redamancy ❣︎ ghost fics & drabbles

the polaroid collection: copia

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 – fuck – 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 cock 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 cock 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.