Blood Ties

BY : Sal
Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Snape/Sirius
Dragon prints: 2845
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Authorís note: This contains incest on several levels, slash, technical necrophilia, and a wee bit of self harm. Just thought you better know.
These people do not belong to me, but if they were action figuresÖJ.K. Rowling owns them; I steal them occasionally, fuck with their brains, and send them home bloody. The poor things need a hobby, for Godís sake
~Blood Ties~
The little boy loved his mummy very much. She was ever so pretty and had long dark hair and black eyes and smelled of jasmine and rose petals. His mum didnít have a husband like other ladies. She said she was very happy being single thank you very much, but he knew that there was a picture of his daddy that she kept secret. He was a large, handsome man with the same eyes that he had been given by something called genetics. He could see why mummy had loved him because he looked strong and powerful and important.
It was confusing, that his daddy was his uncle as well. Thatís why they never saw him.
They identified themselves through each other, for what was one without the other? Who were they if the other half of their psyche was missing? Twins, formed and expelled from the same womb, the yin and yang of one soul, darkness and light, male and femaleÖ
It was inevitable.
He came to her in the night, the rigid self-control that all the family possessed shattered, for he could not cope to withhold the terrible information that he loved her more than a sister, more than a lover, but as another, equally important part of him. She held him to her breast as he sobbed and stuttered the revelations to her, stroking the slightly oily black hair, running her fingers through the thick waves that were so similar to her own. She felt the agony within him, the tension and white-hot pain that sliced through him as he spoke of his beyond-love to his sister.
A small but tormented smile flickered over her pale face. The irony, she thought, is that we have both been tortured by these exact feelings, and neither one knew. They, as twins, were supposed to be in tune with each otherís minds, but their terror of being found out had blocked all. She wasnít afraid of her brother knowing Ė it would be cathartic Ė but for the rest of society to know. That was the rub. She stroked his pale, dear, tear-stained face as his words faded, her fingers tracing the paths that the salt had stained onto his pallid skin. Over the planes of his cheekbones, along the narrow but passionate curve of his upper lip, and his pale, slightly pointed tongue lapped at their tips.
She shook her head, not really meaning the action but thinking that she better put up some show of resistance for wasnít that what a lady was supposed to do? His hand, which had been laying about her waist, slid up the rough emerald silk of her gown, fingers brushing over already hard nipple and continued over satiny throat to grasp her wrist. Pressure forced the her fingers to slide into the warm, wet mouth, where her brotherís tongue started to flicker almost suggestively over the digits
 As the night grew older and the moon waned they danced their private dance of love. Identical hands touching identical skin, mouths so similar scorching white-hot on epidermis, teeth nipping at throats and collarbones.
&nbsHer Her her,her, the one who was her soul, took her reverently. He was gentle as he prepared her, his fingers soothing her as he circled her most intimate parts with his tongue and smiling as she gasped and writhed beneath his touch. Now that they had admitted to themselves their fierce, black attraction, the guilt that they were terrified of had totally vanished. And as he entered, pressing into the warm and welcoming centre of her being they truly became one entity, and it was good.

As the boy had grown from child to youth, his view of his mother had not changed. To him she was perfection, the goddess that haunted his mind in times of fear, who protected and loved and nurtured his burgeoning talents and the only one he allowed to become close to him.
Her death shook him more than he could imagine.
The pain that he felt, so akin to red-hot pincers, burrowed and devoured in his brain, consuming whatever part of his sanity that was left and subliming the agony into torture. As he stared at the painting of his mother, dressed in her Sunday-black dress with the silvery embroidery, aristocratic but worn face gazing haughtily into the middle distance, he pressed the hair-thin edge of the shattered mirror against his pale wrist. The blood, coppery salt and heat, trailed across the lacerated skin and pooled onto the Aubesson rug, but he ignored the ruination of the expensive carpet as he opened the wounds more.
Anything to deflect from the thoughts in his head.
He awoke, startled, as the lips crushed against his, and gazed into eyes as dark as sloes.
She silenced him again with her mouth, fingers twisting through his long black locks and pulling him closer. As she undressed him, her hands and tongue lingering on his white flesh, he thought of nothing. His mind blanked that his mother was dead, that he had attended her meagre funeral. He pushed away the thought that if he was in his Slytherin dormitory that his mother would not have been able to enter, he ignored that what he and his mother were doing was illegal and disgusting to society in general. He let himself forget and allowed those talented fingers to touch him as a sister had once touched a brother.
He finally lay naked in his emerald and silver bed, white flesh made ethereal by the wanton moonlight that grazed and caressed his excited skin. His body had reacted to the brush of fingertips and sweet lips, the tickle of her ebony hair as she trailed down his body, and he had swelled and hardened to the touch of his mother. She smiled almost slyly as she saw honísonís thrill, and her tongue flickered across the sticky and sensitive tip.
The youth squirmed, hands clawing at the sheets with the new sensation. Never before had anyone touched him like this, for his reputation as a loner and an insufferable know-it-all Slytherin preceded him wherever he travelled. The touch of someone he truly loved and cared for had been restricted to those emanating from his mother, and he therefore linked her actions as those of a parent to a son she adored. Social boundaries, illegalities Ė who cared when it was two people, who were more than in love, were together in perfect harmony?
She slid her mouth fully down his shaft, fingers massaging at his groin and testes, giggling as he gasped and whined with pleasure and the need for more. His mother was taking exquisitely torturous time in engulfing her sonís throbbing member; unlike most Slytherins she believed that it was best to wait for pleasure than be gratified immediately. This bore out as the woman removed her lips from around her sonís cock and crawled back up his body. Her skin, as satiny smooth as it had always been, purposely moved over his member and creating delightful friction. The youthís eyes narrowed and he started to cry out, but a firm hand clasped around the base of him and stopped the explosion that had been building throughout his whole being.
Not yet.
Whatever he had felt before became as nothing when his mother lowered her tight body onto his straining erection. So hot, so wet. As she pressed herself down onto him he could feel the slight rippling of her inner muscles, the super-heated folds of flesh and skin fitting exactly to the ridges on his own penis. They fit together perfectly, as if they had been made for each other.
Let me.
She fell forward onto his chest, her sharp slightly nicotine-stained teeth tasting his nipples and chest as she slowly started to circle her hips. The movement made the vaginal walls massage at his sensitive glans, clamping and releasing on the solid flesh and causing the white-noise in his mind to become more and more unbearable. He had felt perhaps a quarter of this when she had been tasting him, but now, buried deep inside the channel that gave him life, nothing else mattered apart from his own pleasure and the passion that was filling the air.
As he approached his peak, he tangled his damp hands into her glorious hair and pulled her up to him. Mother and son, both arching and squirming with desire, claimed each otherís neglected mouths and mirrored their animalistic actions with their tongues.
Perfection. The little death. The youth reached it with a silent scream and the thrashing of limbs.
They lay together, entwined as enchantingly asstanstan and Isolde, lost to the devil forever aot cot caring.
The youth sighed in his sleep, nuzzling his narrow lips against where his motherís hair should have beenÖshould have been. Where was her hair? Where were those jet waves that fell to the base of her spine? He explored a little more with his mouth, but could find nothing. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong.
He opened his eyes a shade, adjusting to the shockingly bright moonrays, and saw who he lay curled against.
Dark hair, slightly wavy but cropped fairly short fell over a swarthy and handsome face. Curves that belonged on a man Ė strong shoulders, definition of stomach and arms, were ill-covered by the thin sheet. The youth could also see that the other boy, whose eyes were of hot chocolate dusted with cinnamon, was staring at him with an amused gaze.
Sirius Black; Gryffindor, handsome bastard, clever, witty, intelligent. The list is endless.
Sirius never meant to fuck Snape up so much. The polyjuice potion and the subsequent turning of the Gryffindor into the Slytherinís mother had only been for a laugh, just to see what the greasy bugger would do when confronted with the living body of his very dead mother.
He had obtained ther frr from the Snape family vault, breaking into the elaborate mausoleum and cutting a few strands from the cadaverís head. Death never held that much of a fear for Sirius, but the stench of doom combined with the presence of such a disturbingly attractive corpse had caused him to become nauseated. The dead woman was not a beauty, for she had rather aquiline features and rather narrow lips, but there was an austere allure to the set of her face. After running a finger down marble-harld sld skin, Sirius had fled.
The Christmas holidays provided perfect timing for his plan; Snape was the only Slytherin of his year left in the school, and James and Remus, who were both lovely but didnít half nag, had gone home.
As he stood over the four-poster that contained what looked like to be an extremely naked Snape, thoughts unbidden rose to Sirius/the womanís mind. S/he thought about the beauty of the scenario, the way that the light painted the Serinerin flesh making the sleeping form seem like that of a carved alabaster angel, the way that in sleep Snape lost the harshness that his face had already started to form and became relaxed.
Sirius/the womanís mind was such that is took little struggle for the idea to touch the seraphim to bore into their brain and damn them all.
When the potion had worn off and both boys had come to, Sirius did the only thing he could think of; he snickered. At least it protected himself, making the whole episode into an elaborate ruse.
He honestly hadnít Snape expected to go off and try and kill himself though.
Why did Sirius do what he did? He couldnít explain it.
Perhaps it was something wrong with the potion that meant that the feelings of the one he turned onto overturned his own agenda. Perhaps it was something that he had always wanted to do, something that he kept hidden through hatred and despising.
Thereís always a third theory. The one that states that twins are genetically found in families who have twins. The one that saw a birth certificate that showed one woman had had made love to her brother, only one she could ever love and trust, had spawned two boychildren from their unholy union. However actions that mirror what has gone before are also passed on, for children make the mistakes their parents made decades before.
Blood ties are always there, even through hatred.

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