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He's touching you.

It's not the first time you've dreamed about this, but it's the first time it's been so vivid, leather hands sliding over your skinny little body and rubbing your thighs, calloused fingers tracing shapes in your sensitive skin. You recognize the timbre and the cadence of his voice but are unable to make out specific words, the shape of his face lost in the fuzzy mists of not-awake, and you shiver at the undecipherable noises that wash over your ears. In your dreaming, you imagine they're encouragement (for what, you don't know), promises (of what, you can't think), praise that he'd never give you in reality. Not that it matters. Not as long as it's Bro touching you, talking to you, making you yearn. Nothing matters, as long as it's him.

When you groan, it's in more than just your head, and that's what brings this to an end: the sound of your own want ringing in your ears is more than enough to jar you out of dreaming. He's the one who's beaten into you the concept that no sound can go unnoticed and sleep isn't a safe place to be when there's noise in your room, and you’re pretty sure that even dream-Bro would scold you for sleeping through something as loud as you groaning. Your eyes are open before you've finished sitting up, and you tense as you scan your room, fingers twitching in the direction of the sword leaning against your bed. There's nothing immediately threatening—no unfamiliar shadowy figures, no weapons launching at your face—so some of the stiffness eases out of your shoulders. It’s so quiet that you almost miss the fact that Bro’s in your room.

The realization that he’s crouching at the foot of your bed nearly makes you jump. Responses of shock aren't the same as responses of calculated defense, though, and you're not here to let him down; so you swiftly draw yourself up against your headboard, schooling your expression into one of wary caution as your creeping fingers brush over the hilt of your sword. Always keep a weapon at hand. It was one of the first rules of being a Strider.

He hardly reacts when you pull the blade close to you, only his elbow on the bed, head propped against his hand. "Good morning to you too, lil' man." His brows arch, his smirk widening. "Have some good dreams?"

There’s something knowing in his expression, and your pulse quickens. He knows. How could he know? Do you talk in your sleep? Did your voice (your dumb, uncontrolled, squeaky teenage voice) betray you? Did you say his name? It doesn't matter. He knows. He has to know, otherwise why would he even be in here right now? "Yeah," you say, praying for your voice not to betray you. "I dreamed about kicking your smug ass all over the roof."

His fingers are dragging through your crumpled sheet in a way that's painfully familiar, and you watch his hand move for a good five seconds before you remember your shades aren't hiding your gaze. Swallowing, you snap your eyes back to his face. He looks amused. "Yeah? Is that what you dreamed of? Didn't know strife got you hard, kid."

Hard? The phrasing catches you off-guard more than anything else that's happened in the few short minutes that you've been awake. It's easy to guess what he means, though. You've woken up with this strange stiffness between your legs every time you've had one of those dreams about Bro. Initially, it had been more than a little frightening. Even now, you're not quite sure it's not another test, devised by your older brother to make it hard for you to focus. When your dick is hard and demanding your attention, it's hard to be alert. Distractions are a death sentence, so you'd been teaching yourself to ignore it. You'd gotten really good at it, too. Showers help, especially when they’re cold; plus, a cold shower first thing in the morning does a good job of waking you up. Just another trick you've learned from your older brother.

Today, with the subject of your dreams in your room, the hardness between your legs is being particularly insistent, and you bite at your lower lip, unsure of how to respond to what he'd said. All he has to do is look to know the truth of your lies, and you can feel yourself flushing under his examination. Your fingers tighten around the sword as you press your thighs together, willing your body to obey you. It doesn't listen.

It doesn’t help that he's no longer at the foot of your bed but beside it, and he plucks the sword from your hand effortlessly. "You're gonna put someone's eye out with that." It clatters to the floor, and you wish you could find a way to stop staring at his face, because having him so close is making your cheeks burn.

"It isn't like I mean to,” you protest loudly. Your whole face feels like it's on fire. "I wake up like this, Christ, Bro, and I've been trying not to think about it but sometimes it won't go away!" The last few words crack, and you silently curse them for betraying your emotions when you're not supposed to show any at all.

The strain in your voice is obviously unexpected, if the expression on his face is anything to gauge by. Any other day, you'd take a few seconds to delight in the fact that you, Dave Strider, have managed to take your older brother by surprise; today, you're too busy being bitter at the fact that you're failing his test. It's too early to fail. You haven't even had breakfast yet. His expression is back to one of smug cockiness in less than a second, anyhow.

"Sounds like you need to jerk it more." He's leaning against your headboard, studying you. "It's amazing, how clear ya think when your cock ain't distracting you." He nods as he speaks, making it seem like he's not talking gibberish and everything he's saying makes perfect sense.

Just because he thinks he’s making sense doesn’t mean he is, though. "Jerk what more. My dick?" The mental image this presents isn't a pleasant one, and you actually wince at the idea. "Ugh. Won't that hurt?"

At this point, Bro does the worst thing he could possibly do. He laughs.

Scowling, you shove at his arm, trying to throw him off-balance—or at least encourage him to fuck off. It doesn't work. Why would it work? It's only your brother, laughing at your pain and mocking your confusion. Just another average day in the Strider household. With an inarticulate noise of frustration, you throw your head back against the headboard, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. It’s hard, being a teenager. It’s hard and nobody understands. "God, you're such an asshole!"

Still laughing, he takes your hands away from your face. "You tellin' me you've never jerked it?"

You twist against his hold, giving him a glare that you hope conveys the full weight of your anger. You are Dave Strider, ball of fury, titan of terror, and you are totally gonna find a way to tear him apart the next time he's asleep. "I don't even know what that means," you tell him, continuing to tug ineffectively at your wrists. After a few seconds, you give up, rolling your eyes and going limp. If he wants to keep you trapped, let him be the one to exert the effort of keeping you upright. "And you aren't helping."

He doesn't keep up the fight. He lets you go, and you slump to the bed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of you jerking away from him now that he's no longer holding you. "Could help." He sounds thoughtful. With your arms folded over your head, you can't see him; but you can feel him move onto the bed beside you. "Shit, it just never occurred to me you wouldn't just know."

"Everything I know, you taught me," you mutter. "Don't see why this is any different." You'd keep going—you've got a whole long list of complaints against Bro Strider this morning, your dumb older brother who clearly has no clue what being a teenager is like—but the pressure of his hand on your hip is enough to silence you. Sure, it's through sheets, but it's still him, guiding you from laying in a crumpled heap on your side to flat on your back. For a minute, you resist (he’s being a jerk and why should you give him any satisfaction at all) but then you give in, letting him move you, though you keep one arm over your eyes. He already knows you haven't been able to control yourself. Might as well let him see how you've fucked up this whole thing.

The sheets are twitched aside, and despite your resolution to let him see, you start to curl up when you realize he's just taken away your last line of defense. His hands are on your thighs, though, keeping you straight. Which means your dick—still traitorously hard—is fully exposed, standing at attention, a flag announcing your lack of control to the whole world. The heat in your face has crawled into your shoulders, and is blazing at a thousand degrees. If this keeps going, you're pretty sure you're going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment alone.

"You're gonna thank me for this,” he informs you, and you roll your eyes again, behind the safety of your arm.

He's touching you.

His hand is brushing over the underside of your dick, and it takes you a second to confirm that no, this is not a dream, red alert Dave Strider, this is not a drill this is the real deal, all hands on deck and all hatches battened down, we are in go mode, and you catch the gasp just before it escapes your throat, biting down on any sound you were gonna make hard enough that you taste blood. It means clenching at the sheet covering your mattress and twisting it under your fists, but you manage—barely!—to stay quiet.

His fingers curl around your shaft, and there's no keeping quiet now, because your breath is coming in short, shallow pants. "Sit up," he instructs, and you do; though how you manage it with his hand between your legs is beyond you—you just know that one second, you're laying down, and the next, your back is thudding against the headboard, which means you can see him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hand on your junk, which is practically throbbing under his touch.


"Jus' watch."

Your attempt at watching doesn’t last long, because it only takes a few short pumps before you're seeing stars. It feels so good. The pleasure rolls through you in waves that are all-consuming, and that heat that you were sure was gonna kill you is now coming directly from your dick in hot spurts. It feels better than anything you've ever felt before, ever, and when your dick is done spasming in his hand, you sag against the headboard, sucking down a few deep, shuddering breaths. Your limbs feel like liquid, and you wonder if you’ll ever be able to control them again.

There's white gunk on your stomach and dripping down your brother's gloved hand. Wordlessly, he smears it on his shirt. "Ain't no shame in taking care of yourself," he informs you, and you nod dumbly, unsure of how he wants you to respond. At this point, you'll do whatever he wants, because god that was exactly the relief you'd been looking for, all you'd wanted for months.

When he touches you again, you almost cry. It's too much too soon, and you jerk involuntarily under his touch. "Settle down," he murmurs idly, and you whimper, struggling to still yourself. Despite the fact that the attention almost hurts, your dick is more than willing to respond. One quick jerk isn't enough after months of denying yourself, you guess, because within a few short seconds, you're just as hard as you were before. This time, you don't try to be quiet, letting yourself groan in response to his attention.

He doesn't seem to mind. "Get the lotion." He nods at the bottle you keep on your bedside table. "Now that I know you ain't usin' it for this, I'll get you some proper lube in a day or two."

You still haven't found the ability to talk. He's not stroking your dick anymore, though, so you're at least able to move, and you fumble for the bottle. Once you've got it in your hands, you look back up at him, worry tugging at your mind. The idea that he'd leave you now is a terrifying (very real) possibility, but he's Bro. He's done worse. (Maybe. You can't think of anything that could be worse, but there has to be something. Something that's as bad as leaving you alone after the first time you've been jerked off and he's worked you up again.)

On second thought, nothing could be worse than leaving you alone right now, and you try and make that clear with your expression alone as you stare at him. "Now what," you prompt impatiently, shivering, finding your voice in the nervousness that's now coursing through you. He's going to go, you're sure of it. He's going to go and leave you here with no fucking clue what you're doing, hard and aching and wanting—

"Now you put the lotion on yer skin." He's no longer looking at you, instead inspecting his gloves, tugging at them.

This has to be a joke. You whine. "Bro, come on, don't do this to me!"

Finally, he glances back at you, one brow raising. "All I'm doin' is showin' you how to do it yourself." He clucks his tongue before he reaches for you. He's not wearing his gloves anymore, and your brain barely has time to register that oddity before he's grabbing the lotion and yanking your right hand forward. "The lotion. On yer skin." Two squirts, three, and your hand is covered in the stuff. You frown at it, confused. "Makes it easier," he explains. "Let me show you."

At his guidance, you wrap your fingers around your stiff cock. The lotion is cool on your skin, and you shudder, moaning with the sensation. His hand settles over yours, covering yours completely. "Jus' relax." Slowly, he moves your hand, sliding it up and then back down. "Feels good, yeah?"

"Y-yeah." 'Good' doesn't cover it. It feels amazing. Your dick is still sensitive from the attention he'd given you a few minutes before, and the pressure of your fingers is both agony and relief, all at once. Slowly, cautiously, you move your hand independently, and are somewhat relieved when his hand moves with yours. He’s not going to leave you to figure this out on your own. At least, not yet. “More,” you whisper, daring to make a small demand of your brother, who is—for once—being so benevolent.

He chuckles. You don’t even have it in you to be mad. “Squeeze.” As he orders it, he does it, his hand tightening around yours. “But slowly.” The constriction makes you groan, and your hips jerk involuntarily, making your dick slide through your slick fingers. “Jus’ keep playing with it, figure out what makes you feel good,” he continues. You try, though his voice is hard to focus on; and when he rubs his thumb over your swollen head, you catch yourself whimpering again, watching his hand on yours through the fringe of your lashes.

When he uncoils his hand from around yours, you freeze, snapping your head up and staring at him. “Please—”

“Hush.” His hand is travelling lower, rubbing at your thighs. “Open up your legs. And keep moving your hand. Slow, though.”

Chewing on your lip, you do as instructed, thighs trembling as you spread them. “C’n I use both hands?”

There’s another soft sound of amusement. “Sure, if you want to.” His hand is on your sac, and it’s such an unexpected feeling that you can’t help the sound you make, throat convulsing. “I’m just gonna play with you. Show you what sort of stuff can feel good. That okay?”

You’re entirely too far gone to trust your voice, so you just nod. It’s hard to keep yourself moving at the slow pace he’d ordered you to, but you try, your entire body so tense it almost hurts. Every brush of his fingers against you makes you tremble. You’re moaning openly—you’re aware that maybe you should be a bit quieter, but fuck if you care right now—and when his hand leaves your balls, you begin fondling them, playing with them with far less finesse than Bro had used. Not that it matters. It still feels good. It all feels so good.

His hands pull back from you, and you look up at him, licking your lips. Does he want you to keep going? You make a needy little sound in the back of your throat, and he chuckles. “Don’t stop on my account.”

That’s good enough for you, though the knowledge that he’s watching you and not touching you makes your throat tight. Not that he’s exactly paying attention to you right now (which is almost worse, but not quite). Instead, he’s patting down his pockets, eventually pulling a small bottle out, smearing its’ contents over his fingers. Does he just carry that shit around with him? Not that you care. If it means more of Bro’s hands on you, you’re more than willing to accept that your freaky older bro keeps anything he wants on him at all times.

When he hovers over you again, you cant your hips up, silently pleading with him to touch your dick again, your hand still around it. It’s not your dick he goes for, though. He slides his hand under your ass, and when his finger probes at your hole, you flinch. “Bro—”


With his finger slick, it enters you with ease, though the foreign sensation of being pressed into makes tears prick at your eyes. But then he curls that thick digit, and your whole world lights up, your entire body shuddering. You try to form words but your lips work soundlessly, your hips bucking down on his hand. Immediately, you arch back up, thrusting into the tight cup of your fingers, and the combined sensation of grinding against your hand and being filled is enough to make your head spin. You go from cautious and confused to desperate and nearly sobbing in less than a second. “Fuck,” you manage, choking on the sound. “Fuck, Bro, that feels - nngh - fuuuck—”

Your hand is moving faster, even though you don’t remember telling yourself that was okay. Still, you can’t even dream of slowing down now. “That’s it,” he whispers. There’s a second finger pressing against your tight hole, stretching you painfully wide, making trapped tears spill over your hot cheeks. “C’mon, Dave, you can take it.”

Bro,” You gasp, unable to do much else beyond ride helplessly against his fingers. You’ve got both hands wrapped around your cock now, working it so hard that you’re having trouble breathing. “I can’t - ‘m gonna - please-”

He doesn’t answer, instead just working you faster, harder, fucking his fingers up and into you, hitting that sweet spot with every stroke. When he reaches up and squeezes the base of your dick, you come with a wordless cry, heels drumming against the bed as your cock spills another load over your stomach. This time, while it isn’t as white-hot and blinding as it was before, it seems to go on forever, until your vision is fuzzy from your inability to breathe and your throat is raw from you trying to scream. It isn’t until he lets you go that you collapse back against the bed, your hands falling away from your softening dick with a sigh.

Your throat convulses when he pulls his fingers out of you, and he peels his shirt off, wiping his hands before throwing it onto your chest. “Clean yourself up an’ meet me on the roof in ten. Two mind-blowin’ orgasms ain’t enough to get you out of morning strife.”

You’re too drained to even protest the unfairness of it, and as he closes the door, you close your eyes, because you’re going to need all of those ten minutes to compose yourself. Whatever beating he’s going to give you is well worth everything that’s happened this morning.

At least now you know what to do when you’ve been dreaming of your brother.