You and I found love, lost under the shade

1

His eyes must truly look panicked, because he notices that Louis' dominant front begins to slip. This is a mistake, because during these times Louis can become very uncertain of the punishments he's administering, causing him to falter like he's breaking character. In the past it's happened more than once when he had been punishing Harry, and either the screams of agony or the look on his face as too much because Louis would stop to reevaluate the situation and ask if Harry was okay.

Almost always the answer is yes, he is okay, except for one time in particular, short before they discussed safe words. It had been so late at night that the time could've been considered early morning, probably around four AM. The two of them were deliriously high, eyes glassy and rimmed red, in addition to being stupidly drink on straight vodka.

Everything was fine, but Louis had been pushing the limits, not stopping for hours. Harry figures the overstimulation is what got to him—a night full of orgasm after orgasm after orgasm, all in an extremely rapid succession. The overstimulation was the cause, plus the strange mix of praise and punishment, his boyfriend switching impossibly quick between spewing compliments and inflicting pain.

When it happened, Harry had been blindfolded, which only added to the maelstrom of chaos swirling within his drunken mind—take away one sense and the rest become heightened. He was sprawled out across the bed, hands tied to the headboard, unmoving except for the occasional quiver. Yet Louis wasn't letting him rest. He had three fingers pumping in and out of him, his other hand stroking Harry with urgency. Harry himself was tied up, arms above his head ad wrists handcuffed to the headboard, a black blindfold covering his eyes and a gag in his mouth.

Looking back, even if they had discusses a safe word prior to the night, he wouldn't have been able to use it since the gag made it impossible for him to do anything except moan and whine. He had gasped and writhed and squirmed for hours, but at this point he was done, exhausted, drained. At the time they had lost count, but later they figured it would've been his sixth orgasm of the night.

It was too much, and Harry laid limp on the bed, completely unresponsive save for a tiny moan as the last of his come covered his belly, and in a way it felt like trying to throw up when his stomach was empty, dry heaving. He had been fucked dry after hours of intense sex, and he was spent, completely done, not sure if he could last a minute longer. Anymore would've killed him, at least, that's what it felt like.

What had pulled him over the top was that Louis didn't let up, not then, not even after the sixth high. He spread his fingers, the one's buried deep within Harry, and twisted them, simultaneously jacking Harry off in a manner that was relentless. It always hurt the worst right after an orgasm, the heavy, long drags of Louis' palm against Harry's sensitive, cum-covered skin. Always made him dizzy, dreary. His vision would've been swirling, maybe he would've even blacked out, but due to the blindfold everything was already black anyway.

Too much. It had been too much. His senses blurred, sounds muted, everything becoming fuzzy before he blacked out for a second. The brink between consciousness and unconsciousness.

When he came to, just moments later, Louis was crouched next to him, eyes probably wide and fearful, sticky hands grasping Harry's jaw, the blindfold pulled off and discarded beside them on the bed.

Days, weeks, months later and Louis still refuses to share exactly what he saw in Harry in that moment that frightened him so much. To this day Harry doesn't know exactly what it was that scared Louis enough to make him stop.

In his drunken haze, Louis felt the deep, fiery buildup of panic within his gut, and climbed high up on the bed, over Harry, to fumble with the handcuffs and the blindfold and the gag until Harry was free. Later Louis would describe Harry's expression as dazed. Far away. At the sight of his lover in clear delirium, Louis was more than frightened. They didn't have sex for days after that, and even then, Louis had vowed to tread lightly. No more pushing Harry to his limits. Not like that, at least. Not so dangerously.

Thus the arise of their own little safe word, one Harry has yet to use since they discussed it: kiwi.

(Secretly, he wants to try it out, wants to use it, wants to let it fall from the tip of his tongue in a desperate gasp, begging Louis to stop. Yet, in the same way he's quite thankful Louis hasn't given him a real reason to use it yet.)

Back in the present, Harry is trying to prevent Louis from recoiling. In an act of proving his wellbeing, Harry contorts his face into a disobedient scowl, the opposite of submission. Reassured that he really is okay enough to retaliate, Louis continues on without faltering once more.

He leaves the bedside and returns a quick moment later with something in his hands—a roll of shiny gray duct tape. Louis pulls Harry's legs together and then gets to work, first by tightly taping his ankles together, then another band around his shins, another around his knees, and finally his thighs. The loud sound of the tape is nearly cacophonous, wrenching in Harry's ears. By the time Louis is done, Harry is rendered useless, and feels like a mermaid with his legs bound together. It'll hurt like hell when they take it off later, but he can barely think that far into the future, can only think of the burning want that is scorching his entire being.

Of everything, most of the draw to BDSM has to do with the distraction. It pulls him to the present, forces him to think simply, drags him into the spaces between the letters of the word now. There's no time to think of anything else, anything other than the strange and dissonant mixture of pleasure and pain.

Louis harshly shoves Harry over, pressing down hard on his shoulder blades and forcing his face into the mattress. Roughly, he grabs Harry's arms and drags them behind his back, as far as he can pull them, and then ties his wrists together, bounding them with duct tape. It certainly isn't a comfortable position, with his shoulders extended backwards and his arms twisted unnaturally. He closes his eyes and wills his muscles to relax, knowing he'll be sore tomorrow either way.

With one last touch, Louis turns Harry onto his side, harshly as always. The final addition is a thick strip of tape pressed firmly over Harry's mouth. After the tape is on, Louis repositions Harry so that he's laying on his stomach, neck craned, head turn to the side, cheek pressed to the mattress. Harry inhales heavily through his nose, a little panicky at the feeling of not being able to breathe. He wills himself to calm down.

It happens quickly, with little warning. The sound of something whizzing through the air. And then an unexpected smack, harsh and biting, nearly acerbic, palm against the bare skin of his bum. He can't help but squeak in response, through his closed lips and the strip of tape.

The little noise only spurs Louis on more. There's a total of ten hits, Harry counts, and they're hard, none of them wimpy or half-assed. If he had the wherewithal to form a coherent thought, he would be thinking about the marks that would remain for a few days, the lingering redness, how it would hurt every time he sat down. But all he can think about is now now now. The immediate pain. The following pleasure. The building heat in his groin. The need for release. The feeling of Louis' hands on his skin . . .

Peace in penance. Peace in penance. Peace in penance. Relief in retribution. Or was it release in retribution? Reprieve works too. Peace in penance, release in retribution. Something in vulnerability. Harry doesn't have the energy or the wherewithal to come up with a noun that starts with the letter V.

The spanking stops, and the stinging lingers for a moment, until it is eventually replaced with the familiar numb tingling that usually follows such abuse. Louis lifts his hand from Harry's burning skin in favor of carding his fingers through Harry's hair. The gentle gesture is a surprise, given its juxtaposition to the previous actions, but it's followed by a sharp tug that prickles in his scalp.

"I'll be back to finish you off in an hour or so," Louis supplies, voice cold, cold, cold. Icy like a lonely winter evening after the sun goes down and the world is quiet and ghostly empty.

Time passes. Time passes like the ticking of the clock, slow but constant, steady. Time passes. The earth rotates and revolves. Seconds tick away. Minutes.

In the four o'clock sunlight, golden and bright, the word comes to him.

Valor. Valor in vulnerability.