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Gripped with Terror (Sensation and Iconography)

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Jensen drops a handful of leather and rubber floggers on the bench next to Pooch and takes a step back, grinning at him eager and expectant like a dog presenting a stick for his master to throw. Pooch lowers his book and blinks up over his reading glasses. It's adorable, but not as appealing as it might be if the afternoon weren't so sweltering damp it felt like living in a greenhouse.

"Right now?" he says. "Your skin's going to shred like a wet tissue."

"I know," Jensen says, and strips down to his underwear.

One corner of Pooch's mouth turns down and he sets the paperback on his lap, trying not to crease the spine any worse than it already is. "Are we really doing that again?"

"Why not?" Jensen raises his arms overhead, grasping onto a low beam in the ceiling of the screened-in porch. "I don't need any warm-up."

Pooch considers ignoring him and going back to the book, then sighs. He may not understand this particular fantasy of Jensen's, but he is fun to top and there's a restless crawl between his shoulderblades telling him it's been too long. Still, he takes his time finding a safe place for the book and his glasses (Jensen is still wearing his), drawing a long sip from his sweating glass of ice water, choosing a flogger. Lets Jensen squirm impatiently, brat that he is.

Jensen said he didn't want warm up, but Pooch picks the gentlest suede flogger to start with anyway. He takes a loose, stable stance behind Jensen, just over an arm's length away, and swings the flogger at his side for a moment to loosen his joints. That part at least is easier in this weather, he concedes.

Right when he senses Jensen tensing up, about to nag him for taking his sweet-ass time, he lands the first strike. It's hardly a hit, honestly, more of a gentle graze, but even so the suede sticks to Jensen's moist hide in a way Pooch feels it really shouldn't ought to, and Jensen shivers like he stuck an ice cube in his armpit. "Wow," Jensen says, stilling his body in preparation for the next blow. It comes harder, backhand, and the resistance, textural friction, slows the falls, makes them drag. It takes force to peel the whip away as well as to throw it in the first place, and Jensen's skin flushes red almost as soon as it lets go.

"How're you doing?"

"Green!"

"You know if you want me to stop you can just let go of the beam—"

Jensen wiggles and whines. "Yes, yes. I said I'm good. Attack me, you creeping horror!"

Pooch rolls his eyes, mutters something about 'god damn pushy bottoms' just loud enough for Jensen to hear, then goes to work flogging him in a figure-eight pattern. Jensen laps it up, swaying with the force, allowing the whip to grab and pull him. He's into it, but it's not challenging him, so Pooch tosses the suede flogger on top of Jensen's clothes and picks up a heavier one of smooth leather, with a lot more thud.

He steps in closer to Jensen, gets right up into his space, and flogs around his body. Deliberately wraps the tails onto his chest and yanks, nearly hauling him off balance.

"Oh yeah," Jensen moans, sinking into the sensation. Pooch knees his legs apart and steps back to wrap the flogger around his thighs, his calves, even his upper arms though the angle's tricky and he's wary of accidentally flicking him in the face or neck while he gropes him like a hungry sea monster.

He stalks slowly around to Jensen's front, beating him the whole way. He presses up against him, crotch to hipbone, and uses the grab of the flogger to on his back and ass to pull him closer, chest and pelvis. Feels his breath on his neck hardly any hotter or wetter than the air around them, leans his ear towards Jensen's twitching lips to catch what he's muttering.

"—waited so long for the stars to be right. After all the ichor and the entrails and the sputum, now the Old Ones will finally rise. Oh Dread Cthulhu I've been so good, your loyal servant, come now and reward me. Eat me first! Oh daddy, I've made myself so tasty for you—"

Pooch shoves away from Jensen and glares at him, specifically at the twitch in his cheek that tells him he's got his tongue metaphorically in it, that his litany is now mostly for Pooch's "benefit" (as if his voice rising into falsetto range weren't clear enough already), his jaw clenching to keep from laughing. Jensen chuckles, shrugs and smiles an apology that's a little too self-satisfied to be taken seriously. Unable to keep from smiling a little himself, Pooch shoulder-checks him as he crosses around to trade the leather flogger for an eviler one with wide, stiff rubber tails.

He lashes Jensen across the back with it.

"Fuck!" Jensen yells and lurches forward, one hand leaving the beam, fingers hyperextending in the air beside it. Pooch waits for Jensen to suck a deep breath in and out, straightening his back and adjusting his grip before lining up his next shot.

He's been cautious up to this point, factoring in the ease of abrasion in this weather, where old cells rub off easily to expose sensitive new flesh, though moist skin's fortunately elastic enough not to split as readily as when it's dry. Jensen's liberally speckled with tiny red spiderwebs, burst capillaries near the surface that won't take long to to heal, but he mostly managed to avoid real bruises. This new toy though is going to welt, purple and angry and fast, and climate has little to do with it. Jensen knows this, and he loves it.

Pooch hits him again and again, careful not to overlap the strokes.

"Yes!" Jensen says, short of breath. "Rend my flesh! Tear off my limbs and rip me into tiny pieces! Drive me mad!"

"You're weird, you know that? This is weird."

"I embrace that possibility," Jensen laughs.

"Give me a number between one and thirty," Pooch says, and waits for Jensen to run a self-assessment, or possibly consult some eldritch signs on the warped and faded wooden ceiling.

"Fifteen, you glutinous, batrachian abnormality."

"Don't call me glutinous."

"Why not?"

"Or turgid."

"I never called you turgid, I called Jolene turgid."

"That's not better."

"But she was! Baby belly!"

"You know what, why don't you just stop talking. No more thesaurus. Dread Cthulhu only wants to hear your wordless screams."

"But—"

"Do you want to be eaten first or not?"

Jensen screams like a champ.