Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/286161.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Bro/Dave_Strider
  Additional Tags:
      Fisting, Anal_Play, Sibling_Incest, Incest
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-06-06 Words: 2007
****** Handpuppets ******
by 2x2verse_(agent_florida)
Summary
     Dave gets a little too inquisitive for his own good, but Bro obliges
     his curiosity in a way he’d never thought possible.
Notes
     This pretty much reads like a kinkmeme fill. Greatest apologies to
     everyone that this even exists.
You’re pretty sure this is a fucking stupid idea.
It started off with running into Bro while he was doing his puppet shit,
messing around with Lil’ Cal with his hand inside the doll’s torso.  When he
caught you staring, he just laughed, chill as always.  “Gotta stick your hand
up their ass.”
“Yeah, but, like.”  You’re only at a loss for words around your brother, always
conscious of what you say, how you sound, why you’re even talking in the first
place.  Still, the words came eventually, and when they tumbled out of your
mouth, they were fucking embarrassing.  “He’s not real.  If he was… fucking
painful, dude.”
Bro just shrugged, a fluid motion that carried all the way to was his hand
seriously forearm-deep inside that thing?  “It’s not so bad.”  Then, through
Lil’ Cal, “Feels good, man.”
“Seriously, though, how do you get your hand that far?”  Bro is cool enough to
break the laws of physics if he wants to, but there was probably a more mundane
reason.
A sheen of glare flitted across Bro’s shades.  “Wanna see how I test them?”
Which leads to you being where you are right now, pants around your ankles and
ass in the air while Bro bends you over the arm of a couch and slowly circles
your asshole with a lubed fingertip.  Fucking stupid idea.  But at least he’s
giving you the time of day.  At least he’s reaffirming that you exist.  At
least he’s showing some interest.
His finger breaches you, and for a moment all you can think is that you’re
uncomfortably cold, like his fingertip was replaced with an ice cube when you
weren’t looking.  And then there’s the burning that follows soon after.  He
doesn’t even ask you if you’re okay, even though you’re squirming against the
couch – at least there’s something to hide how hard your dick is while he’s
doing this.  And then –
Oh.
Oh.
JesusmotherfuckingChrist how did he know to do that.  Your spine is tingling,
your hands feel numb, and you can’t tell whether you have your eyes open or
closed, because you can’t see.  And then, with his finger still in place, Bro
fucking caresses that little sweet spot and you’re babbling broken strings of
curses you didn’t know you knew.
Are you saying actual words?  Probably.  The only thing in your head is more,
and Bro seems willing enough to oblige.  Over your shades you can see the smirk
spreading across his face, like he’s trying to be cool and smile ironically at
the same time, but you can’t think through what it means, because fuck your
hole gets stretched further around another finger.
Two fingers means more pressure.  Means more friction.  Even with so much lube,
you can still feel it acutely as those two fingers thrust in and out of you –
wrist twisting, knuckles bending, fingers spreading.  Every time Bro jabs up
against that one spot you feel like you’re about to die with the pounding in
your chest and the jolt along your nerves.  Your shades are falling off your
face and you don’t even care.  Bro takes them off completely before he rests a
still-gloved hand on your shoulder.
His nails dig in through the thin cotton of your shirt, and you realize he’s
trying to distract you as he adds a third finger to the two already violating
you.  You don’t need distracted.  You close your eyes, trying to block out
every sense but touch, because it’s overwhelming how much sensation can come
from about six inches of the inside of your ass.  Even though you try not to,
you hear Bro hum just a little when your hole finally gives and the pressure
gets ratcheted up another fifty percent.  He works all three fingers in up to
the knuckles of his hand, gets all three fingertips to prod at you from inside
at once, and you’re screaming.
But not because it hurts.  Fuck no.  This doesn’t hurt.  Uncomfortable doesn’t
mean hurt.  The uncomfortable feels good – feels fucking excellent, if you can
get past the fact that your own brother’s fingers are the ones stretching you
this wide, working your abused hole even further open.  He’s the only person
you’d ever trust to do something like this.
The movement stills inside you, those fingers splayed wide, holding you open. 
All you can hear is the sound of your own harsh breathing.  When Bro jostles
your shoulder, you realize he was trying to catch your attention.  “You doing
okay?”
You do the only thing that makes sense: you push back as much as you can
against Bro’s fingers, fisting your hands in the couch cushion as you seat his
hand as far as it will go.  All you can think about in that moment is the
smuppet that’s been fucking staring you in the face this whole time with all
its offensive neon glory, its long nose curving tumescently upward, the bubbles
of its ass in the air.  Sort of like you, since Bro has you ass-up face-down
and your dick is so hard you wonder why you haven’t lost it yet.  Probably
still that niggling feeling of discomfort.  You could get past it if he could
give you what you want.  “More.”
His fingers tighten, cramp together in you.  You can feel the rough edge of a
nail as he folds his smallest finger in with the rest, uses the three that were
already inside you to guide the fourth in.  Four fingers.  Four fingers in your
ass.  Most of your brother’s hand – in your ass.  You’re trying not to think
about what it is so much as how it feels.  The leather edge of his glove almost
feels like skin as he works these four in down to the knuckle, but there’s a
seam there that’s almost unnoticeable – until, of course, the seam nudges past
your hole and then back out again as the fingertips seek out your hot spot.
You’re too hot, burning under Bro’s touch.  At the same time as you want to
just strip, you also want to clench down forever, want this to stop.  It’s
almost too much.  Almost too fast.  Almost.  Just on this edge of almost.  And
he’s not hurting you – not more than you want.  If you’d known it would feel
this good you’d have asked him to do it ages ago.
Except for how wrong this is, what with him being your brother and your father
figure and everything you’ve ever looked up to, teaching you how your body
works, and –
Fuck.
Somehow he’s bent his hand to sneak his thumb in with the rest, just playing
with your entrance, pulling the ring of muscle wider than you thought it could
ever go.  You stuff a knuckle in your mouth.  Bite down.  Scream around your
finger as you’re stretched and stretched.  Draw blood when Bro folds his thumb
in with his other fingers and continues to work his hand in.
It’s bad, at first.  Almost painful.  All the lube in the world can’t force
Bro’s hand in fast enough, but you can feel him try; a cold trickle runs down
your taint, past your balls, down your dick to drip on the floor with your
pre.  You’re too busy being a Strider to be embarrassed, but it’s still hard to
remember how to breathe.  The air in the room feels thick, humid, overwarm.
Inch by inch, his hand sinks into you.  With each push forward it only gets
more difficult.  He stretches you wider, wider.  And yet you know he’s being
gentle.  He’s not giving you more than you can take.  He’s breaking you in –
just like he promised he would.  It’s intense.  You’re gripping the couch as
hard as you can, nearly tearing a cushion in two, biting down on it like a
fucking pillow-biting fag, all to keep your cool.  All to prove to Bro that you
can take this.
You think that his knuckles on his hand is the widest part you have to take. 
You’re right and you’re wrong.  Your hole seizes shut against the back and the
heel of his hand, but the rest of you has to fucking take that width.  And the
worst – and best – part is that you want to.  It feels too good to stop.  And
yet eventually he reaches the end of what you can possibly take; you don’t want
to look back and see just how deep he is into you.  “Yeah?” Bro asks you,
breathy.
“Mmn,” is the only thing that’ll come out of your mouth.
He flexes his hand in you, just that slightest bit; your throat is raw, so your
scream comes out more like a heavy breath.  You can just barely tell the
outline of his glove now that he’s so deep in you.  His fingers open and close
like he’s making alligator handpuppets, but inside your ass.  “Talk to me,” he
murmurs, talking with his fingers while he says it.
When everything’s so wrong, you don’t want to admit that maybe, just maybe, you
asked for this.  You don’t want to let him know how good this is.  You have to
still be all ironic and edgy even with his hand in your ass.  This is a litmus
test.  Just like everything with Bro.  So you quiet even your screams.  You’re
determined not to let anything slip.
His hand only snaps open further, moves faster.  “Talk. To. Me.”
So it’s mandatory.  “Ffffff – fuck – feels good, Bro.”
He hums, calms down his hand.  That was the right thing for you to say, then. 
“My little handpuppet.”  He says it like an endearment, but when he calls you
‘puppet’ what you hear is ‘slut.’  “Breaking you in.  I could make you do
anything like this.”
It’s true.  It’s not just that his hand is up your ass and he’s manipulating
you like a ventriloquist dummy.  It’s also that you’ve also had a pathological
need to impress him.  And so you’re going to take this like a man.  Like a
Strider.  “Could not,” you insist, but it comes out all wrong when your voice
is that constrained.
Bro laughs.  Of course he can see right through you.  “You gonna come from
this?”
“No,” you want to say, but you hiss instead, bite the word back down.  Because
it’s lies and calumny, is what it is.  Your dick’s been hard since he pulled
your pants down.  You’ve wanted to jizz since he started making you see stars.
He takes your hiss as the tail end of a ‘yes’, and you can’t argue with that. 
He draws his hand away, but still leaves three fingertips pressed up against
that sweet spot.  “C’mon,” he growls, rubbing against you with all the friction
he can muster.
Oh, oh, God, without that discomfort of your abused hole you can concentrate on
just how good that feels, and it’s all too good, too much, too too.  It’s too
easy to lose your load, and you nut all over the side of the couch, cussing
around the mouthful of cushion between your teeth and clawing at the fabric
under your hands.
Before you even come down from it, Bro yanks his hand out, takes his
reassuring, warm palm from your shoulder.  Everything feels cold.  You feel too
exposed.  More than that, you feel absolutely empty.  Spent.  Hollow. 
Forsaken, because when you look behind you, Bro isn’t even in the room.
Typical.  Beats you at your own game and then leaves you to pick up the
pieces.  Always keeps you on your toes.  You pull your pants up, try not to
wince at every movement.  You’ll be feeling this for the next forever.  There’s
no way to cover this up, and you’re not looking forward to all the ‘what’s up
your ass’ jokes you’re going to get.
Now that he’s broken you in, though, it won’t hurt so much next time.  Next
time?  You smirk.  There’s going to be a next time.  You’re making it happen.
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