OMG I saw this and went straight to your asks, Bex! 😍 I have a fic idea feat. Mickey and Danny and it is hopefully good! 😉 Also have a few potential ship names as well...on to the brain vomit! ⬇️
I'm thinking an AU where Danny is teaching photography at the university (Prof. Jed Olsen, wink wink) that reader (a photography major) is attending. Mickey is a senior TA for his class. (also Danny is secretly mentoring him on how to be the ghostface) Disguised as a special opportunity for extra credit to help boost reader's grade, Mickey and 'Prof. Olsen' convince reader to help them with their latest murder masterpiece. However despite their initial intentions to make reader their latest victim, they become too enamored and obsessed to let them go! Is it their natural eye for photography? is it reader's sweet little fangirling and inability to stop gushing over their work? you decide. 😌
some Poly! ship names I can think of: Jickey, Dankey, Dickey, or Manny
Much love and admiration,
- T🌙
Okay! So since both Danny and Mickey are into filming and photography I decided their ship name is Double Negative poly!Ghostface to help tell it apart. I fucking hope that this has been worth the wait! I have been working on this one like on and off almost all month! I am pretty fucking happy with it overall, and I think it deff shows off the appeal of the dynamic of Danny and Mickey together, hope everyone else sees the appeal the same way I do! Another Multi-May fic down!
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Rating: Explicit. Length. 5.3K. Double Negative Poly Ghostface! Danny Johnson And Mickey Altieri X FEM! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: DARK FIC. DUB CON. DBD and Scream 2 Crossover AU. Lying. Drugging. Restrained Reader. Ropes. Talk Of Gruesome Murder. Blood. Gore. Mentions Of Grief. Stalking. Masturbation. Knife Play. Threat Of Violence. Blood Play. Pain Play. Reader Is Cut Up. Voyeurism. Blackmail. So Much Photographic Evidence. Squirting. Choking. Blow Job. Throat Fuck. Facial. Dirty Talk. Banter. Praise. Degradation. Boot Humping. Reader Is Dark And Fucked Up. Implied Sloppy Seconds.
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“Fan Favourite.”
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You have always had a love of photography. It is totally cliché, right? Having a dreamy and romantic opinion of the action of taking pictures, of securing a snapshot of a moment immortalized forever, capturing one exact piece of time to view whenever you like, utterly sappy, isn’t it?
Yet it cannot be helped, you like what you like, that old adage rings true, the heart wants what it wants, and you have never been one to fight an urge so innate. You were rarely if ever the subject because you were always behind the camera, not in front of it. Whenever you got your hands on a camera, you couldn’t help yourself, disposables placed on tables at a wedding would be filled up by your handiwork, cameras at friends or relative’s houses would have you giving their shutters some serious exercise, and when you got a cell phone you’d fill up storage with pictures too.
That was a long time ago, now as a photography major you have a series of professional cameras that have been gifted from family or paid by the long hours you had put in at summer jobs, you loved all of them and babied them heavily. Your schedule has a multitude of classes, but all of them are built around the classes for your particular major, your main photography class is led by one Jed Olson, a very talented professor, ex news reporter, talented, clearly passionate, if a bit unassuming and plain.
There is something about him that is hard to put your finger on, but when observing him, talking to him, you swear to God that you think there is more to him, which you figure is just due to him being a teacher. What educational professional isn’t different outside work as opposed to when they are behind a lectern?
Mickey Altieri, though, his teaching assistant, you think he plays everything a lot straighter, you get the impression he isn’t that different in or out of the classroom, he is also a guy that you would describe as, unfair. Not in how he helps out in class, no far from, but that is the base word you build on when thinking of him, example: He is unfairly funny, unfairly attractive, unfairly unattainable, the flirty and charming kind of guy that has you sighing wistfully, musing over how unfair it is that he is that beautiful and out of reach.
All these things together add up to this class being your favourite, great assignments, interesting lectures from someone who knows and cares what he is talking about, focused on one of your biggest interests and with a side of eye candy, it really has it all.
No matter how much you like a class, when it is the last one on a Friday, standing between you and your weekend, you can’t help willing it to hurry up so you can get out and cut loose. When the end of the day is called it is to some excited chatter from those around you, reminders that the assignment given at the top of the week is going to be due on Monday as people begin to file out, you are packing up the last of your things.
Before you can get your bag closed and get up, Mickey has made his way to you, his fingertips touching the top of your desk as he asks, “Hey, Jed wants to talk to you quick before you take off, if you have a minute?”
The answer is already on your lips as you nod, “Of course.”
“Great.” He smiles in that fucking unfair way again as his hand pulls back, you get up and go to follow him down the stairs and up to the desk at the front.
Once before him, Jed stops putting his own items away, addressing you promptly, “Hi, so, I have a personal project I am working on, a little tricky and in need of extra hands and Mickey had the wonderful idea of offering up the opportunity to assist to a student, for some extra credit-”
Intriguing. He continues on, “-we thought of you first, not like you need the boost to your grades, but, based off all the work you’ve turned in this semester, we think you might be the best suited for it.”
“So Mickey is already helping?” You asked, and he said, “That’s right! I really need two assistants for this.”
Private time outside typical office hours, potentially off campus, and you’d get extra credit? It sounds nearly too good to be true, and most things that seem to be, usually are.
“What’s the catch exactly?” You inquire and Mickey snaps his fingers, addressing Jed, “Told you she’d see through it.”
Your professor hung his head briefly before raising it again, hands up in apology, “You called it Mick.” Jed sighed before pressing on, “Alright, so, I know this is short notice, but I need your assistance tomorrow night.”
Mickey jumps in, helping out, “Dinner will be taken care of too.”
Was that all? I mean sacrificing a Saturday night isn’t ideal but fuck it, you have a lifetime of other Saturday nights, what’s giving one up for a chance to get closer to Mickey, endear yourself to your professor and improve your grade at the same time? You can turn this to your advantage though, play it up, so you do.
“Oh I dunno I already had plans-” You start and Jed says, “It won’t take that long, you’d really be helping me out, I wouldn’t forget it.”
You hum like you are still mulling it over, when Mickey says, “Please?” You don’t push your luck further and say, “Alright, yeah, I’ll help.”
Jed seems genuinely excited and grateful as he tells you, “Thank you so much, I knew I could count on you.” He flips open a notebook and scribbles down some information, he rips the page and then holds it out, you take it, and he says, “That has all the info you’ll need.”
Mickey is smiling at you again as he says, “See you tomorrow, and thanks again.”
You leave with a feeling that tomorrow will be pretty good. When you get back to your place, you have dinner, stopped for some takeout on the way home, you then remember the sheet Jed passed that you slipped in your pocket. You sit on the couch, takeout splayed on the coffee table, as you unfold the paper and take in the information, it outlines where to go, what time, and a note that is underlined, tell you to “Wear something comfortable that you can move in.”
You wonder what the help he needs is, maybe you should have inquired further, but you shrug it off, by this time tomorrow you’ll be in the know. Dinner is good, and Friday night passes by simply and without incident. Your Saturday is regular and usual, toast for breakfast, finish up an assignment, go see some friends, lunch out, before you know it you are back home, a quick shower before changing and getting ready to leave to help out.
The request is taken to heart, comfort and movement is the name of the game, so a pair of yoga pants a tank top and fitted hoodie is paired with sneakers, and you call it good. You weren’t asked to bring any of your equipment, you are sure between Jed and Mickey they have more than enough between them, so you travel light.
Finding the place was easy, an apartment building that looks rather unassuming from the outside, once in the doorway you see one wall lined with mail boxes and the other with has a box, push buttons lined with apartment numbers to buzz into them, you press the button for number eight F and soon hear a voice coming back, “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m here to help.” Answering the question, and you hear the response of, “Great, come on up.”
A buzz rings out, signalling the door leading inside is now unlocked, you open it up and press on, the elevator is empty, and you ride it to the eighth floor and find the apartment door with 8F emblazoned under the peephole. You knock and are not left waiting, Mickey is the one who answers, “Hey! Right on time, punctual as always.”
You smile as he holds the door open and insists, “Come on in.”
It has to be Jed’s apartment, you are sure of it, either that or Mickey has much more mature design inclinations than you could have ever expected. “Jed is gathering some materials, he’ll be along shortly.”
A simple nod and you are just looking around until something on the coffee table catches your eye, you smile, coming around and sitting on the couch, reaching out, “Ooh I recognize this.”
It is a book open and filled with pictures from Jed’s previous job, you recognize them as the accompaniment to old articles he wrote, bona fide glossy originals lovingly placed on the pages before you. Scooping it up, and you begin pointing to them, “I remember the piece that went along with this one.”
Mickey leans over the back of the couch, peering down at the book, and he asks, “Very familiar with Mr.Olson’s work, hm?”
“I am, I might have looked up all his old work for the paper he used to work for, and I got curious, ended up down a rabbit hole reading all his articles too.” You confess, and his eyebrows raise, “Impressive, I didn’t think anyone other than me bothered to read them all.”
He takes a seat beside you as you flip through, your eyes back on the pages as you ask, “What do you think is his best?”
Mickey takes a moment to consider this question, his eyes also on the book, the answer seems to come to him, he reaches out and asks, “May I?”
You pass over the book without a fight, and he flips through it, eventually he settles on a page, he points to the picture on the right side, “The article attached to this one I find myself coming back to over and over.”
Recognition hits immediately, you know just the article that is tied to this one, it was covering a seriously brutal triple homicide, three girls, around college age. One of the girl’s parents was away for the long weekend, she invited two of her friends so she wouldn’t home alone, the three of them were found when the parents came home Monday night, the time of death was placed on Friday, they had been murdered mere hours after they left. The real stand out detail, other than how apparently brutal the murders were, the bodies were seriously mangled, was whoever did it, turned off the AC, it was the height of a pretty serious summer heat wave, needless to say the “mess” the parents found was disgustingly horrifying. The interview portion was gripping to say the least, you could really feel the intense grief, as if you were really in the room as Jed talked to them.
“This is your favourite?” You question teasingly, and he asks around a half laugh, “What? You don’t think it’s good?”
“No, it is, just the story it is covering is so fucked up.” You reply with a shrug, a finger tracing the edges of the photograph, it is of the open door to the house, caution tape everywhere along with cops, the mother crying into the father’s shoulder, the pair of them the focus, standing in the middle of the stone walk way, mired in sadness and now childless. It is a great photograph, totally depressing, beautiful lighting, colour and composition on display.
“Would you believe that I’m just a morbid kinda guy?” He asked, and you laugh louder this time, “You? I don’t really get morbid vibes from you at all.”
Mickey seemed to find that amusing, he asks, “What kinda vibe do you get from me?”
You consider Mickey’s question briefly, before telling him, “Kind of frat guy, but not in like, a douchey way, just a guy who likes to party, and sleeps around.” Those last two words added on has his hand hitting the dead centre of his own chest, he pretends to look offended, “Are you calling me a slut?”
You wished that he was, so maybe you were projecting a tad. You grin as you ask, “Depends. Are you one?”
The eye contact being held over the open book is intense, he draws it out, you think for comedic effect before he says, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Of course, you would, perhaps you are just that easy to read. Being so consumed with your conversation, you did not see, hear, or expect what came next: The arm locking around your shoulders from behind, and the rag soaked with chloroform being forced to your nose and mouth. You barely even get a chance to struggle, hardly let out a sound, before everything goes black.
Who knows how long it is before you wake up.
When you do come to it is still black, you lift your head, try to turn your head to and fro, you feel soft pressure of fabric around your head, that is when it clicks, you are blindfolded, not only that you can’t move any other part of yourself. You have something in your mouth, you try to push it out with your tongue, it refuses to budge, you must be gagged. You also have what feels like some kind of restraints on your wrists and ankles, you think you are secured to a chair? Wait, that isn’t right, none of this is! Why can’t you see? Why are you gagged and tied down? The last thing you were doing was sitting on the couch in Jed Olson’s apartment, talking with Mickey, and now you’re who knows where.
The fear is like ice water being poured down your back, your heart rate is jack rabbiting up, and you try to wiggle in your chair, testing your bonds only to find that no you aren’t going anywhere.
You hear a voice ring out, unfamiliar, cool, smooth and absolutely bone chilling, “Oooh, she’s awake.”
“Finally we can get started.” Comes the response and the voice is similar to the first but different in a way you can’t easily place. You hear movement, heavy steps, on tile? A slight echo, the space must be big, you definitely aren’t in the same place you were when you blacked out. A hand touches itself down onto your shoulder, causing you to jump, the reaction gets a laugh out of whoever is there, an attempt at soothing you is made, “Easy, calm down.”
Whoever his friend is chimes in, “Yeah, we want to draw this out, we’d hate for it to be over too soon.”
“Mmm, nothing worse than things ending prematurely.” The joke doesn’t land for you the same way it does for them. The grip on your left shoulder tightens, and you feel a sudden freezing shock against your right cheek, you tense and whimper low deep in your throat, feeling the sharp edge of what you are sure, without even seeing it, is a knife. The weapon meanders, the tip dancing along, drawing indiscernible patterns until the flat of the blade pats your cheek, you dare not move even though you desperately want to.
“She’s trying hard to sit still and take it.” Hums the one who has his hands on you and the other replies, “She is, I’d prefer some reaction though, so let’s get this out of the way.”
Another hand reaches out, fingers hook under the blindfold and lift it, you blink against the harsh white light coming from overhead, nose scrunching as you try to adjust. When everything does come into focus, you see who had been talking, two figures, clad in black, white masks with hollow eyes and the mouth hanging open in a permanent scream, you know that mask. The reaction is one that is completely automatic, a soft exhalation, eyes widening, and your heart somehow quickening further, more akin to a hummingbird than a human.
“Hm, was kind of expecting a bigger reaction.” Said the one who just lifted the blindfold and the other one chimed in, “Right? I was-”
You cut in, can’t help it, the words tumbling out, fuelled by a curiosity burning bright like fire, asking in a complete rush, “Are you real?”
A shared look of confusion, and when you don’t get an immediate answer you ask again, more empathically, “Please, tell me, are you real?”
“Real like-” He begins, and you say, “Real like are you the Roseville murderer, THE Ghostface, are you him? Are you really him?”
You can’t stop how your tone tinges with a raw kind of unfiltered desperation, and you finally get your answer, the one who was standing before you confirms, “Yes, I am.”
A sound of pure delight squeaks in the back of your throat, kicking off your excited babbling, “Oh my God, I am such a big fan, ugh that sounds so cliché, right? But it’s true! I can’t help it, it really is you, you’re here in front of me-”
Now it is your turn to be cut off, the one still holding the knife asking, “Are you serious?”
You take a deep breath before pushing even further, “Yes! So serious, and I just have to say, my favourite? That one night you killed those kindly old grandparents AND their grandkids who were sleeping over, I mean, come on! Imagine the suffering, having not only both your parents, but both your kids brutally murdered in one night? Having to bury the previous generation of your family and the next before it ever really starts? So young and helpless, talk about smothering their potential in the crib.”
A near dreamy sigh as you utter with warm affection and total reverence, “I mean this a compliment when I say this, but you are so unbelievably fucked up.”
A beat of silence, he crouches slightly, brings himself to eye level with you, you feel wonderfully exposed and vulnerable as he observes you, after a minute he speaks, “You are being totally genuine, aren’t you? Completely sincere.”
You nod, a bite of your bottom lip briefly before you tell him, “I am, I really am, I’ve read every single article about what you’ve done over and over.”
The voice from behind you speaks up again, “She said that earlier too, I think she is legit.”
“Well, this is going to blow her mind.” The man before you stood back up straight and the mask came off, and you gasp, seeing none other than your professor, the writer of all those articles, and apparently the Ghostface killer himself, Jed Olson. You have to admit, you were wrong about him, seeing him here and now, without the glasses he is very fucking attractive and further still, having this confirmed for you, that there is something more to him, that he is the stuff of nightmares and your wet dreams.
Shock and surprise flood all your senses and then the connection is made, it clicks, what was just said before this reveal, “She said that earlier-” he means back at the apartment, which means the masked man behind you is, “Mickey?!”
A sharp turn of your head to look up at the man still holding the knife, he takes off his own mask, confirming your theory, he says with that fucking gorgeous smile as equally sharp as the weapon he brandished, “Guilty.”
You swing your head back to look at Jed, and he says, “So, probably have a lot of questions. I had my fun with the killings and working at the paper in Florida, then left and started up a new life here, the craving never goes away though, so I want to start up my favourite hobby again.”
“And Mickey?” You ask, and he says, “Met online, we share some similar interests, I’m doing some mentoring outside the classroom too, he has real potential. We’ve been having a great time, and you?”
You would have never expected this, never thought Mickey was capable of that, your mind runs with questions, what has he done? How screwed up? How sadistic? And how many has he killed? He has to have real talent to get Jed mentoring him.
He points, and Mickey filled in the blank, “You caught our eye, the outfits you wear to class, the work you submit, what you do off campus, you are very fun to stalk by the way, we decided we wanted you to be our newest victim.”
Holy fucking shit, this is all so much to take in. They like you, want you, have stalked you, a dream, to be killed by your murderous idol, forever immortalized, an honour truly, to be living out the story of one of those articles you have read endlessly, you could not believe it.
“Latest masterpiece really, but now-” Jed trailed off, Mickey joins in, “-I’m thinking the same thing, I’m not so sure.”
Part of you mourns the idea of not being run through, filleted and caught on film, most of you is curious however what their intentions have changed to, “Why? Am I not good enough for your art?”
It isn’t spat with venom, it isn’t mean, you ask it very sincere, a little sad. Gloved fingers trace over your jaw, tilting your head up as assurances wash over you, “No, it’s not that, victims come and go, but someone like you? That is rare, worth holding onto, it’d be a waste to kill you so soon.”
“But you still might one day?” You ask, hopeful, and Mickey laughs, loud and a bit shocked, before he says, “I think it could still be on the table if that is how you eventually want to go out.”
That comforts a seriously fucked up part of yourself, placates it and makes it go quiet. Jed’s gloved thumb presses down on your lower lip, toying with it slightly, you want to lean closer into his touch. Jed says, “But for now, how’d you like to assist with our work, become a bit more involved, wouldn’t that be nice? Instead of on the sidelines, on the outside looking in, you can be right in the middle.”
Oh, what a joy. To get to help, contribute, become a weaver of stories and larger than life, with the hope that you could still end up skewered by both their knives one day far-flung in the future once you’ve satisfied your own sick desires you had always tried to push down. There is just one answer, “Yes! Please, yes!”
“Eager thing isn’t she?” Mickey asks and Jed hums in agreement, “Maybe we should test that, see how far she is willing to go.”
You will do whatever you need to prove yourself.
Turns out what they had in mind had to do with the whole reason you were here tonight, because even though this has all pivoted in a delightful way, it doesn’t change the fact that they were expecting to come away from tonight with some new pictures. So here we find ourselves, Mickey setting up the camera and Jed slipping his mask back on, preparing for your little photoshoot.
Taking these pictures could be twofold as well, other than the act and it’s keepsakes being fun, these pictures can be fantastic blackmail material, if you don’t want them getting out, showing you doing depraved things with a known masked killer than you have to stay in line and do what they say. Not like you would ever dream of selling them out, not when you want this, but you understand and respect the need for insurance.
The ropes are untied, because if they leave them on there is plausible deniability, you could say, “Oh I didn’t want it, they made me-” but with your limbs free it is harder to hide it. Gloved fingers unzip your fitted hoodie, and it is slid off, your tank top is pulled up, and your sports bra is pulled down, honestly it frames your chest pretty beautifully, Jed says, “Nice to see them up close and personal.”
A reminder of their stalking, how many times have they seen you naked or in compromising positions, how did they do it? No real time to think on it, as painfully arousing as it is.
While Jed’s hands reach around your body, Mickey frames the shot. He catches the exact moment that smooth leather clad fingers pinch your nipples and your mouth falls open with a moan. He doesn’t go easy, from the pinching, to the twisting and the outright slaps to the sensitive flesh that has you squirming and your skin growing hot, he isn’t satisfied until you are cringing in anticipation and whimpering with every strike.
Your pants come down, bunch around your knees and the pair comment on the obvious wetness leaking through your underwear, staining your inner thighs. Mickey sighs out, “God, told you she was into this shit.”
Jed is holding you closer to him, palms cupping your tits as Mickey gets on one knee and zooms in, snapping a picture of the thin soaked material that is plastered to your cunt, he comments again as he says, “Jesus, if you aren’t careful you might slip on all that mess.”
Jed laughs lightly, “Don’t worry, non-slips.” He says with a nod, gesturing down to the heavy-duty boots he had on.
“Remind me to get some of those.” Mickey says easily as he checks out the latest picture on the digital screen, and Jed teases as the blade of the knife slides into the waistband of your panties, “Yeah, you need them with how often your clumsy ass falls all over the place.”
The underwear is cut away artfully, it makes your clit throb in want as he nicks your hip bone, you suck in a harsh inhale and that has him turning his attention back to you fully, “Oh.”
That is the only word he gets out before he cuts you again, and you squirm with a weak moan, and the night really explodes from there. There are thin red lines drawn on your inner thighs, your ribs, all in easily hidable places and Mickey captures all of it dutifully, just as excited and into it, watching as thick crimson creeps from angry open wounds. You get your first piece of praise with him in the mask, “You’re so fun.”
What a lovely complement, what a wonderful thing to be, fun, you think if you live through the night you will get wet every time you hear that word. You know that you will recall it every time you masturbate, trying to remember the exact way he says it, how it flowed off his tongue and hit your eardrum.
It keeps going until the bloody knife is brought between your thighs, the smooth handle end of it is used on you, dragged from hole to clit and back again, the strings of your arousal and the excess of blood create a very interesting lube. Up and down, back and forth, the end of the handle is used to rub your clit perfectly, the whole scenario, the dynamic, the pleasure, the pictures being taken to maybe blackmail you if you step a toe out of line, it all means that you do not take long at all. Fucked up little you is soon gasping out, “Oh Jed-”
Has the hand that isn’t working the knife around your throat, strong fingers squeeze, “Completely forgot to mention it cupcake, but Jed isn’t my real name, when we are like this, it’s Danny, okay?”
Of course, lying about something so simple and basic only makes sense, Mickey says, “Ah, was wondering if you’d share that.”
“I think she’s done enough to earn that small tidbit.” He muses, and you are painfully close, chanting out his name, tasting it on your tongue, “Danny, Danny, Danny-” You suppose how heavily you are breathing and grinding your hips against the knife handle tells on how near you are.
Without a word of acknowledgment to your predicament, the weapon is flipped and the cool steel kisses your cunt, your hips halt and Danny says firmly, “If you want to fucking cum badly enough you’ll grind on the blade to do it.”
You think you might be in love.
With your heart in your throat you start to move, tentatively, gently, terrified but wanting to cum badly enough you fight through the fear of potential genital mutilation. It takes longer, but once the metal heats up to match your body temperature your body makes up for lost time, hurtling you towards climax, and Mickey is encouraging, “Come on, you can go harder than that.”
Danny cuts in and coos in this tone that is overly sweet as he attempts to comfort, “You’re safe, promise.”
You don’t think you can trust any promise he makes, not while he is choking and forcing you to do this for their amusement, but that? Makes it better. Him so blatantly lying is unbearably hot, you know you aren’t safe, you know this is dangerous and stupid, that you shouldn’t, and yet here you are, on the edge of a knife about to tumble into bliss.
Finally, the band snaps, you are panting out a fucked up mix of their names, body shuddering as you cum. When you do you nearly fall, knees almost give out, held up by him choking you still as you gush, the rivulets of fluid run down your legs and mingle with tacky mostly dried blood. As soon as you start to come down Danny lets you go and allows you to drop onto the floor, still heaving as he begins to open his pants, he says to Mickey, “After I’m done with her, we can switch, and I’ll get some pictures of you using her.”
Looks like the night is far from done, and you have a lot more to prove.
- - -
You were correct, it was a very long night, but the best of your life.
The clothing you wore that night had to be thrown away, after both Danny and Mickey cut a few squares out for their respective scrap books, that is, the scars are healing up nicely, your new triad is chugging along blissfully and life is pretty sweet. You have class later that afternoon, you will see them both and the weekend is going to kick off right after, you are going back to Danny’s place, your shared work is culminating towards you taking your first victim, and you were nervous and excited.
You are checking the mail as you come back inside from running an errand, you come across an envelope that is totally blank, no postage or return address. Excitement runs through you as you know just what this is, you drop your keys and the rest of the mail, tearing open the unassuming envelope to be greeted with just what you were hoping for, a new picture.
You sit at the island on a stool, fingers trace the edges in reverence, it is a photo from that first night, you are barely dressed, bloodied, hair a wreck and on your knees, gaze turned up to the camera as your face is totally painted in cum. Your lips are parted, you remember it well, you were gasping for breath, having just cum for the third time that night from grinding on his boot while Mickey brutally throat fucked you till he got close only to then pulled out to cum on your face. Your eyes are hazy with lust, and while your body shows how exhausted you are, the undercurrent of the mood is crystal clear, you are happy as can be and sated down to your bones.
The more you prove yourself you are rewarded with your own copies of the pictures, and you love and treasure every single one, you hold it to your chest and sigh dreamily, just dying to see them later.
