Chapter Text
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Swiss said he had been done taking pictures. He’d put the camera away – stored it back in its box in his closet and tucked away the extra film. He said he was more than satisfied with his work. He was done.
So then how in the world did he get here?
Swiss should have never invited himself into his Papa’s private quarters. He should have never agreed to stay for a glass of wine while something bluesy spun around and around on the turntable. He shouldn’t have made that flirty little joke that made Copia giggle, shouldn’t have reached for the sliver of pale, creamy skin that peeked out from the expensive fabric of his night robe, and definitely should not have pulled on the ties that held the entire thing together.
But – f*ck – Copia did not have the right to look that good. Captured under the caress of golden light and silhouette on full display as silk fell to the floor in a bundle, undereyes still smokey with old paint and graying hair messed from the long day. And his tongue didn’t have to be that loose after just a bit of wine… In truth, Swiss isn’t sure exactly what led to him wearing his Papa’s silken robe, his master below him and on his knees, covered in a thin film of sweat with his co*ck leaking profusely between his legs and a collar etched with the singular word “PRINCESS” buckled loosely around his neck… and to anyone looking in, the scene set out before him would look nothing less than taboo. A secret night of roles reversed, a servant become master, a most unexpected shift in power… but Swiss loves his Papa dearly, and he is hopelessly devoted to him, even with his leash wrapped securely around his fist.
At some point between stripping him bare and guiding him gradually and carefully, step by step like an old dog to kneel in front of his own standing mirror, Swiss had managed to connect a leash to the loop at the front of the thing around his neck, and the pretty length of sleek leather felt too nice wrapped tightly around his fist. There’s an undeveloped photograph in his free hand and within the solid white border appears the faintest outline of his own broad silhouette as it looms from behind the one settled just in front of him.
Just a ghoul and his Papa… spending quality time together over a vintage bottle of red… and yet he can barely focus because the larger-than-life Papa Emeritus the Fourth looks so small.
“Nobody ever sees that,” Copia says in a single quick push of air. He’s panting, voice strained, shoulders slumped inwards, and a slightest wheeze has settled into his throat since he last spoke. He’s locked his mismatched eyes onto Swiss’ through the reflection of the mirror, something pleading and serious, and the corner of Swiss’ mouth curls upwards into a smirk as he flits his eyes back and forth between the photograph and his most unexpected muse. Copia swallows so hard that his throat clicks from behind the thick material of the collar. The metal loop clinks, glinting under the low light. “Not another soul, my ghoul, do you hear me?”
The ghoul acknowledges his request but only barely. There are much more interesting things he’s become preoccupied with, and the future of the photograph in his hand is for, well, the future.
Swiss watches in real time as the generous bulge of his own co*ck appears in faded color, just beside his Papa’s pretty head. It looks good, of course it does. Big and prominent. He presses the heel of his hand into his groin, pleased to find his arousal hasn’t deflated at all since the photo was taken, and Copia’s collar jingles as he twists his head up to readdress him, a hand firmly planting itself to the front of his strong thigh.
“My ghoul–”
“Yes, Papa, I heard you,” he cuts him off, but doesn’t do so to be rude. Engrossed in the photograph, he’d failed to catch the hints of anxiety building in his words until he was begging for even a sliver of his attention – a sliver of assurance his dignity would be protected – and Swiss had been quick to stop him before any more of those terrible-sounding words could leave his mouth. For the first time since the photo was dispatched from the camera, he looks away and finds his Papa through the mirror’s reflection, his pink lips wavering between unspoken words and hands clasped shyly in his lap. His erection hid beneath them.
Swiss doesn’t like that look on him at all.
The photograph drops from where it was pinched between his fingers and flutters to the floorboards, flipping through the air until it settles somewhere out of sight, hiding partially beneath the edge of a woven rug. In an instant the ghoul drops to his knees and wraps his strong, dusky arms around the tops of Copia’s shoulders, hands lightly groping at his chest and tracing the curves of the tattoo on his breast.
“I heard you,” he assures him and buries a lingering kiss to the crown of his skull, “and I promise that the only eyes that will get the privilege to see you like this are my own. You have my word.”
He feels him relax in real time and only pulls him closer to his chest, allowing him a moment to shift his weary legs as he desires to feel comfortable settled securely in his ghoul’s arms. When his old knees crack and pop, Swiss pretends not to notice. The ancient floorboards are not kind to tired joints, but that is why Swiss is there to help him when he fails to find comfort and the pleasure in his aging body. He will always be there.
Copia sighs and lets the air escape from his lungs in a single, drawn-out breath when he finds his position against his ghoul’s strong frame. Pressed firmly against his chest and nearly in his lap, the fabric of his own robe that has been borrowed by the other feels cool against his skin and yet fiery hot where the infernal heat of Swiss’ core leaks through. When he opens his eyes he’s met with the golden orbs of the other as they peer through the grand mirror’s reflection, watching the expressions change and shift on his features and returning only love and adoration back at him. It warms him. Somehow, this ghoul feels like home.
“Comfortable, Papa?”
“Yes, I–” he chokes on his voice when Swiss’ hand suddenly drops from his chest to reach for his co*ck and begin to stroke. Long, slow strokes from root to tip that make the old man want to melt into him for the rest of time and never leave the floor. “Yes– that. That is nice…”
Swiss chuckles softly and the vibrations settle against his spine, blooming with warmth when his laughter rolls over into a lasting, gentle purr. His hand continues to rhythmically dance over his co*ck, tugging at the tip and dipping the tip of his index finger into the sticky pre that bubbles at his tip, spreading it over his skin for a more pleasurable slide. Copia goes practically boneless in his arms and lets his weight fall into the other’s more massive frame, and Swiss shuffles forward, humming softly when the hard bulge of his own co*ck finds pressure between Copia’s lower back.
Swiss is warm there, too. Hotter than any other part of him, and Copia can’t help but lean further into it, asking silently for more of his body. Swiss is happy to oblige, spreading his knees slightly and rolling his hips forward, pulling Copia’s chest into him at the same time and moaning nice and low into his graying hair when they press together just right. A little more of that nice push and pull and Copia twitches in his hand, a little noise slipping past his lips that sets Swiss’ tummy aflame with desire. He dips his chin to nuzzle at the sweat-covered skin just behind his ear and shudders when his heady scent fills his nose, warm and so very human. The pulsing of his blood is deafening in his ears and he begins to radiate with a pulsating heat that not even dewdrop could match.
“Tell me what you need, Papa. I exist to serve you, my master. My muse.”
His Papa moans, loud and pretty, completely unabashed, and Swiss clutches at his skin tighter, pulling him against his chest so insistently that his legs slide upwards along the floor and he’s pulled fully into his lap. He squeaks when Swiss’ arm temporarily restricts the ability for his lungs to expand and he clutches at his balls with his palm and the multi ghoul is quick to release him, smoothing the places where his hands were momentarily cruel with tender caresses of his mortal appreciation and a sincere, silent apology.
Copia lifts a hand to one of the ghoul’s spiraling horns and sighs, catching his breath. “Reserve the roughness for your packmates, you know I am far more fragile than they are…”
Swiss returns his hand to his co*ck and ghosts the pads of his fingers over the prominent vein at the side, his nose still buried in his hair. His breath tickles his skin when he breathes out and Copia shivers, grasping at whatever parts of the other that he can.
“I know. Got the better of myself for a moment there.”
Copia hums and covers Swiss’ hand with one of his own, guiding his much longer fingers to wrap more wholly around his shaft, and Swiss gets the message, stroking him more similarly like he was before, and Copia sighs blissfully into the air, eyes fluttering closed. The ring at the front of his collar jingles with every twisting stroke, glinting under the light of his golden lamp light, and the rest of the length of the leather leash lies in a messy coil to the side of their bodies. Merely a momentary prop for a carefully curated photograph.
They continue like that for a while until Swiss is throbbing against his backside and Copia groans in slow building frustration. The position he’s been wrestled into is more than nice, but it is hard on his bones, and the constant pull of the multi ghoul’s arms has tightened his back and caused him to ache. He shuffles forward, cants his hips upward into Swiss’ hand, but it doesn’t seem to help. It only seems to make it worse and a sudden spike of pain zings up his spine and causes him to wince. He attempts to reposition himself again, twisting and turning in his lap, and Swiss loosens his grip, peering through the mirror and frowning at the looks of discomfort strewn across his handsome face.
“So eager to get away from me? So soon?” He teases, yet his words are empty as he helps his Papa slide from his lap back to the floor. Copia offers him a breathy laugh and a slight roll to his mismatched eyes and reaches back to pat the multi ghoul’s knee, “Simply in need of a change, that is all.”
“Tell me how you need me.”
Copia sighs and settles back on his calves as he mulls over his options. His hands rest momentarily frozen on his thighs and his co*ck lies heavy between them, hard as ever and leaking. His knees ache in the position that he kneels in and he begins to feel a tingle in his toes from where his feet are trapped beneath his weight.
Satanas, when did he get so old?
The old man frowns and makes a pained sound when he attempts to readjust. Swiss is quick to assist him with gentle hands on his hips and his waist, yet when he manages to get up on his hands and knees, Swiss doesn’t allow him to go anywhere else. Copia strains his neck to find the mirror, and waiting there on the other side is his beautiful multi ghoul, holding him still and upright with both huge hands on either sides of his hips, and his eyes are darker than he remembered them being before–more of a deep cadmium now than a glimmering gold–and they stare into him like he wants to devour him, taste him beginning from his head down to the tips of his toes. That strong tail flicks behind him, gliding through the air, and Swiss pulls him back against him to press his hard co*ck into the meat of his ass. Copia feels something spread like ice water down his spine at the feeling, caught between pleasure and surprise. His voice shakes when he opens his mouth again to speak.
“Per favore, my ghoul. Be gentle…”
Copia looks so small on his hands and knees, somehow smaller than he appeared in the photograph. So fragile… Swiss could break him so easily. He could overpower his master in a single swipe of a clawed hand, a bite of sharp teeth, but he would never. Could never. His ghoulish hands are for holding, exploring and appreciating that most perfect body, his lips for worshiping every inch of creamy, wrinkled skin until he’s been blessed with the immortal magic that binds him to this mortal plane. Yes, Swiss wants to devour him entirely until nothing remains, memorize the scent of his skin and taint the richness of his blood that only mortals contain, but more than that, he wants to be a worthy servant. He wants to be the most devoted ghoul that his Papa has ever summoned.
The air has gone still around them, suspended in a vacuum chamber, and Copia’s heart pounds between his lungs as the ghoul behind him grinds his co*ck more squarely between his bare cheeks and kneads at the swells of fat on his tummy. The fabric that separates them is barely there, shifting and changing in the light and bunching up over the swell of his ass. Fine silks that cost him a fortune, imported from places far away. He can feel Swiss’ co*ck weeping, leaking a wet spot into the material. It’ll ruin the fabric for sure, but it’ll be the least of his worries if his thighs continue to shake like they are. Copia swallows nervously and reaches back for one of the hands planted on his skin. He doesn’t even have to ask for what he needs. Swiss knows.
The ghoul finds it in his eyes, the wrinkles in his forehead, the slight shaking of his muscles… he pulls his Papa up on his knees and wraps an arm across the front of his chest, hand tucked into the soft skin under his armpit, and gently knocks the fingers away that have migrated to his dick to take him into his own hand instead. Copia melts immediately, his shoulders falling forward and slumping slightly as Swiss takes good care of him and focuses all of his attention into his building pleasure. The position is less than ideal, and the grooves in the boards are already imprinting themselves into both of their kneecaps, but Swiss doesn’t plan on keeping him there for too long. He strokes him, pulls expertly at his slippery tip, and his Papa moans beautifully for him, whispering incoherent things into the air that get lost in the sweet heat of it all, and Swiss thanks him with kisses to his cheeks, his temples, and the soft curve of his ear.
He shushes him when he begins to pant, reminds him to relax when his muscles tense and tighten, and noses at the slight stubble that he’ll happily shave for him when the morning comes – if he allows him the privilege to stay.
He holds his Papa firmly and securely against his chest the moment he crests, his breath stolen away as his body climaxes and he paints Swiss’ knuckles with his release. And when it’s all over he continues to stroke him slowly until the bliss wanes and the sensitivity begins to creep in and he breathlessly asks him to stop.
The reflection in the mirror that looms in front of them is starkly different from the one captured in the photograph that lies somewhere within the room, forgotten until it is found again, but it is one that Swiss will never forget until the day that he ceases to exist for a second time… And until then he’ll keep that mental image locked securely away in his brain for only himself to see.
A privilege as great as this one, the photograph doesn’t belong in the box with the others, anyway.
