Title: Trust it, lose it
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Characters: Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Rating: Mature
Length: 737 words
Content notes: Contains flogging, d/s dynamics
Author notes: Yeah, my muse was insistent. I wasn't going anywhere other than this with this prompt :)
Summary: Spencer only trusts Brendon with this

“Take a deep breath, Spence,” Brendon murmurs. It’s code; Brendon’s way of saying this is gonna hurt, and Spencer groans in anticipation, arching his back as best he can within the limits of how tightly Brendon’s got him restrained.

He needs it to hurt.

It feels as though they’ve been here for hours. Spencer’s a mess; he can feel his sweat drying cool and tacky all over his skin, except across his ass and thighs, where all he can feel is a deep, hot burn that’s making him shiver and twitch even while it sets his head swimming. There’s a much more distant burn in his wrists, where he’s been tugging too hard against the cuffs Brendon wrapped carefully around them earlier, and in a distant, more rational part of his mind, Spencer knows that Brendon will use that later as the justification for why they have to keep using lined cuffs, but he doesn’t care. He still likes the bite of metal, and he’s still going to argue for it.

He also knows he’s going to give in, but that’s not the point. Or maybe it is; his head’s not clear enough to work it through right now.

There’s a whistle behind him, a split-second change in air movement, and that’s all the warning he gets before a fresh line of fire burns across his ass, accompanied by the resounding crack of leather against skin. Spencer cries out, wordless and animalistic, hurt and needing at the same time, and his spine curves impossibly taut as the sting fans out across his skin in a teasing echo of that burn.

“Fifteen,” he whispers, a tremor vibrating just below the word. Brendon’s fingers are unexpectedly cool against his forehead, and Spencer presses into the touch unthinkingly before he catches himself. Brendon doesn’t say anything; he just smooths Spencer’s hair back out of his eyes, crouching until their faces are level, and eyes him thoughtfully.

“Colour check?” Brendon asks, and Spencer breathes in on a whine. He’s not crying, not really, but he can feel tears tracking down his cheeks nonetheless.

“Green,” he gasps, and Brendon gives him another searching look, before his mouth curls up into the edge of a smile. It’s not Brendon’s usual smile, Spencer thinks distantly. This one has bite.

“Good boy.”

They don’t play like this often; usually it’s Brendon on his back, tight twists of silk binding his wrists and his ankles, or on his knees, straining against the way his shoulders have been pulled back, sweaty and begging and needy. Spencer loves it. Watching Brendon fall apart under his hands – no, making Brendon fall apart under his hands is better than any drug he’s ever taken; heady and euphoric, setting off a gnawing tug low in his belly that makes him want to take and take and take and Spencer’s greedy for it.

That Brendon lets him makes him light-headed if he thinks about it too much. The degree of trust – that Brendon would give him this, that he’d let himself have this - is enough to steal his breath away. Spencer guards that trust fiercely and desperately because, he thinks, it’s both the strongest part of their relationship, and the most fragile. If they ever lost it, it would utterly destroy them both.

He doesn’t want to destroy himself. He can’t bear the thought of destroying Brendon.

Except.

Sometimes he does want to destroy himself. Spencer likes being in control; he’s spent so many years saying when and how and where, that he’s not sure he could give it up if he tried. Usually, he likes it; he keeps things in order, and he knows what to expect and it suits him, right up until it doesn’t. Then the responsibility becomes less reassuring and more smothering; the weight of it bearing him down until he feels like he’s being crushed and then, then, he needs to let go. He needs someone else to take control, just until he feels like he can breathe again.

Brendon’s the only person he trusts with that.

“Still with me, Spence?” Brendon asks quietly, and Spencer knows the technique – he never uses Brendon’s name as much as he does when they’re like this – but it still makes something flood hot and warm and suffocating in his chest. Of course he’s with Brendon; he can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

“Always,” he says, honestly.

Brendon smiles.