Warning for consensual D/s.
Brendon’s shoulders hurt where they’re stretched out over the bed.
He’s been kneeling there for half an hour, head down, eyes trained on the pillow; his hands splayed and grasping at the rope that’s tying them to the bedposts.
He’s gone through anticipation into nervousness, but now he’s starting to adjust to a level of peace, the space he has to be in for this to happen the way he needs.
He hears but doesn’t see Spencer move into the room, but it’s like he can feel Spencer’s eyes on his skin, rolling over him like a wave, pushing him down further. He wants to be ready for Spencer; he always wants that.
“Let’s begin,” Spencer says, but his voice isn’t commanding or demanding. It’s almost gentle, and something in Brendon splinters, makes him hang his head a little lower to show his neck for Spencer, so Spencer can fit his hand around if he wants to, the way he likes to. When Brendon walked in today, angry with the world for the hundred little slights it dealt him, Spencer took one look at him and pushed him up against the wall, not forceful but inevitable, and Brendon turned his face away because he didn’t want Spencer to see the relief in his eyes.
But Spencer saw anyway and bit at the underside of Brendon’s jaw, pushing at him until his toes were nearly off the ground and the only thing bracing Brendon up was the solid weight of Spencer pinning him there.
“Do you want me to bring you down?” Spencer asked him, and yes, Brendon wanted that, suddenly and swiftly; wanted someone to come and let these things out from inside him so he could stop running them over and over again in his mind. He hesitated, because he is almost completely sure he’s hopelessly in love with Spencer, but there are days he worries that Spencer knows him a little too well; knows him better than he knows himself.
But he nodded, of course he did, because he wants everything Spencer has to give and sometimes more.
And now they’re here, and the first lick of the belt against Brendon’s skin makes him cry out, not because of the pain but because it’s the beginning of release, and Brendon craves it the way he finds himself idly wishing for the taste of Spencer in the back of his mouth, or the joyous freedom of serving that Spencer brings out of him every moment they’re like this.
Again and again, and Brendon sinks deeper into it, into the sharp slapping noises and the bright blooming welts until he has nothing left to shout, nothing left in his voice; until his body moves into the lash instead of away from it, and Brendon’s floating in a red-tinged sea of sensation.
He barely notices when Spencer comes closer, places a kiss at the top of Brendon’s spine–the only place not red and swollen–and unties his hands, spreading him out on the bed so Brendon’s head is in his lap and he’s carding through Brendon’s hair, quiet comfort from violent release.
When Brendon comes back to himself, he takes Spencer’s hand and places a kiss on the palm, looking up through his eyelashes at Spencer’s face. He doesn’t know what he expects: impassive, unreadable Spencer, the Spencer that knows him this well. But what he finds is a Spencer looking at him a little wetly, like he can’t believe what landed in his arms.
“I love you,” Brendon says simply, the first time he’s said it.
Spencer’s hand cups his face, pulling him close for a kiss, gentle and unrelenting. “I love you too,” Spencer whispers against his lips, and Brendon feels the words course through him. It feels a like joy. He kisses Spencer again and sinks back down into Spencer’s lap, letting himself be touched and loved and never wanting to move from this place.