long white streaks.
Geisel licks it all up, the familiar taste making his cock strain harder against his still-closed pants. "Berger," he says, reaching out, running his hand up his long leg to the dark red bitemark on his thigh, starting to swell slightly - it'll bruise, he thinks, and he likes that. He doesn't know why it's always him leaving marks on Berger, instead of the other way around, unless maybe it's just that Berger's marks are the kind you can't see, but he doesn't really care either way about it right now: he just wants to get off.
"Hmm?" Berger asks, his eyes slitting open, looking down at Geisel, who's still kneeling on the floor.
Geisel shifts slightly, trying to get more comfortable without touching himself. "Can I come?"
Berger smiles, reaches down for his hair again, twines his fingers in it. "No."