Wrapped In Plastic - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]
Synopsis: The new kid at school intrigues you. He’s infatuated too, but beneath that scary exterior, you’ve got no idea what’s in store.
Notes: Era: Spooky Kids! Requested by anon: “High school Brian having a crush on you.”
There he is, sitting in front of the principal again. Brian Warner. You're surprised he hasn't been expelled yet, frankly, even though he just moved here to South Florida recently.
You watch from afar, sitting with your friends. He's making that face. That expression... or lack of expression. He doesn't give a fuck what he got in trouble for, and you, he and the principal know it.
"Hey. (y/n)," your best friend says, "What the hell? Are you listening?"
"Yeah," you mutter, glancing back into the office. God, he would probably fuck like an animal, taking you in some old haunted forest somewhere while spanking you and telling you you're his dirty little slut...
Your friend scoffs when she sees where you're looking.
"That guy is dangerous, quit fantasizing. That isn’t your picture perfect bad boy-- that’s like dating the next Son of Sam killer.”
Your other friend chimes in. “My sister told me she saw him and his pack of weirdos out lighting an abandoned house on fire. My sister’s friend said she hears him jerking off in the washroom every lunch hour. The whole school knows about it. Also apparently in creative writing, he turned in this story about this guy fucking his sister's corpse or something. Seriously weird, probably evil. He's gonna end up in jail, mark my words." You ignore your friend, but turn back into the conversation.
Eventually, the principal gives up, dismissing him. You see Brian join his friends outside the office door, who have been waiting-- Jeordie and Stephen, you think you've heard them called in class. The one with the brown comb-over is called Pogo outside of class, because of his fascination with serial killers. You think it's funny. Those guys just do whatever they want.
Your breath hitches. Brian tucks his long black hair behind his ear, looking up and grinning at his friends. He's describing what he did, and he looks like a gleeful child who just got away with murder as the other two bust out laughing and dig for details. How could anyone think he's evil?
Cold chills run through your body as he meets your eyes. Oh, fuck. He smirks a little bit your way, but you quickly look away. His features harden, and he turns back to his friends. You turn back to yours.
You can't help watching after him as he walks down the hall to fourth period, though... his head nearly reaches the ceiling, and that metal Planet Of The Apes lunchbox makes you smile. You've heard him make a threat or two to beat someone's ass with it, and you believe he'd do it. For every bully who promised him he'd be nothing, there's something about him that promised so much more.
--
The bell goes, and Brian sits down at the desk.
"She was looking at you."
"Yeah, she was talking to her friends about me," Brian mutters back.
"She looked like she was wetting her panties over you," Jeordie grins, "She looks like she wanted to suck your dick right there in front of Mr. Ogilvie!"
"That'd be the day," Brian sighs.
"Yeah, you'd have beat off material forever," Pogo laughs.
"But she wasn't," he said, "You guys are just fucking blind."
"I don't know, I got some blow job vibes from her,” Pogo says.
“You get blow job vibes from everyone.”
“I’ll blow you for lunch money,” Jeordie mentions. Pogo shrugs.
“I might take you up on that.” His obnoxious laughter rings out as you walk by the door. You recognize it immediately, and look back. Brian’s sitting there, knees tucked under the desk like his legs won’t fit. Shit. In your experience, being this preoccupied with someone meant you were into them... or at least, wanted to see more of them.
Brian looks up again, and sees you staring at him. This time, he frowns. You’re drawn away by your friend, who pulls you toward your next class. As you're walking, someone calls your name.
“Hey! (y/n), right?”
You turn as your friend keeps walking ahead. You scoff slightly as he approaches. “Like you don’t know my name.” You pause, backtrack. “I- sorry. That was mean."
“That’s okay. I’ve been known to be a little mean too,” he smirks, and he flips his hair out if his face. “I guess when you hang around a bunch of catty bitches all the time, it rubs off on you.” His voice is so deep and calm. It throws you off whenever he speaks, but does other things to you as well.
"Hanging out with a pair of delinquents can do the same." Your eyes dart inside the classroom to his friends, who are carving something into a desk. He gives a small smile.
"Touché."
“Speaking of rubbing off,” you raise an eyebrow, “Did you want to talk to me?”
He blushes, then forces his embarrassment away. “That rumor’s not true.”
“No?”
“Nah. I did light that abandoned house on fire though.” He grins, and you do as well, hugging your books closer to your chest.
“So. You’re a rebel, huh?”
“If not putting up with everybody’s bullshit counts as rebelling, then yeah. I guess so.”
“I can respect that,” you nod. “I feel the same way... but I’m not as fearless as you.”
“Are you saying you might commit arson with me, (y/n)?”
“Maybe. How did the conversation progress to lighting things on fire with you?”
He laughs, ducks his head nervously. “Well. Um, I saw you staring like a creep, and... I was wondering if you wanted to be creeps together. Y’know... hang out sometime? Come see my band, or...?”
“Are you asking me out?”
“Yeah, I am.”
You smile, poking his black shirt that read Christianity is Unnatural, Abnormal, and Perverse. “You’ve got balls, Brian.” You look at the clock, and back to his class. “What do you say we fuck off for the rest of the day?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna skip class today?”
“Sorry,” you walk your fingers up his chest. “I know I’m not quite at your level of rebellion yet, but it’s a start.”
He laughs as he follows you to your locker.
---
“So. Do you have a car?”
“No.” He scratches his head. “We can walk back to my house, though. My parents aren’t home.”
Following that plan, you make it back to his house. For someone hailed as the Antichrist of the school, he's got a relatively normal looking home, white picket fence and everything. All that changes once you get to his room.
"Wow," you say, looking up at everything. He's got serial killer-like writing scrawled on the wall by his bed, lyrics that seem like they're straight out of a porno or a horror film, or both. There are pentagrams drawn on his bed posts, and posters of bands like Nine Inch Nails, Ozzy Osbourne, KISS on his walls.
"I know it's stupid, but I'd give anything to meet those guys," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
"It's not stupid," you say, examining the edges of the posters, freyed from the move no doubt. "I actually think it's awesome. I love Ozzy."
"One day I'm gonna beat his record for most drugs consumed over a lifetime."
"Have you started practicing?" you tease.
"I... well, I haven't had the chance."
"Right. Let me know when you do." You smile, going over to sit on his bed. He looks down at you, seems to have a mini panic attack, then acts cool with it, playing with his lip ring and sitting beside you. You look around the messy floor. He's got a strange mix of stuff that oddly seems to perfectly fit his personality: leaking boxes of black hair dye, various lipsticks and nail polishes, a bag of weed, books on the rise of fascism and Carl Jung's red book, an antique-looking switchblade, a Willy Wonka hat, condoms with little angry faces drawn on them, an old deflated football with "FIGHT" written on it, and... "What's that?" you ask, leaning down. Brian coughs.
"Oh. Yearbook from last year."
You pick it up, looking at all the little drawings of candy, needles, Charles Manson and other doodles he's defaced the book with. "But you didn't go to this school last year."
"I traded my mom's diet pills for it."
"Huh. Hustling already. Must have been some good stuff." You hesitate. The page was open to the photos of you as the lead in the play last year. You smirk, pretending to squint. "Is that a cum stain I see on my face?"
"You wish," he huffs, but he's blushing, hair curtaining around his face. You give him a look, turning fully toward him.
"Why'd you really invite me over?"
"To tell you I hate you, knock you out, and bury you in my backyard." You laugh.
"I mean, if you think about it..."
"It's the perfect plan. Invite the girl you've got a crush on over, assume she's gonna make fun of you, lure her in, then get your revenge." You smile, laying back on his bed.
"You just admitted to having a crush on me."
"Wasn't it obvious?" he asks. "I only ever threaten to kill the people I really wanna fuck."
"And do you really wanna fuck me, Bri?" you ask coyly, crawling dangerously close to him. He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his long, graceful throat. "You wanna fuck me right here, right now, while your parents aren't home, make me scream your name while you blare your favorite metal record and act like things'll never change?"
"That sounds good," he groans. His hands wander up your thigh, and you smile, bouncing on his leg. "...I also wanna share my music with you. Read a book over your shoulder. Maybe pop a few pills, key someone's car, grab a milkshake and look at the stars on Special K so we feel like we're floating, you know. Before I bang the shit out of you. Date stuff."
"Is this not our first date?" you ask. His tongue flicks up over his lip ring again.
"I guess you could say it is."
"Good. Cause I never fuck on a first date," you say, "Or so I tell people." He clenches his jaw, and braces a skinny arm beside your head, leaning down to capture your lips. His lips taste sweet, like mint and those sugary rocket candies. He takes his shirt off, and you rub your hands down, feeling a few scars. He lets out a whimpered noise at your touch, shuddering a little.
You make out and grind against one another for a few minutes, your hands pulling his hips closer by his black belt loops and his fingers tangling your hair. Your breath gets faster as he grinds harder, more desperately, and you reach a hand down to help him out, give him something to rut against.
"You feel so big," you moan, and he runs a hand through his hair, lips falling open.
"I'm gonna..." He makes another desperate noise, and you feel it right where you need him. But since all his condoms in here seem to be used or have faces drawn on them in scented marker, you opt for over the clothes stuff only.
"Use your fingers?" you breathe. He looks like he's about to cum, and you know it'll tip you over as well, what with all the times you had thought of him like this.
He reaches into your jeans, unzipping them, and messily finds your clit. For a teenage guy, he's not bad. He starts to rub, then reaches three fingers down to thrust them into you.
"Fuck, Bri! Three?!" you breathe. He looks into your eyes, not stopping.
"I thought girls were whores for that kind of thing!"
"It's..." you moan, "That's... oh... y-yeah... Jesus...” He really start to work them in, watching your reactions while rutting his clothed erection against your leg. "Fuck, Brian, grab my tits... yeah... this is just how I imagined it when I..."
He freezes for a second, and his whole body convulses. He gasps, and you see him reach down to cover his crotch, face going beet red. He doesn't stop, though. He keeps fingering you, and now that he's not worried about grinding, he can explore you in other ways. He attaches his lips to your neck, and sucks a hickie right below your ear.
“Brian... Bri, make me c--”
"Cum for me, you filthy little slut," he snarls, and you arch your back up, grinding down into his fingers as your orgasm hits. You rock through it, and he kisses you again, sloppy and hot. When he pulls away, he gives you your fingers to lick clean, which you do through a heated stare.
Things calm down into you laying back against his pillows with his stringy body tucked in a cramped position beside you. "I didn't know you were that..." you search for words. "Experienced?"
"What, you thought I was a virgin?”
You giggle. “I didn’t know what to think about you, to be honest. Kinky, inexperienced, I had no idea. Of course, I hoped that you were kinky.”
“I’ve been known to use restraints when asked,” he smirks.
“I’ve got that to look forward to. I thought you were cute too, though. I don’t care if you’re some devil worshipper who parents and teachers everywhere shiver at the thought of." He's quiet for a second.
"I thought you were scared of me."
"That too, a little bit. But what scares me turns me on." He rolls over to face you, a vulnerable position for him, you can tell.
"The way I dress is what I perceive to be beautiful. Looking like this, doing what I want to, it keeps the assholes who like to give my face their own version of plastic surgery away if they think I'm a Satanist who's gonna... cut off their mom's head or something if they fuck with me. Makes the hypocrites who call themselves teachers question their morals too, ‘teaching’ someone like me to be a good little boy and follow society’s rules. It’s all brainwashing, everything they feed us with their sugar and shit, and I’m the bad guy for standing up to it."
You stroke hair out of his face, and he looks up at you, lips pursed. "There’s always gotta be a scapegoat. I guess you fit that role.” You look beyond him. “You think it would ruin your image if those bullies found your poetry books?” He smiles.
“Nah. One day, I’m gonna grow up to be a big rock and roll star. I’ll use my own poetry and turn it into music, and I’ll look ten times more extreme than I do now. Then they can all say they knew me, and I’ll tell them to go to hell.”
You snuggle into him. "Mmm. Speaking of extreme... we should pull a Sandy and Danny. I'll come to school dressed all goth and shit Monday. Throw my friends for a loop."
"Does that mean I have to dress like a cheerleader?" he asks.
"You've got the ass for it."
He grins. "Stop it, you're making it very hard for me not to wanna fuck you for real right now."
"Here's the deal," you say, "I'll show you where I live this weekend. You tell me what your favorite fruit is, because that's a soul searching question. At that point we'll know each other better... and I'll be fair game."
He bites his lip. "I feel like I've known you forever."
"Yeah. Me too."
Just then, there's a knock at the bedroom door. Startled, you sit up quickly, and who you can only assume to be Brian's mom pops her head in. "When the fuck did you two get home?!" Brian blurts.
"About five minutes ago, honey. Don't worry, we didn't hear anything. Jeordie called, said he 'left the smoke bomb under the urinals.' I hope you aren't getting up to trouble like the last school, your father had a heck of a time getting you into this one.”
“Mom.”
“He had to switch jobs too, and with his back, you know how difficult long drives can be. Oh, how rude of me-- hello sweetie, you can call me Barb."
"Mom--"
"Brian, is this the sweet thing you had that dream about the other night?"
"MOM!"
“Hugh, Brian’s got a girlfriend over, we should turn the TV up to give them a little privacy.”
“GIRLFRIEND?!” a voice calls up, “GOOD ON YA, SON. THAT’S MY BOY!”
“Jesus fucking Christ...” Brian groans, burying his face in a pillow. You laugh so hard into his chest you nearly tumble off his bed. Most dangerous guy in school, your ass.
Synopsis: You wear a Rob Zombie dress to your boyfriend's double headliner concert. This article of clothing has a certain effect on him, and it’s not good.
Notes: Heaven Upside Down era! I just banged this one out fast (that's what she said) and figured it's passable enough to post. Takes place in the same timeline as "Just For Me." Enjoy the light dom/sub jealous!Manson quickie! ALSO HAVE YOU SEEN HIS NEW HAIR FROM THE OSCARS PARTY???
His eyes meet yours through the mirror as he shadows his eyes. You can tell immediately upon your entrance into the room that he’s not pleased, and you can’t wait to hear why this time.
"What's that?"
You look at your boyfriend, to see where he's looking now. His eyes are on your clothing. "What do you think it is? It's a dress."
"Don’t need your attitude. Is that really what you're wearing? For the show?"
You sigh. He always has a way of making you feel special. "Yes." You spin around in your black and red dress, adorned with symbols, splatters and big "Rob Zombie" logos on it. "I think it's perfect, since you're playing the show with Rob, Twins of Evil, yada yada."
"I'm sure Rob’s going to love that," Manson says in a low voice, and the undertone of irritation does not go unnoticed by you. He sucks in his cheekbones to dust them with a powder puff of blue, and you dissect the darkness in his eyes. You can’t say you didn’t know this was going to happen, when you wore a dress with his co-headliner’s name all over it. You know how possessive your boyfriend can get.
Provoking? Of course that’s not what you’re trying to do...
You smirk, walking over to smooth your hands down his chest. "Jealous?"
"I’m not jealous. But you've got his name emblazoned over your tits."
"And whose tits are they?"
"Mine."
"The correct answer there would have been "yours," but the jury will accept it."
Manson grumbles some more. "When did you even get it?"
"I ordered it."
"With my money?"
"Look, I'm supporting my friend. He's in the band."
"In case you don't remember, Ginger was my drummer for 15 years."
"Well, he's not anymore. What do you want me to say?! I'm not gonna wear a dress with you on it! I've got you on my body every other night of the year, I don't need it tonight."
"You don't think I'm going to fuck the shit out of you tonight?"
"Not at the rate you're going," you tease.
“Watch yourself.”
“Make me.” It’s a clear invitation, up in the air.
Manson looks like he's about to literally growl, but turns back to finish his makeup, sulk, and down his three "complimentary" glasses of stadium beer. It’s not worth it to start anything with you ten minutes til showtime, and you have to say, you’re disappointed he doesn’t make a sport of it.
When your boyfriend goes out on stage first, Zombie's band comes in through the backstage, along with your best friend from when you two worked in Vegas together. "Kenny!" you grin, jumping into his arms. He picks you up in a hug, that drummer strength useful in boosting you up.
"Ah, (y/n)! Glad you could come on this leg of the tour. I was so excited when I heard we were playing with Manson again, couldn't wait to see you."
"We're definitely meeting under calmer circumstances this time," you smile, arms wrapped around him tight.
He laughs, remembering all the backstage shenanigans from the late 90s touring days with you along for the ride. "Yeah, it's much more chill with Twiggy and Pogo gone. And Manson's toned down a little I guess."
You cock your head. "In a manner of speaking."
"It's kind of nice. It's like we've grown up, you know?"
"I don't think Manson will ever grow up," you laugh. Ginger pulls away to look at your dress, finally noticing it.
"That's super cool... what did he think of it?"
You giggle. "What do you think he thought of it?"
Ginger shakes his head, remembering the fiery look of pure rage his ex boss had given that one guy from the pit at that one concert in 1999. The guy’s never gonna change, I swear.”
Rob comes in, punching the air. "Ready to fucking ROCK!?”
"Totally!" John calls from a distant room.
"Woah," Rob says, "You must be (y/n). Ginger's told me all about you."
"All bad?"
"Jesus, yeah. Heard about the time you got plowed on stage in '99. Typical Manson. Cool dress." Rob looks at your outfit. "Really cool. Hey, what's up with your bf?"
"What? What about him?"
"He's crashing and burning out there. Crowd's pissed, whiiiich means I'm gonna have to save the show."
"Shit..."
"Bad day?"
You sigh, and walk out to the wing. Rob's right. The crowd is practically rioting, and they're not the only ones who are pissed. Manson seems to be out of his mind, singing Kill4Me with a particularly hard edge and apparently a version that skips every third lyric. He then launches into an overly aggressive rendition of The Beautiful People.
You know exactly what this is about.
Rob jostles your shoulder as he prepares to go out, wishing you luck when you should really be the one wishing him luck. Ginger gives you a low five, and you take a deep breath as Manson comes stumbling off stage, makeup trailing down his face and neck from the water he always spits upward.
"Could you be anymore of a child about this whole thing?" you demand, crossing your arms. He points a wavering finger at you, letting the security carry him properly toward the hall.
"Don't. Even."
"Oh, don't what? Don't what? I can't wear a dress now?"
"Wear whatever the fuck you want, I don't care." Piggy D hurries between you two awkwardly to run out on stage.
"You are being such an asshole."
"Whatever. You wanna misinterpret how I... what I'm..."
"I know you, you're jealous."
He shoves the security off, coming back over. "I'm not fucking jealous."
"It's a dress. What, you think I wanna fuck Rob?!"
This time, he does growl. His tall, imposing form advances on you, and despite his debauched appearance, the intense darkness in his eyes is unmistakable for anything other than hunger. Real fear flickers through you for a split second.
"Wanna try that, little girl? Hm?" You shiver, breath quickening, but you've known your boyfriend for far too long, and you're not about to back down now. You want him hard and fast, and it’s your turn to get him back for making you wait.
"Maybe I do," you whisper defiantly. That does it. He tears the straps on your dress. You moan, letting him reach in and grab your thighs, and lift you against the wall with ease, pinning you there.
"You want me to drag you out on that stage, and fuck you in front of the crowd again?”
“You only teased me in front of the crowd,” you have the nerve to reply, “You never actually fucked me out there in front of anyone.” Manson holds you by the neck as he roughly marks you down your jawbone.
“That’s because you're mine," he mutters, hurrying to get his dick out, "You're fucking mine. Only person gets to see these tits, see this pussy? Is me." He leans in to hiss: “Only one who gets to see you gush is me.”
You can't protest, caught up in a rush of arousal as his stage pants rub dangerously close to your clit. You grind your hips forward, desperately seeking his touch. You’ve never wanted him so bad, his stupid fucking feral expression covered in pink and blue gloss driving you wild.
"Fuck me," you gasp, not stopping to wonder if the roadies were around or minding their own business.
"Oh, I'm going to, baby," Manson whispers, finally getting himself out of his briefs, "You need to remember who you fuckin' belong to." He tugs your hair back sharply, and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. You scream from the shock of it, and wetness starts to drip down your thigh.
"Ah," you hiss, pussy clenching desperately to be filled, "Do it again."
Manson bites down your flesh to the tips of your nipples, leaving pink marks across your chest. He reaches up, letting your leg fall slightly as he slips two fingers inside you.
You gasp again, louder this time over the beat of Rob performing Superbeast, and clutch tighter to your handsy boyfriend. He comes back up to suck your neck, nipping slightly at the sensitive spots where he marked you before.
"Fuck me, come on," you chant, “Fuck me like you did that day.” He grabs you again by the neck, dragging you in for a rough, sloppy kiss. A hard pound, and your back hits the wall in rhythm with his body. He doesn't wait for you to adjust, and you both know you don't need him to. He slides in deep, with you very ready to take him, and he pulls back easily before thrusting back in harder, the weight of his body pounding against you heightening the thrusts. His belt buckle jangles with his every movement.
"How much do you love this cock?”
“I love it, I want it--”
“Can Zombie do this?"
"No--"
"Could he make you cum like this?"
You whine. "Only you can make me cum."
"That's right. Don't ever forget it, or I’ll fucking remind you again." He kisses you again, all sloppy tongue, and your hair falls forward between you two as he puts every ounce of effort into bouncing you on his cock. He thrusts one more time with a low grunt, and the pain in your scalp as he tugs again sends you over the edge into a much needed climax. He freezes too, deep inside of you, and you feel him finish.
Manson lets you down, groaning as he rubs the sweat and shiny makeup off his face. Adrenaline shooting through him from both his show and the sex, he’s spoiling for a fight as was usual in these moods. He glares at a stage tech who had been coiling ropes. “Fuck you staring at?” The poor guy looks down in terror, carrying on with his job. Yep, Ginger was right, you think with a smile. He’s never gonna change. No matter how long it’s been, he’s still the same Manson you’re stuck with.
Manson zips up his pants again and unbuttons his restricting black stage vest. Breathless and rubbing your hands around and down your boyfriend’s chest, you pout at your ruined dress in the mirror, straps dangling down your arms.
"Look what you did to the dress, baby.”
“Looks better this way. Now you can’t see his name, you can just see your tits,” he smiles lazily, sucking on his bottom lip lasciviously.
“You’re a dirty old man, always looking at my tits.”
“What am I supposed to do? They’re tits, they’re attached to your chest, and I think you’re hot.”
You hide your flushed smile as you turn your nose up, sighing for show. “You do realize it's not normal that the best sex we have is when you're jealous."
"Since when are we normal?" He looks at you through the mirror, tired and grinning. "And I told you. I'm not fucking jealous."
You and Me and The Devil Makes 3 - Marilyn Manson x Brian Warner x Reader [Smut] - Part II
Synopsis: Both you and Brian can’t get the substitute teacher off your mind. Thankfully, Brian needs some extra help before an upcoming exam, and your regular teacher still hasn’t come back.
Notes: Long ass title. Anyway, someone asked for a sequel, so here’s more filthy Mancest ft you! IT’S FILTHY! We could all use the porn.
Part One
You bring your lips to your boyfriend’s, lazily making out after an hour of stressing the springs in his mattress.
A KISS record plays in the corner of his room. The afternoon sun seeps in over the countless Judas Priest and Nine Inch Nails posters all over the walls through the blinds that you’ve kept unturned. Both of you like the thrill of knowing Brian’s Christian neighbors might see you and your “filthy sex acts” again. Barb, Brian’s mother, hadn’t been too pleased after receiving that phone call, but Brian’s dad Hugh found it quite funny.
His parents liked you, called you a sweet girl. They don’t know much about Brian, and they don’t make much of an effort to—they know he’s into some dark music and he has a band, but they don’t know he’s interested in guys too, and they don’t know how far he wants to take his musical persona.
You’re also anything but sweet, but Barb and Hugh are well meaning, and you love them to death, always appreciative of the cake Barb feeds you when you visit the house. You think the two of them have some kind of idea that since Brian is almost finished high school, he’d take you somewhere and settle down with you. Neither of you want to settle down, but as far as either of you have shared, you have no plans of breaking up after grad.
You move your kisses down to Brian’s neck, and he keens under the attention, before reaching up to pull you back to his lips.
“I want you again,” you whisper, and Brian stares up at you.
“We just went four times, you brat.”
“But I’m horny.”
“And I’m soft, roll offa me. Gonna have to… watch some porn or something to get hard again…”
“This is better than porn,” you grin, unhooking your bra, and he pauses in his act of drinking down his bedside water glass, smiling too.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he laughs, and smoothes his hands up your rib cage to cup your breasts and fondle them. You lean down to drag them against his bare chest, and his hands move down to once again get himself ready to fuck again.
“So. We gonna talk about what happened on Friday?”
Brian’s breath hitches as he jacks himself to hardness again. “Do you want to?”
“I certainly think it raises some new… things, that we’re both obviously into.” Brian flushes a little, and you grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Hey. You know you can be comfy with me.”
Brian nods, thrusting up into you finally with a hiss. “It was hot… the stuff he did.”
“I know,” you breathe, shuddering as you slide back down over him, “I just wanted the two of you to double team me forever.”
“So is this a thing, then?” Brian whispers, “Like, a third person?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, “We could explore a polyamorous relationship. But for now, I’m okay with secret threesomes involving hot teachers.”
“You think he’s still there?”
“I think before he left on Friday, he mentioned he’d be around for another week. Mrs. Nordman wasn’t just hungover, she had the flu or something. Why?”
“I mean… we’ve got that English exam coming up soon.”
You smile. “We could use the extra help, hm?” He groans at that, pushing up into you harder, and you tilt your head back, riding him into his bed.
---
At school on Monday, you meet Brian at the front doors. He’s standing with Daisy, waiting for his friend to finish smoking, and doodling something on his hand. You see it’s a bunch of needles and lollipops.
“You know, you should’ve been an artist,” you smile, taking his hand.
“I am an artist. Different kind.”
Pogo approaches, swinging himself up onto the railing. “Morning, you sad fucks. How’re the losers today?”
“Depressed,” Daisy answers.
“Good to hear. I myself am in a fucking marvelous mood, seeing as I banged not one, not two-- but THREE chicks this weekend at a college tit party. THE MAD CLOWN HITS HOME AGAIN!” He lets loose his usual flurry of crazy laughter, the sound that could tell anybody the bald student was coming from a mile away.
“How’d you manage that?” Brian mutters, amused.
“Sorry, Mr. Big Dick, some girls have refined taste, unlike (y/n) or Mr. Manson in there, don’t argue, I know you fucked him.” He pauses his manic rocking, leaning forward. “I also told them I was in a wildly successful rock band.”
“There’s the kicker,” you nod.
“I did not fuck Mr. Manson,” Brian protests. Everyone turns to look at him, and he smirks your way. “He fucked me.” Laughter erupts.
“No smoking on school property, you goth weirdos,” some kiss-ass cheerleader snaps as she walks past, and Pogo catapults Brian’s pen at her head.
“We’re gonna be late, hurry up.” Brian nudges Daisy.
“This is my last one, and I’m too broke to afford another pack until I get my next paycheck,” Daisy complains, savouring another drag.
“Here, lemme have a puff,” Pogo says, motioning for it. Daisy passes it over, and Pogo flicks it into the grass, pulling everyone inside. “Problem solved!”
You giggle as Daisy shakes his head, and all of you turn when you hear screaming. There’s Jeordie, running toward the school like an idiot.
“I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna make it!” he’s shouting, then the bell goes. He tosses his backpack to the ground, kicking it. “SHIT!”
---
It’s an uneventful Monday, until the last class. When you get in and sit down, Mr. Manson is at the front of the class already, writing the day’s class plan out. Today, he’s dressed in a black button up, with a black vest over top of black pants. His hair is brushed back in a fairly respectable style, and… he turns around. His lips today are a soft coral pink, with black and blue eyeshadow. Brian stares at him, in awe once again at the man’s swaggering confidence and style. Why is it that with bisexuality, it’s always a question of if he wanted to be the other guy, or be in the other guy? Or have the guy in him, as the case may be.
“Alright. Before we start, does anyone have any questions about today’s makeup?” Manson’s tone is playful, and a light titter of laughter comes from the students. He grins. “Alright. You sure?” More laughter. “Okay. Today, we’ll be covering a new chapter of literary theory, and applying it to the first act of Hamlet.”
His dark eyes sweep the classroom as he marks off attendance, and when they come to rest on you, he looks up. “Is there a reason why you and Miss (y/l/n) were late today, Mr. Warner?” Your entire friend group looks at the two of you. Your boyfriend just shrugs.
“Yeah, there was a reason.” You raise an eyebrow right back with a smirk, and Brian leaves it at that. You’re surprised when Manson accepts this without a cheeky little order to see him after class, but that’s fine. Brian has an excuse to see him anyway.
While Mr. Manson is talking, Brian writes out some lyrics for a new song he and the Spooky Kids have been working on. He nudges you, and taps the paper, which has a verse written out.
VCRs and Vaseline
TV fucked by plastic queens
Cash in hand and dick on screen
(who said god was ever clean)
He’s drawn a big question mark under it, so you give a little check mark on the paper, with the note:
Hot.
“I know this shit is boring, but pay attention,” Manson says from the front of the classroom, glaring daggers at you two.
“Imagine that lipstick all over my naked body,” you whisper in his ear. Brian glares at you.
“Stop trying to get me hard in class.”
“Why?” you tease.
“Cause it’s fucking working.”
“Do you one of you guys have an eraser?” Jeordie whispers (far too loudly) from behind you. You pass him back yours, and look at him sternly.
“Don’t pick it apart like you did all my other ones.”
“What did I just say?” Manson snaps from the front of the class.
“We were just—!” you try to protest.
“No talking. Last warning.”
You and Brian exchange looks. He’s in a mood today, and you can’t wait to see how the two of you can test him even more after class.
When the class is finished, you all wait until the rest of the students are gone. Pogo looks back at you two from the door, making obscene blow job gestures. Mr. Manson doesn’t look up from the desk.
“Did you need something, Mr. Bier?”
“Not me!” Pogo snickers, dashing off to go catch up with Daisy and Jeordie.
“Mr. Manson?” Brian asks, “I need a little bit of help with studying for the upcoming exam. I dedicate a lot of time to my band, and… don’t study as much as I should.”
“Mm. And (y/n)? You just gonna watch your boyfriend... ask for help?” Manson asks.
“I might learn a few things too, by sticking around,” you say, and lean forward against your desk. Manson’s eyes roam down to your cleavage, and he closes his book, getting up. He walks over to the door, locks it, and comes back over.
“The English exam. Yeah. As you know, I don’t know much about your curriculum, or really, about the exam itself.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t try to help us out,” you say. “Please sir? We really need help.” Mr. Manson looks at you, blue and black shadow making his hooded eyes seem supernatural.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Brian walks over to his desk, chin jutted out in confidence that will be lost as soon as Manson looks him in the eye. Sure enough, when the substitute gives your boyfriend one of his looks up and down, sweeping his entire body as if he’s a meal about to be devoured, Brian shudders. But he’s not about to lose his cool.
“See… I don’t get the whole psychoanalytic theory,” Brian says, putting the book down in front of Mr. Manson, “I don’t see how it applies to Hamlet.”
“Of course you pick the Freudian thing.” He sighs. “Well first, you have to understand psychoanalysis.” Manson looks over to you pointedly. “I’m sure you know all about Freud and his phallic symbols. You two had a lot of fun drawing them on your notes last Friday.”
Brian laughs a little at that. Wrong move. Manson gets up, and in one quick stride, he has your boyfriend pushed down and bent over the desk, ass up.
“What the fuck?” Brian mutters, but you can hear the whine at the end of his protest. Your legs rub together as your finger grazes your lower lip… you want to see how this turns out.
“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” Manson says slowly, “I’m gonna help you two, since you fuck around in class all the time and never pay attention.” He leans in close to Brian, and your boyfriend glares up at him for holding him in such a vulnerable position. Manson just smirks, and gets out a ruler from the desk. “Our angel over there is gonna answer some questions of mine, baby. Got it?”
“What do you—?” A sharp slap echoes, as Manson hits the desk with the ruler hard.
“You say yes sir, and no sir, or this desk will be that pretty little ass. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” Brian breathes, laying his face down on the desk. You raise an eyebrow, spreading your legs just a bit.
“You really have enough confidence in me that I know these answers?” you grin.
“Nah. I’m counting on you not knowing a single one, baby girl,” Manson smiles, and traces the ruler up Brian’s back. “But try your best. He’s counting on you.” Manson gets the ruler ready again. "Tell me what the basis of psychoanalytic theory is."
"It's a theory that draws from psychoanalyzing the behavior of the characters in the... in the story," you say, eyes trained on Brian.
"Good start," Manson nods, rubbing his hand up Brian's back, "Saved you this time, sweetheart." Brian makes a noise, akin to a moan, and Manson looks at you again, expectantly, from the depths of that eyeshadow. "What are some examples?"
"There's... a response to modern day literature from a new and improved perspective."
"Wrong," Manson says, "That's postmodernism."
“Aw. Guess that must’ve slipped my mind.” You shift in your seat, reaching down to touch yourself. Manson sees this out of the corner of his eye, and lifts his chin.
"Mr. Warner?"
Brian obediently pulls down his leggings just enough. Not satisfied with this, Manson pulls them down to his knobby knees, and hits him hard with the ruler. Brian's hips rut against the desk, and your pussy clenches as you rub faster circles.
"Again, sir," Brian whimpers.
"You want another one?" Manson asks.
"Yes, sir."
"(y/n)... your boy here's a bit of a slut."
"I'd have to agree," you grin, head rolling back as a moan is drawn from your throat.
"I guess I should know that by now. Have you ever tried fucking him?"
Brian's breath hitches, and you think about this. "He's never asked."
"Imagine how that'd feel, hm?" the teacher whispers in Brian's ear, "Her fingers inside of you... filling you up. You like that?"
"Fuck, fuck," Brian groans, hips pushing forward against the desk. He's painfully hard.
"Gonna cum in your pants?” Manson rasps.
“No...” Brian clenches his jaw. “Ugh...”
“What if she fucked you with three fingers? Spreading this perfect ass wide open?" he continues to tease, snarling, "What if I did? You like the pain, don't you? It turns you on." Manson spanks him again, harder, and you can see the red imprint he’s left.
"Yeah..." Brian moans, his usual grumble raising in pitch. "I want you both to fuck me."
"First, you get to watch." Mr. Manson looks over to you, and beckons. You make a show of teasing back, mouthing 'me?' Before Manson has a chance to threaten, you stand, walking over to the teacher. He stands a full few feet taller than you, the height difference still as hot as it was in the washroom the other day. He takes you by the shoulders, and brings his lips to yours. The kiss is sloppy and heated. You moan, sliding your hand down to cup his cock through his black slacks. You can feel the hefty erection respond to your touch, but you want to feel it inside you, fucking you. Brian watches, and reaches down to give himself some relief.
"Ah ah," you break away from the kiss to say, "Someone's being naughty." Brian shoots you a glare for ratting him out, and you blow your boyfriend a kiss as Manson turns to look at him.
"Do I have to tie you up, baby boy? Or can you stop those hands from wandering, hmm?" Hearing that in Manson's deep growl is such a turn on. You pull him back to you.
"Let him stay like that. If you spank him again, he's gonna cum all over the desk."
"Disgusting," Manson chastises, licking his lips, "Filthy filthy, Mr. Warner."
"At least I didn't take out my cock in class and start stroking it for you to see," Brian mouths off.
"I'm sure you would've loved to do that," you smirk, going back to stroking Mr. Manson through his pants.
"Mm. Yeah. Bet you would’ve loved to take it out, show everyone how hard you were. How ready you were for your girlfriend and your fucking teacher to take turns on you.”
"I..." Brian groans.
"Use your words, slut."
"Yeah," he breathes, "I might... I don't know, get embarrassed, but--"
"Sluts don't get embarrassed," Manson says sharply. "Besides, as a big rock and roll singer, I'd imagine that you do much worse onstage. Or am I wrong?”
“Tell him all the shit you've done onstage," you moan.
Brian shifts his hips, recalling everything he'd done during a show. Mr. Manson was right-- when he was onstage, it was as if he became a different person. A persona. Someone darker, maniacal even. Someone who's willing to do anything.
"I've fucked (y/n) onstage," he growls. "Fucked her til her tight little cunt couldn't take it anymore."
Mr. Manson takes his cock out of his pants, starts stroking it himself as you lay back on a desk in front of him. You watch his cockhead disappear in his fist with every stroke, licking your lips.
"What else?"
"I stripped her down naked in front of everyone... and ate her pussy."
"Oh god," you whine, picturing that night. You had both been so high you had forgotten there was even an audience.
"That must have felt good." Manson looks to you.
"It did. It did, and I love it," you murmur, glancing down to your exposed breasts, "Just like him. I wanna be filled by you, sir. Just like Brian fills me up."
Brian rolls his hips against the desk as Mr. Manson slots himself between your legs, dragging his cock between the folds of your pussy. "So fuckin' wet. It'll be so easy to get into you, baby girl."
"Please, Mr. Manson," you moan, “I need you.”
"Fuck her," Brian gasps out, "She's such a fucking cockslut, she needs it." You nod. Manson reaches his hand up to cup one of your breasts as he slides in, filling you to the hilt.
"Oh god," you manage out, hands grabbing at the edges of the small desk. Manson’s cock isn’t as long as Brian’s, but it’s thicker, so thick you can feel the pain of the stretch.
"Fuck," Brian whines, watching Manson pull out almost fully then pound back into you. He’s frustrated—he can’t touch himself, and his cock is heavy and weeping against the desk. He could cum from any little touch at this point.
"If you even think about touching your cock, the punishment will be unimaginable," Manson growls to your brat of a boyfriend. Brian groans in complaint, resting his head against the desk as he continues to rock his hips and watch. "Tell me more about how you fuck (y/n)," Manson says, thrusting in hard. The desk skids back a couple of inches, and you gasp. "Ah, nope. The principal could still walk by, baby girl. Don't want him to hear the three of us acting out our own little porno, do you?"
"No, sir."
"No. That's right. Mr. Warner? You were saying?"
"I fuck her all the time," Brian says, words tumbling out of his mouth as he loses his grip. "We fuck between classes, before class, after class. She always wants my dick.”
"Yeah?" Mr. Manson asks, humming low in his chest. "Seems like you just can't get satisfied baby, hm?"
"I get satisfied," you reply, grinding your hips down obscenely, "I just love his cock so much that I want it all the time. I love feeling full."
"Why don't we make good and sure you're nice and full then?" Manson beckons Brian over, not stopping his thrusts for a second. Brian’s surprised for a moment that he gets to move or do anything, but quickly complies. Manson’s belt jangles as he grunts, balls slapping your ass. "Give our baby girl a mouthful."
Your eyes light up, and Brian's lips quirk up. He loves watching you get used, and being a part of it is almost too much for him. He stands, and gets over top of your face, willing himself not to blow the minute he pushes between your pretty pink lips.
"Lemme see that nice cock, baby boy," Manson rasps. His breath hitches when Brian strokes his fist all the way up the length, over the head, and back down. "Mmm, perfect. Give her some, she looks thirsty."
"Take it, baby," Brian whispers, biting his lip as he smacks his cock against your lips, "C'mon, you know you want it."
"You know her safe word?" Manson mutters. Brian nods. You open wide for your boyfriend, and he slides his cock into your mouth, stopping before it hits the back of your throat. He raises his eyebrows down to you, and you nod again, feverishly. It's almost too much, the older man fucking you into the desk so hard and your boyfriend using your mouth to get off. But you love the thrill, and you're getting closer to your climax every second.
"You're doing so good," Mr. Manson says to you, stroking down your pelvic bone to caress your stomach, your clit, down to your inner thighs. Your hips buck. "Shhh. Taking us so good, sweetheart."
"Isn't it "so well?' You are an English teacher, right?" Brian asks, grinning. Mr. Manson shoots him a look daring to go any further with that. Brian knows his place, casting his eyes downward.
"You like to piss people off, don’t you?" Manson asks.
"Yeah. It's part of my, uh... my thing."
"Your thing right now is to quit being a smart ass, fuck your girlfriend's mouth, and do what your told."
Brian sucks his cheekbones in, biting his bottom lip hard as he feels his cock throb. "Yes, sir!" He gives a sarcastic mock salute with a big dumb grin, and that does it.
"Back over the desk."
"What?!" Brian's eyebrows furrow angrily.
"You heard me. Get back. Over. The desk. Now."
Brian whines, and removes himself from your mouth. As he's walking back over though, the fearless streak continues. He fondles Mr. Manson's bare ass as he walks by, clucking his tongue. "Damn, daddy. Great ass, for an old man."
You smirk, knowing it'll get a rise out of the teacher. But he just goes back to fucking you-- albeit much faster.
"Oh... oh yeah. Oh god," you hiss, trying still to keep it as quiet as possible. Mr. Manson's short black hair falls from his coiffed mohawk and into his eyes as he starts to get close. "I'm gonna fucking cum," you moan, tits bouncing in your bra. Manson pushes in one more time, and you cum hard on his cock, mouth falling open.
He pulls out of you when you're finished, and Brian comes over, kneeling down and taking Mr. Manson's cock into his mouth. He suckles for a few seconds, then takes him down all the way as the older man shudders, buries his fingers into your boyfriend's hair, and cums down his throat. Brian swallows, blinking up at the teacher, and Mr. Manson looks down at him, at the teenager’s painfully swollen cock resting on his thigh.
"You've been a good boy," he mumbles, “Helped daddy cum. I think you deserve something.” Brian's eyes flutter shut, and Manson strokes his cheek. With a gasp from the touch alone, Brian suddenly cums untouched all over his leg and the floor. You watch him convulse through every wave of his orgasm, then rest back on his hands when he finishes.
Manson sits on the edge of his desk, and you stand, helping Brian clean up. He runs a hand through his long black hair, and fiddles his tongue against his lip ring.
"You know... you should come check out the Spooky Kids in concert sometime."
Manson runs a hand through his hair, making sure he looks his best-- comfortably disheveled. "Your band?"
"Yeah. You were in a band yourself, weren't you?" Brian smirks.
“Yeah.”
"As long as you bring some good, uh... you know, nose candy-- gotta make the sacrificial offerings to the band-- then feel free to show up."
“He doesn’t do nose candy, bring some ring pops and lollipops and that’ll be more than sufficient,” you say, rolling your eyes.
“What makes you think I've got drugs on me anyway?" Manson deadpans. "I'm a fuckin' high school English teacher." Brian stares at the debauched man with lipstick smeared down his chin and hair standing up from all angles. Manson bursts into what can only be described as giggles. "Yeah. Well, I’m not about to give my drugs away to a group of 18 year old musicians. Then you’d turn out just like me.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Brian teases, tugging slightly at the silver skull brooch on Manson’s lapel. Manson strokes his knuckles.
“If I'm still in town, I'll see if I can make it to a show. You seem like you’d be good. Like you’ve got rock star in your blood.” It’s as if Brian’s whole body blushes—it’s freaking cute you think, as you fix your hair. “--But only if I get to come backstage with the rest of the groupies."
"Oh," you smile, approaching to fix Mr. Manson’s black tie, "We'll be waiting for you."
“Who else is in this band?” Manson asks out of curiosity. “Anyone else from this class?”
“Stephen, Scott, Jeordie. Another kid named Freddy, doesn’t go here.”
“Bier is crazy enough to be in a band, I’d believe that. Putesky, that’s interesting. He doesn’t seem the type. He seems like he’d be the type to yell at people like you to turn the music down.”
Brian nods, “Yeah, we tell him that all the time. He looks like someone’s grandpa. He shreds on the guitar, though, you’d be surprised. So does Jeordie.”
Manson huffs, getting his bag together, “Jeordie? That doesn’t surprise me as much.” The substitute teacher lets you two out of the classroom, and checks the time. 4 PM now. “Well. I hope you feel ready for the exam. I didn’t do shit to help you, but...”
“We got what we needed to,” you say, fixing your skirt with a small smile.
“Good. Cause I think you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’ll happen if you get a fuckin’ F.”
Synopsis: You know Manson from one (1) party, yet he feels the need to drunk text you his obscene propositions at 2 am on a Wednesday?
Notes: What?? I wrote a fluff fic?? Yea, it’s been known to happen. Shhh. Pale Emperor era. Also, this one is gender neutral, reader can be any gender!
You collapse into the plush of your down comforter, feeling the fluffy feathers sink beneath you. Smiling to yourself, you clear the day away in your brain, bulldozing over every worry, publicity problem, or stressed manager that could be dealt with the next day. For now, you’re in your bed, and nothing can come between you and a peaceful night’s sleep.
You cuddle into your pillow. The feeling you’ve got right now is comparable to a the perfect orgasm-- you never want to leave this bed. Your mind starts to drift, and you picture yourself on a beach somewhere, where no one can reach you. No one... no one... except that bee buzzing in your ear.
Groggily, you open your eyes. That’s not a bee. It’s your phone.
Dammit, why didn’t you put it on silent? You go to turn it off properly, but the text on your screen makes you hesitate. You blink a few times, squinting through the dark at your phone. Were you reading that right?!
Manson: Hey (y/n) psssst. I’ve got a secret can I tell you the secret
“What the fuck?” you mumble out loud, and sigh, turning on your bedside lamp. Manson? What... oh. Oh, yeah. About two months ago, you had attended a music awards event in New York, and had met a few new people. One of them had been Marilyn Manson. He had been a lot more down to earth than you had imagined he would be, and the two of you hit it off pretty well.
It struck you as interesting as well, but he had followed you around that night like a lost puppy. He always wanted to be around you, and it had been him who had suggested you exchange numbers, maybe hang out, go see a movie or something. You had excitedly given him your number, but didn’t think much would come of it. He probably got lots of people’s numbers, then forgot about them the next week.
So why was he texting you at... 2:13 in the morning?! You stare at the same text again.
Manson: Hey (y/n) psssst. I’ve got a secret can I tell you the secret
You bite your lip, and type out a quick text back.
(y/n): Shoot.
His reply is almost immediate.
Manson: I wanted to say when I saw you and we hung out at radio city last month you were cute really sexy n beautiful ad I miss you :( :(
You blush a little bit, but type back a cautious text.
(y/n): You feeling alright?
Before you can hit send though, another text from him comes in.
Manson: If you think I am drunk and handsome you are correct, i’m both
You giggle a little, and sit up fully. Manson’s drunk texting you, telling you you’re cute? This couldn’t get any crazier if you made it up.
Manson: Do you know what sexting is?
You raise your eyebrows.
(y/n): I’m familiar with it, yes.
You bite your lip. Should you add a winky face? Before you can, he writes back.
Manson: what if i told you I wanted to lick your body ad probably do butt stuff with you too?
You feel yourself heat up even more, and you don’t know whether to laugh or get aroused.
(y/n): You fucking with me, Manson?
Manson: I would like to fuck you, yes.
(y/n): So... tell me more, then. What else would you do to me?
Manson: Id cum on your chest
Manson: oops was that too far?
(y/n): No... go on.
Manson: maybe on your face then if you want that, I wanna be respectful
Manson: I’d also punish your sex hole. i’m really good at that
(y/n): You sound like a porn bot lol
Manson: dirty old man in your area looking for hot singles <3 that looks like a pointy dick
You giggle, and are about to sign off so you can sleep for real, but he texts again with something that makes you pause.
Manson: Wanna cum over?
You stare at the text, waiting to see if he’ll write again. You wait, and wait. Nothing else is coming in. You type out a few possible responses. Then you finally hit send on your last one, biting your lip.
(y/n): What’s your address?
Shit. Shit shit! What are you doing? Looking back at your bed though, you can’t deny you feel a thrill. This is the shit you moved here to LA to do.
---
Pulling up to Manson’s address, the place is just like him-- not what you were expecting. It’s a dark apartment above a liquor store, with black out curtains covering the window. You walk over to the stairs, and catch the door when someone walks out. Heading inside, you look down at your phone, and find his number. Apartment 15.
You knock softly, and wait. When he doesn’t come to the door, you shoot him off another text.
(y/n): I’m at your door, don’t leave me hanging or I’ll leave you with a hard on
He doesn’t respond, and you hear a moan inside. You frown, and try the door handle-- it’s open. You walk in, forgetting momentarily where you are, and see that the place is a relative mess. Piles high of books, records and movies are stacked along the walls, and there’s like, one dying plant by the darkened window. It’s laughable to assume the poor thing gets any sun, which is also a statement that could be applied to the rock star you’d come to sleep with.
A bunch of album artwork for his new record, the Pale Emperor, is laid out on his table as well. You take a quick glance at it, before dropping your jacket.
“Hey,” you call out, “I’m taking my top off! You’re gonna miss it if you don’t come find me!” You hear the moan again, and walk down the hallway. “Oh, fuck.”
“’M alright...” He’s on the floor, in a puddle, four small cats surrounding him. One rusty colored one is lapping from the puddle. Was this a Jimmi Hendrix situation???
“Please don’t tell me that’s piss,” you mutter, “Cause I am not cleaning that up.”
One of his four cats meows loudly. Manson just laughs. “It’s vodka. I slipped and broke the bottle.”
“That I can clean up,” you nod, but first, you help him to his feet. He wobbles a little, and falls into you. Pinned against the wall, his lips are inches from yours... until his head thumps beside yours, lips pressed into your neck. He’s so fucking gone. You look around, and spot the washroom down the hall the other way. You help him slowly, and he keeps talking the whole way.
“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mumbles, “My brain camera remembered you were hot but I didn’t remember you being this hot... mmhm...”
“You still down to fuck me?” you tease, helping him sit on the edge of his bathtub. His eyes widen a bit as he licks his lips and points a swaying finger.
“Baby I was born ready to fuck. I came out of the womb with an erection.”
You cringe. “That’s... a very disturbing mental image.”
“You know what else is disturbing? My DICK.” He frowns a little, nose scrunching up. “But not for... it’s not disturbing, it’s just disturbing how big it is... or...”
“Stop, you’re turning me on,” you smirk sarcastically, and get a towel, dabbing his face down with cool water. “How does that feel?”
“Oh baby, you feel so good, fuck,” he moans, and you blink. God damn, he really is wasted.
“Good to hear.” You plant a kiss on his cheek as you sponge down his arms, and he purrs like a big happy cat, nuzzling into your chest.
“Do that again?” You smile, and lean in, kissing him again, this time closer to his mouth. Then you kiss him again, and again, each one earning more praise from the god of fuck before you. “Mm yeah-- oh yeah-- yeah yeah, right there-- yeah yeah right there...” He grins, eyes closing. “Mmm, delightful.” He blinks up at you, swiping a hand across his smudged eyeliner. “Will you... be my friend?”
“Sure. Friends to lovers is always a fun way to go.” He seems genuinely happy with this. “You know, you’re sexy too,” you say, helping him take his shirt off. You glance down his chest and stomach at his tattoos, trying to focus on the project at hand instead of actually picturing riding him right now. “I thought so the night I met you at Radio City, and I think so now.”
“Really?” he hums, reaching up in his stupor to put a hand against his chin. He suddenly seems bashful, and realizing how vulnerable he’s made himself, hides half of his face. “Even without my makeup?”
“Definitely. I happen to think you’re beautiful.” He purses his lips.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not! In fact, if you weren’t absolutely shit hammered right now, I’d probably want you balls deep.”
He groans. “Fuck it if I’m drunk, that’s when I’m in my strongest form!” He slips a little, steadying himself on the toilet as he stands.
“I would disagree with that, but...”
“Besides, with all those compliments, you’re... you’re making my dick hard, see? And now it’s... ahh, it’s gonna be mad at me if I don’t... you know, fuck you, so...”
“Shh, for now try to walk straight.”
“Where are my asshole cats?”
“They were all watching you describe your dick to me,” you say, and he wags a finger their way.
“Dooon’t listen to daddy, my loves. Nonono. Bad. This is grown up human people talk!”
You giggle. “You must like cats.”
“I am a cat person, I love cats. That’s why I don’t give it doggy style, cause I’m a cat man. The crazy cat man. That sounds like a serial killer...”
You giggle, and guide him back down the hall. “Where’s the bedroom?” He lifts his chin to gesture to it.
“Last door on the right.” You help him into bed, and he tosses a pillow at a tall vase in the corner, sending it shattering. “Goddamn ghosts in my house, watching me sleep,” he slurs, and points wildly to his closet. “The sex toys are in there, if you wanna get yourself started...”
You smile, politely neglecting the sex closet of the rock star you’d been booty called by. Masturbating in said rock star’s home while he’s passed out shitfaced doesn’t look good for anyone involved.
“Goodnight Manson,” you sing song, and shut his door. Pressing your back against it, you exhale. What just happened?
You carefully walk over to the spilled vodka, and check the shards of glass. Thankfully no blood anywhere-- that would have been even worse to clean up. You grab a rag from the kitchen, and start mopping up the floor. One of his cats walks over from the bathroom, and starts to rub against your ankle.
“Well, hi. What’s your name, love?” You check the tag. “William. Very handsome name. Handsome just like your dad.” You sigh, as William follows you around the apartment. You feel like you shouldn’t be here anymore. It was a mistake-- he was obviously too drunk to do anything to or with you tonight. You should just leave. Yeah. Go back home, forget this ever happened and... maybe check in with him tomorrow morning, see how bad his hangover is. If he responds.
Just as you’re about to leave though, you hear his slurred voice call from the bedroom. “(y/n)--!”
You hesitate, then walk back in, shutting the door. You walk over to his room, and open the door. “Yeah?”
“...Get into bed with me? Please? Wanna hold someone...”
You look behind you, and then to him again, where he’s laying, tangled in his limbs, in the large bed. You nod, and close the door to a crack, coming in. You unzip your hoodie, and before you can come to your senses, you get into one side of his king sized bed. You hear him breathing softly, and smile a little at the sudden intimacy of it all, turning over in fetal position. Not how you expected this night to turn out, but it might be even better.
Just as you’re falling asleep in the bed of the Antichrist, you feel arms wrap around you from behind, and feel his head in the nape of your neck. Beginnings of rare stubble scratch your skin pleasantly.
“This an okay alternative to butt stuff?” he mumbles, and you reach up to hold his wrists against you.
You and Me and The Devil Makes 3 - Marilyn Manson x Brian Warner x Reader [Smut]
Synopsis: Your boyfriend Brian is horny for you all class, but the substitute teacher, Mr. Manson, is onto you two.
Notes: Hear me out-- it was a teacher/student au request that got out of hand in my ask box and turned into Manscest. That is all. Enjoy the shameless filthy threesome with... two of them.
Part Two
You had promised yourself you were going to be a good girl, and focus in class today.
You're less than a model student, and sitting right in front of your boyfriend doesn't help that fact. So today, since there was a test coming up in three days, you had made the productive decision to sit across the room from him. As you all wait for the teacher to arrive, Jeordie plunks down next to you wearing a Bauhaus shirt, hair wild as usual and English books all crumpled and doodled to hell.
"Have you ever seen a turtle take a shit?" he whispers to you. You sigh. So, you wouldn't be getting anything done today either.
Brian glances over at you from the other side of the classroom, pouting. He likes putting on a tough act, but the truth is, he's a needy motherfucker. Pogo's sitting next to him, along with Scott, or Daisy as you all call him, who's probably the only one in your friend group who actually cares about being here. You stick your tongue out at Bri in response, and he gives you the finger. Smiling, you turn back to your blank page, then look at the time. It's 5 minutes after class should have started, and Mrs. Nordman is never late.
Over on the other side of the room, Brian doodles a couple hearts with spirals in them on his page. Pogo looks over his shoulder.
“You gonna start writing out “Brian (y/l/n) beside those hearts, dude?” he grins. Brian glares at him.
“Yeah, right next to you deepthroating a knife.” Defiantly, the eighteen year old draws even bigger hearts, then starts sketching a mutilated corpse.
The door opens, and an unfamiliar face walks in. Everyone keeps chattering loudly as the man walks toward the desk, and still while he writes and underlines his name on the board. He then turns around, and you get a better look at him. He's very tall, just like Brian, but has more of a fuller figure than Brian's own stick thin frame. He must be at least 20 years yours and his senior. He's dressed in a black suit, has closely cropped black hair, painted fingernails, and sunglasses on.
Different than most substitute teachers, you note right off the bat.
"Who does this guy think he is?" Jeordie murmurs. The song Sunglasses At Night fills your head as you watch him in amusement. He's attractive. He's got a subtle purse of his lips (which are filled in with plum colored lipstick) and fingers that are tattooed with alchemical symbols. Definitely not a run of the mill sub. You wonder what your boyfriend thinks of him.
Brian inspects the teacher, admiring his makeup. He looks great-- confident, sexy, and ready to fuck up anyone who disagrees. Everything Brian himself aspires to be.
"What's with the makeup, man?" someone from the back of the class asks the teacher. "You into dudes?"
The new teacher finally speaks, looking out around the class and zeroing in on his target. "Why? Do you wanna fuck me?” You smile, and hear Brian choke out a laugh. The teacher turns to him, and despite the playfulness in his eyes, asks the question. "Something funny?"
"No," Brian says calmly with a smile, "That was just a, uh. A good comeback."
The teacher's lips turn up ever so slightly as he takes in the younger man’s goth, slightly extravagant appearance. "I live to entertain."
He turns away to the board, tapping it. "Mr. Manson. That's what you can call me. I'm filling in for Mrs. Nordman, she had a little too much fun last night and needs a day off to vomit and cry."
"You’re name’s Manson?" Pogo pipes up, "Like the serial killer?" The class laughs.
"Very good, Mr..." he checks the list, "Bier. You know your American history.”
“I’m more partial to John Wayne Gacy,” Pogo responds.
“Gacy was an interesting man. Interesting inclinations. Manson used to be my stage name."
"Stage name?" Brian is suddenly interested, setting his sketching aside. He's started a band of his own with the guys, and is interested in everything to do with music and art.
"Yeah. I used to perform.”
“Were you a stripper?” one kid snickers. Mr. Manson doesn’t seem bothered by the question at all.
“You could say that. Now and then when I'm in between gigs, I do some work on the side, which is why I teach.”
“Can you teach me how to work a pole?” a girl laughs. Mr. Manson rolls his eyes lazily over to her.
“You look like you know how, sweetheart.” This shuts her up, and a blanket of awe falls over the class.
"You can't even take your sunglasses off indoors, how can we expect you to teach us anything good?" another girl scoffs.
"A night of drugs and vodka would prevent you from taking these off too, believe me."
This gets some genuine laughs from the class, and people start to warm up to him. He’s sarcastic, witty, and seems to not really give a fuck what he says and if he’ll get in trouble for saying it. You like that. You look Mr. Manson up and down, smirking, and turn to see your boyfriend chewing on his lip ring thoughtfully. Jeordie leans in.
“Alrighty. He’s kinda awesome.”
Class starts as usual, Mr. Manson adapting to the textbook and teaching what he needs to. About an hour in, a crumpled up note hits you in the head.
I miss you.
You roll your eyes. It’s only been sixty minutes.
Another note comes your way. This one bounces off Jeordie's head, waking him up before it hits your desk. He reads it and snorts, tossing it to you.
Come over here and give me a blow job baby?
Bri's also drawn a little doodle of you two in the cartoon style he’s used on all his Spooky Kids band flyers, you with your mouth around his very large penis while cartoon-him leans back and smiles. It's your turn to give him the finger, though it makes you smile when you see him pouting pleadingly.
Before you realize it, Mr. Manson comes by and plucks the note off your desk. He smirks over at Brian.
“You sure this is proportionate, Mr. Warner?”
Brian ducks his head shyly. “I’d like to think so.”
“Mm. So it’s open to interpretation? All good art is.” Manson tosses the note back onto the table, and gives you a look.
“Sorry,” you whisper to him, biting your lip.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’d be drawing pictures of my dick too, if it was that big.” You giggle.
"So you're not mad?"
"I’m never mad. Just get back to work. If I turn around and see an empty seat..." he gestures to the note, "I'll know where to look."
You spread your legs a little-- just a little. "I hope you like what you see, sir."
He just turns back to the front of the class, clearing his throat. “Remember, if anybody needs any help with anything, just come up to me. I can’t guarantee I’ll know the answer, but I’ll pretend like I do and... let you all think I’m a good teacher.”
More laughter-- a good cover-up for your comment apparently. When Mr. Manson turns his back, Brian tosses another note to you, this one missing Jeordie's head thankfully, and in exasperation, you open it. More drawings of you two in various sexual positions? You read the note.
Turn him on.
You look up at him, frowning. What? Is he actually giving you permission to get the teacher hard? Brian nods at you, and you look back to the teacher. He'd better not be planning some kind of prank. This seems different though. Brian seems to like Mr. Manson.
Well, you can't exactly deny you want to do this. There are benefits to having the same taste in men as your boyfriend, and both of you get to enjoy those. Mr. Manson seems pretty level headed. Maybe you'd have to work for it... and the best way was to be a bad, bad girl. You look back to your boyfriend, nodding.
"Sir?" you put your hand up, waving. Manson looks up.
"Mhmm?"
"I've got a question."
You toss a note to Brian. He opens it, and reads your request. He nudges Daisy, and whispers something. Daisy reluctantly agrees, and passes one of his cigarettes and lighter to the guy next to him, who passes it over, over, over, until it reaches Jeordie.
"Thanks, but I don't smoke," he tells the girl who passed it to him, and you whack him in the thigh.
"It's for me!"
"You don't smoke."
"Just fucking go with it, Jeordie!"
He shrugs, and gives it to you. You clear your throat, and hold it between your fingers as Manson finally looks up from his papers expectantly.
"Can I go out for a smoke?"
Mr. Manson hesitates, obviously put off by the question. "You're a respectable young lady, you shouldn't be smoking." It's obvious he's being sarcastic.
"At least I’m not doing lines off my textbook.” You quirk an eyebrow in challenge, a dig at him and his assumed lifestyle outside of teaching. He sighs.
"No."
You feign offense. "No?"
"You heard me, sweetheart," he drawls, "I think it's time someone told a little brat like you no."
Ignoring the throb in your pussy you got from that statement, you keep the act going.
"Fine. If you won't let me..." You snatch the lighter, and before you can really think about what you’re doing, light your lined booklet on fire. Jeordie stares at you in shocked excitement, starting to wonder why the fire alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Stupid broken down old school’s gonna kill you all one day, probably from a prank he initiated with Bri and the guys.
Mr. Manson's jaw clenches, but you just let the book burn, holding it up. The class is transfixed, unable to look away as you let all the paper burn. Manson isn't about to stop you, the two of you in a staring match. Finally having burned it down to ash, you drop the remains of the book right on the desk, and cross your arms, the action plumping up your breasts over your tank top.
Manson stares at you, and takes his sunglasses off to reveal smokey, black lined eyes. "You think you're clever, huh?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Test me one more time, honey."
That sends shivers through you, and over at his desk, Brian feels warmth travel down to his groin. He shouldn't be getting aroused watching his girlfriend talk back and flirt outright with the teacher, but both of you are so sexy. He starts imagining what it would be like fucking you while sucking Mr. Manson off.
More blood rushes down to his cock, and he looks down with a hot blush to see a growing bulge in his black jeans shorts. At least he has the leggings underneath to restrict him, but currently, it's not a great situation. He looks around, biting his lip as he takes the heel of his pencil and forces it against the base of his dick.
Then he looks over again, sees you sitting there, brows furrowed as you say something argumentative, from those soft pink lips. And fuck, Mr. Manson looks so angry, his jaw clenched. What you two could do to him... what he could do to you.
Brian suppresses a whine, trying his best to slouch even further under the desk so that he can hide his boner. He gives himself a quick rub for relief that could easily be passed off as a typical scratch, but his position is making things weird.
"Geez, man," Daisy whispers, nudging him, "At least try to stay awake in class." Brian sighs, staring at the clock and willing the hands to move. One wrong move here and he'd cum in his pants.
"Mr. Warner."
Brian's gaze shoots up. Oh no. "Yeah?" he tries to seem careless and calm in replying. Mr. Manson looks at him.
"You seem upset. You need to see a nurse?"
"A psychiatrist, more like," Pogo interjects, and any other time, Brian would tell his friend to shut the hell up, but right now he's glad for the distraction. Manson abandons the subject as a result, and turns back to his work.
You wiggle in your seat, throbbing and soaked through your panties. You want to get him mad again like that, make him really wanna punish you.
You try to think up what your grand finale should be. You can’t think, however, due to your arousal, so you get up from your desk instead.
“Mr. Manson?”
“What?”
“Can I use the washroom?”
“You’re not gonna smoke in there and get me in trouble for letting you, are you?”
You smirk, adjusting your hair. “I don’t smoke.” As you head toward the door, you motion inconspicuously for Brian to follow. You hadn’t had him for a few days now, and after all that flirting with the teacher, you're more than a little wet.
Once you leave, Brian shoots a spitball through a straw at Jeordie, who wakes up again, looking around. He sees Brian motion to him, and through their unspoken best friend code, Jeordie knows what to do.
“Uh, sir?” Jeordie puts his hand up, and Mr. Manson walks over. “Yes, how do you, uhh… know the difference between thee, thy, and thine in Macbeth speak?”
While Manson is distracted, Brian makes his escape. He darts out the door, and grins to himself, sticking his hands in his pockets as he walks briskly toward the boy’s washroom. He lets his hair cover his face and fall over his Route 666 T-Shirt as he enters, hunched over, just in case there are others who could identify him. It’s thankfully empty… save for you.
“Baby,” you smile.
"God, I wanted to get my hands on you all morning," he murmurs, hurrying over. "All I could think of was what this pussy feels like, got a fucking erection in class."
"Did you wanna jack off under the desk?" you ask, nipping at his bottom lip. He groans.
"Yeah. Need you, need to fuck you so good."
"Fuck me so we can get back quick," you giggle. He unzips his shorts, pulling down his leggings as well, and he kicks your legs apart, you facing the wall. He tugs your panties down, licking his lips, and teases your folds a little with the tip of his dick.
“So wet, huh? All wet for me?”
“Mhmmm...”
"What about Mr. Manson?" He leans into your ear, warm breath tingling your skin. "You really sold it back there. You wanna see his big cock, don’t you? Wanna suck on it?"
"No more than you do," you tease, and he chuckles, lining himself up.
He buries himself inside of you. "Oh, fuck yeah, baby," he groans, "Fuck, I love this tight little pussy."
"Fuck me hard Bri, I wanna feel you for days," you moan, bracing your palms against the wall. He starts to go harder, desperate to get you both off with enough time to get back into class, but the door swings open. Brian looks back, his dick halfway back inside you, and he makes a little noise.
"What? Who is it?" you moan.
"I don't recall giving you permission to leave the class, Mr. Warner," Mr. Manson’s low, growling voice says, as the teacher crosses his arms.
"Sir," Brian swallows, "We--"
"No." The teacher stands in front of the door, keeping it shut. "Continue." You feel yourself get even wetter at the thought of the sexy teacher watching you get fucked.
“Y-you... want me to keep going?” Brian asks, voice small. Manson takes his sunglasses off once again, folding them up and tucking them in his suit pocket. His voice is calm and level, but his arousal is evident.
“That’s what I said.”
Brian slowly draws out, and pounds back in as you gasp. You hear Mr. Manson unzip his pants, the sound of clothes rustling alongside Brian's pale, slender hips slapping your ass with every thrust filling the men's washroom.
"You like watching, daddy?" you ask, grinning.
"Mmm," Manson hums, starting to stroke himself at the name. "You think it's appropriate to call me that, Miss (y/l/n)?"
"To be brutally honest sir, I don't give much of a fuck."
Manson smirks. "Good. Cause neither do I."
Brian is working up a sweat behind you, biting his lip as he pounds you as hard as he can.
"Yeah, baby," you whine, "Right there."
Brian kisses your shoulder as he keeps going. Then he gets an idea. At first he’s a little nervous... but he knows you’ve always encouraged any fantasy he's ever had. He's sure you won't mind-- you may even like it too. "Mr. Manson?"
"Mhm?"
"C-Come and touch me?"
The professor raises his non existent eyebrows. "I could get in lots of trouble for that, Mr. Warner."
"So could we," you laugh. Manson finally saunters over with that confident swagger, and feels a hand down to Brian's ass.
"That what you want? Mm?"
"Oh god..." He presses back into the teacher, eyelids fluttering from the stimulation of his cock inside you while being fawned over by the older man.
"You want to feel daddy touch you? So pretty... such a dirty little thing... dirty little pretty boy."
“Yeah.”
“You could barely hide your hard on in class. Thought I couldn’t see.”
“Oh,” Brian moans.
“I saw your hand on your cock. You needed (y/n) bad.” Brian literally purrs, and Manson shifts his focus. "What about you, sweetheart, how you doing over there?"
"Fuck!" is all you can manage out, and Manson smirks.
"Your boy here really knows how to do the work. He's giving it his all."
"Daddy, please," Brian whines, and you don't think you've heard anything so hot in your life.
"Daddy's here," Mr. Manson growls, feeling down Brian's ass and between his legs. When he grazes your boyfriend's balls, you feel Brian go even harder, and you very nearly sob as he hits your g-spot perfectly.
"Shhh, shhh, babygirl," Manson whispers, coming over to you, "Can't have anyone come, stumble in and find us, hm?"
"Like you?" you retort, turning your head to the side to face him, and he grins, stroking your chin.
"Like me." He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your lips. You open up for him, and he swipes his tongue along your lower lip, his lipstick rubbing against your skin. He lets up the kiss, and you pause to turn around, wrapping your legs around Brian as he sloppily pushes back in. You move forward to kiss your boyfriend now, all messy tongue and hot gasps. You tilt your head back in ecstasy on a particularly good thrust, and Manson takes this opportunity to kiss Brian, the two starting to make out as Brian rocks you against the wall. They finally part. “That lip ring makes it hard to kiss.”
Brian gives him a dark smile, getting off on being just as bratty as you. “I don’t live my life to please older guys like you.” Manson looks at him in amusement.
“You in a punk rock band or something? You seem like you’d be perfect for one.”
“I am, actually,” Brian says, running his tongue along his bottom lip, over his piercing just to make a point.
“They’re magnificent,” you moan, rocking down on your boyfriend. “They go all out on stage.”
“Mmm. I bet Brian fucks you nice and rough after his shows, (y/n),” Manson says.
“Oh, he does,” you grin, “Nice and rough.” You look down and smile at Manson's hand in his pants, moving in quick, deliberate jerks. "You like what you see, sir?" you grin, and Mr. Manson growls.
"Little fuckin' troublemaker."
"I wanna see it," you moan out. Manson lifts his chin, and lifts his top up just above his belly button, revealing more tattoos on his deliciously soft stomach, and his cock underneath, the head weeping into his hand. "Keep touching it," you breathe. He doesn't break eye contact with you as he drags his fist up his hard cock, up and over the swollen head, and back down as he picks up his pace again.
It's your turn for another request, and you ask it properly, biting your pinky. "I want you both to fuck my mouth."
"Filthy," Manson murmurs, "You've got a girl who fuckin' knows what she wants."
Brian lets you down, and you get on your knees in between them. You're used to sucking Brian off, but having Mr. Manson's cock in front of you as well makes you flush.
Brian reaches for you first, grabbing your hair and shoving you down over him. You deepthroat him immediately, choking a little, and Brian keeps jerking your head back and forth by your hair, making sure you're good and used. You can taste yourself on him as you suck around the head, absolutely getting off on how rough he’s being.
"Take it," he hisses, sneering, and you moan. Eventually, you switch to give Manson some attention. He's waiting patiently, and you're the one who holds him at the base as you slide your lips down over him.
"Mmmm. Perfect," he grumbles, "Good girl." You work him, taking him all the way down and back up, and you reach back to jerk Brian off as well. You pop off Manson, and alternate between the two. After a moment, Brian takes initiative, and takes Manson’s cock in hand with his, pumping them together as you kitten lick them both. Brian bats his eyes up at the teacher, and Manson takes over, jacking the two of them off. Brian lets out a choked out cry as he finishes over your lips and in Manson's hand, but the teacher doesn't stop. He continues to stroke your boyfriend as he encourages you to get up.
"Not outta the game yet, angel." The teacher shoots you a smirk. Brian's half hard again in minutes, and he picks you up, sensitive from his first orgasm but just as feral and desperate, long black hair plastered to his face and neck. He pushes back into you, and you bury your face in his neck, craving your building release.
"I'm... fucking close," Brian breathes. Manson saunters close again.
"C'mon, baby. That's it. Give her your load, you know you want to," he whispers in Brian's ear, grinding his own cock against the young man's ass, against the material of the black denim, "She wants you to." Mr. Manson traces your lips with his fingers, and slips them into your mouth for you to suck on. You do so gratefully, moaning. "She's a little cumslut, you know it. Aren't you, baby girl? Sweetheart's a whore, wanna get filled up like a little whore?"
"Mhm," you moan desperately.
"Fuck, fuck!" Brian gasps, and cums deep inside you again. Manson gives a small groan, rubbing himself to completion with his free hand, and you're hit with your own powerful orgasm, riding it out on your boyfriend's throbbing cock.
When the three of you finally stumble away from the wall, you start to realize what just happened.
"Well. That was better than study hall," you smile, taking Brian’s arm. He's still catching his breath as Manson looks at the two of you, fixing his suit jacket. He tucks himself back up into his boxers, zips his fly, and looks in the mirror. He uses a finger to clean up his lipstick a little, and puts his sunglasses back on.
"Okay, would it be too cliche of me to say I'm giving you both As?"
"Yeah," Brian grins, shoving his hand in your back pocket affectionately, "But we earned that shit."
As Manson turns back to keep fixing his makeup, he notices the twisted heart he had been doodling earlier, tattooed on the older man's wrist. Huh. Some kinda serendipitous coincidence.
Hey There, Demons - Marilyn Manson x Reader [Smut]
Synopsis: You, drummer for the Spooky Kids, aka the Dumbass Idiots, decide with the band to go ghost hunting in LA one night after a show. Bad idea for the most part, good idea for the sole reason of finally putting you and Manson together in a dark room. Feelings? What are those?
Notes: Spooky Kids era! I’ve been watching a lot of Buzzfeed Unsolved, so here you go. Also features a bit of Twiggy x Pogo for good measure.
"I don't believe in ghosts."
You toss a napkin at Brian. "Poser." You're all sitting in an airport, waiting for your flight from Jacksonville to Los Angeles for a show tonight.
He grins. "Nah. I'm just bullshitting, of course I do. I mean, I've never seen one, other than that whole Necronomicon thing when I was a kid, but half of me thinks that was from drinking bong water.”
“Yeah. Well. Imagination is a beautiful thing."
He licks his lips. "Especially when I'm jacking off."
"Gross," you mutter.
"That's not what you said last night."
"You wish," you huff.
"Cool it you two, we all know you're banging," Pogo calls out, and starts making high pitched moaning noises. You (and everyone else in the band) looks at the keyboardist, wondering if it'd attract even more attention to tape his mouth shut. "Ah! Ah! Ah!”
Jeordie joins in. “Oh, god! Oh, Brian! Yes! What a big dick you have!"
"All the better to fuck you with," Brian plays along. Jeordie climbs into Brian’s lap.
"Stop it, big boy, you're turning me on!"
"I don't sound like that," you mutter.
"Ohhh yeeeeah," Jeordie groans out a climax, and Daisy scoffs, slipping on his sunglasses to avoid the odd stares you're getting.
"I'll have what he's having."
"Unless... Brian is the one taking it," Pogo muses, "That's possible." He drops his voice. "Mmmm. Bette, make me your bitch!"
"Yeah, I just love it when (y/n) gets the strap on out and destroys my ass," Brian grumbles. You blush a little, but hide it under a laugh.
"Again. You wish."
“Am I the only one who finds it very hard to believe (y/n) would put out for Bri?” Jeordie asks. It’s Brian’s turn to toss something at his best friend.
“We all know if she had good taste in men, she’d be fucking me already.”
You hold up three fingers. “Read between the lines.”
You and Brian had been skirting around one another since you had joined the band. You had known Jeordie since working at a crappy part time job at a used record shop with him, and had met the others when Brian had moved to Florida from Ohio, which was a few years ago. They had gotten this band together with another drummer who called himself Sarah Lee Lucas.
Recently, Sarah had left the band to pursue something else, and since banging on things with sticks isn't too hard in your books, you convinced the Spooky Kids to hand you the drumsticks as the newly christened member, Bette Davis x Jeffery Dahmer: Bette Dahmer. It hadn't been easy to convince them to let a girl in, since they’re all a bunch of juvenile assholes, but with Jeordie backing you, eventually they caved.
"Back to the matter at hand," Brian says.
"Hand job," Jeordie giggles, picking a scab off. He pouts as it bleeds.
"Later," Brian quips, standing on a chair. You tug him down before a security guard can do it, and he falls on his ass. "Ow, fuck you."
"That's what anal feels like," you say.
"You would know Bets, you probably take it up the ass from fifty guys at a time, ya fuckin whore," Pogo laughs.
"Stephen, Jesus," Daisy chuckles a little. Pogo has zero filter, and sometimes it's refreshing, sometimes it's annoying. You take your wad of gum out, balling it up, and use your hair elastic to slingshot it right in his face. The guy just picks it up and pops it in his mouth.
"Aw!"
"Ew!"
"You're fucking disgusting, man."
"Eat shit and die." Pogo gives you all the finger, and Jeordie speaks up, laying his head in your lap and stretching out over the airport seats.
"Someone said something about ghosts. I like ghosts. Space ghosts."
"Yes!" Brian brings it back. "Thank you Jeordie, back on track. We are all going ghost hunting tonight, after the show."
"Who died and made you god?" Pogo asks.
"God did," Brian snapped. "And when I'm god everyone dies."
"That's profound, poetry-man," you smirk, crossing your arms, "Got any more emo shit to say before Scott gives every reason why we shouldn't break into some haunted building tonight with video cameras?"
"Who has a video camera?" Jeordie asks, wide eyed, "I wanna see how big my dick looks on screen."
"It looks just like your namesake," Brian says. "Twiggy." Jeordie looks crestfallen.
"It's not that small," you assure him, "It's average, but not small."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I'd let you have a go, if you weren’t..." You smirk, alluding to the crush Jeordie had on another band member. He goes red.
"If Brian wasn't already balls deep in that," Pogo chides.
"I bet your dick looks like a pickle," you shoot back, sticking your tongue out.
"Wanna check?"
"Okay," Daisy blushes, standing up, "Just cause we're a band, doesn't mean we need to have an orgy."
"What was the point, then?" you joke.
"Anyway. Like Bette said, I really don't think we should be doing this tonight. If we get arrested for trespassing, what'll that do to the band?"
Brian crosses his arms. "Well I'm the leader, and I say it'd give us a cool reputation!”
"Right. Members of the Marilyn Manson family get arrested for... what, looking for ghosts? What a hardcore group of people.”
"We can tell the press we killed someone. Besides, this is the type of shit we’re supposed to do as a metal band. We gotta do dumb, risky things that make us look like bonified Satanists. Otherwise we’re just posers like the rest of ‘em.”
“No, we just have to go on a couple benders in hotel rooms with some blow and a couple tatted up prostitutes, and we’ll fit in.”
“Look, we can do cocaine off girls’ tits and go ghost hunting and still be rock stars, so shut the fuck up Berkowitz, we're doing it," Brian says. Daisy puts his hands up, unwilling to argue with him any more than he already has. So, it’s settled.
You bump your foot against Brian's, and he gives a lopsided smile, brushing the long black hair out of his face and bumping your foot back. Momentarily, his attention is diverted.
"Will someone go get Jeordie? He's pissing in the water fountain."
--
You look out at the crowd. This is a bigger audience than usual here in LA.
“Lots of motherfuckers came out to see us,” Bri comes by to whisper at you, parting his hair and making sure his lipstick is nice and smeared. You nod, and toss him his big floppy top hat. He sticks it on his head as you’re introduced.
“All the way from the South Florida music scene, we’ve got Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids!”
Jeordie starts the first song, Negative Three, off with a bassline intro, and you start the band off with a four count on your drumsticks, then hit the drums as Brian begins to wail into the mic.
“Give me your blood, your teeth, your high school pictures...”
You watch him, not skipping a beat on your rhythm. Daisy headbangs as you launch into the chorus, and Twiggy fiddles with his bass guitar across the stage, dressed in one of his ragdoll dresses. Pogo is to the right of you, hammering away at his keys and jolting around. You always have a good time performing with the guys, but Brian’s got your attention tonight.
He keeps looking back at you, for some reason.
You almost don’t realize the change in song and the fact that you’d been playing it, and nearly jump when Brian screams into the mic: “I bring you!”
You look away from his shirtless figure, and focus on putting on a good show with them as the crowd moshes in front of you.
--
After the show, everyone stops back at the motel quickly, drying off and getting changed. You all reconvene after getting into more comfortable clothes, avoid the small group of fans waiting to follow you, and get ready to leave.
“You were great tonight,” Brian says.
“Really? I nearly missed the beginning of Lunchbox,” you huff.
“Nah, I didn’t notice it. If I had, I would’ve yelled at you til you cried.” He gives a shit eating grin.
The Viper Room. The five of you stare at it. The sun has long since set after the show, and you're in front of the LA nightclub with amateur ghost hunting equipment. (AKA, anything you could find at a five and dime store on the sunset strip this late at night).
"River Phoenix died here,” Jeordie mentions.
“And Johnny Depp owns the place," Daisy remarks.
"I know him," Brian says.
"River Phoenix?” Pogo asks, stroking his beard. “Yeah? You climb into his grave often?"
"Depp, I know Johnny Depp."
"If you know Johnny Depp, then Twiggy's Luke Skywalker," Pogo scoffs.
"Like my father before me," Twiggy mumbles.
"No, I know him! I was an extra on his show, 21 Jump Street. He's cool, we're friends."
"Suuuure."
Even Jeordie snickers at that, after emerging from his Star Wars fantasy. "Fuck you guys," Brian mutters, "If Johnny was here right now--"
"Oh, you're on a first name basis, huh?"
"If Johnny was here right now, you fucking clown asshole, he'd say hi Brian, and tell you to go fuck yourself."
"He'd say ‘hi Brian’?" you tease, and he smiles.
"Yes, he would. He's nice."
“Would he like me?”
“Anyone would like you.”
"Does he think this place is haunted?"
"I don't know," the singer hums, "I never asked."
You pick the lock, all enter, and shut the door behind you. It's pitch black, and frankly a little nerve-wracking.
"We shouldn't be here," Daisy sing songs.
"One more word out of you and we're feeding you to the ghosts," Pogo says.
"The same could be said for you," you say to the keyboardist. He shoots a dirty look your way that you can't see through the dark. "I did some reading,” you admit, and everyone turns to you. “Apparently there’s a body buried downstairs, in the crawlspace.”
“Johnny’s a killer,” Jeordie whispers in awe.
“That’s fucking rad,” Brian mutters, “I have even more respect for the guy now.”
“It wasn’t Johnny, don’t say that shit out loud in Hollywood or you’ll get sued,” you say, rolling your eyes. “So aside from the bones, the ghostly activity is downstairs in the basement, the VIP room, and by the bar.”
"I know where I'll be," Jeordie smiles, and walks over to the bar. "Pour me a stiff one River, and don't spare the rum."
Pogo sighs. "C'mon, Daisy. The odd couple are going down to the basement."
"Uh, now I think I should be the one to stay at the bar." Daisy shakes his head. "If Jeordie does, we'll have smashed bottles and cop sirens."
"Fine," Jeordie complains, shoving his red and black dreads out of his face.
“Whatever, dude. It’s just a bunch of bullshit anyway,” Pogo mutters, “It’s like Santa Clause, parents invent ghosts and all that shit to scare kids into behaving themselves, the ever present fascism of the oppressed American youth...” Jeordie follows the ranting keyboardist downstairs, shooting you a desperate look. You just smile, giving a little good luck wave.
“That leaves you and me in the VIP room,” you say, turning to Brian.
“That it does,” he replies, licking his lip ring. “Just don’t try to hold my hand. That’s sick.”
“If you touch me, I’ll scream,” you retort, and walk ahead of him. He admires your ass with the flashlight, and you smile a little.
Downstairs in the basement, Pogo starts banging on the walls.
“Hello! My friends, my ghoulish friends! My... ghoulfriends, if you will. ANYONE WHO’S GOT THEIR BONES BURIED BACK HERE, MAKE A NOISE! Fart or something!” He swings his arms around.
“Did Johnny Depp kill you?” Jeordie asks, eyes wide. He twitches at a car honk outside.
Pogo bounces up and down. “Come attack me, bones! Make me one of you! Come on, murder me and bury me, daddy! I’m into that kinky shit! I am here for the taking!”
“That sounds a little forceful,” Jeordie whispers.
“On my part, or their part?” Silence.
“Good point.”
They keep walking around, and Jeordie trips on something. Pogo keeps banging and yelling obnoxiously. “GOBLINS, GHOULIES, FROM LAST HALLOWEEN! AWAKEN THE SPIRITS WITH YOUR TAMBOR—hey Jeordie, what the fuck are you doing on the ground?”
“I just like the taste of carpet,” Jeordie retorts, sarcasm apparently not evident enough for Pogo to catch it.
“Jesus, what are you on? I want some.”
“Help me up?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the mad clown mutters, and leans down. Jeordie takes his arm, and the two look at each other for a few seconds, the flashlight beneath them illuminating the specks of dust floating through the inch or so between their faces. “Uh...” Pogo whispers, deep voice grumbling.
“Yeah,” Jeordie swallows, and the two stand again, looking away from one another.
Upstairs, you and Brian enter the VIP room.
“Hey there demons, it’s me. Marilyn Manson,” he says, “This is my concubine, Bette Dahmer. Scare us.”
You glare at him. “Actually, scare me. You can just kill him.” The two of you look around with the flashlight a bit, inspecting the dark wallpaper and decor.
“This is kinda spooky,” Brian admits.
“It’s nice,” you say, stroking the dust off a lamp, “Very gothic. I can see why movie stars like this place.”
“Yeah.” Brian turns the flashlight on and off, finally setting it on a small table and letting the beam keep the room dimly lit. “Lots of old Hollywood glamour. You’d fit right in.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, you’d look pretty in an old Marilyn Monroe dress. Or at least one of Jeordie’s.”
“What if Marilyn Monroe came here?” you giggle.
“Hey, Mar! Thanks for the name!” Brian calls, “If we get rich and famous, we’ll give you the royalties!” You lounge out on one of the couches, and he eyes you. “You could be sitting on a ghost right now,” he says, “You could have a ghost inside you.”
“Mm?”
“You could be sitting right on his big ghost cock.”
“That’s hot.”
“You could have me inside you too, if you wanted.”
“Y’know, I think we’ve been on the road too long,” you laugh, “Pogo’s jokes are getting to you.”
“It’s not the jokes.”
“Yeah, well. If I’m starting to look hot to you, you must be delirious.”
“Nah... I really do think you’re hot, Bets.”
He sits next to you, and you look over at him. “Seriously?”
He ducks his head. “Yeah.”
“I... feel the same way. I mean, I was never ever gonna tell you, cause soon, with any luck, we’ll be big rock and roll stars, and you-- well, you know how it works. You’ll have a million groupies, you’ll be drowning in free pussy.”
“Fuck the groupies. I want your pussy.”
You laugh. “You say that now.”
“Yeah, I do. Til someone better comes along, which I doubt will happen.” He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night. It was weird onstage—usually I can hide it, but tonight... I don’t know. You sitting there, in that top, with your eyes... you were just...” He looks down again, his old shyness coming back. You don’t know what to say. You can only stare at his lips.
Over at the bar, Daisy sits patiently, watching the glass he’s set on a napkin. “Hello, ghosts. It’s me, Scott. You can call me Daisy if you like. If you can hear me, move the cup.”
He stares at the cup. The cup does not move.
Downstairs, Pogo and Twiggy are awkwardly trying to continue their ghost hunt without talking about the moment they just had.
“So, uh, so ghoulies. Where ya from?” Pogo shouts. “Is SATAN in the room with us? We are BIG FANS, sir.” Jeordie starts giggling about something. “What is it?!”
“I just heard a bang above us.”
“That means the demons have come out to play, Jeordie-boy!” Pogo cackles, hopping up on a booth seat and drumming the ceiling.
“No. It means Bette and Manson are screwing around,” Twigs laughs. Then his face gets dead serious. “What if, uh...”
“What if what?” Pogo glances over suspiciously.
“What if... they weren’t the only ones?”
You gasp, standing up and staring at the shattered lamp that had just fallen off the table. “Oh my god. That wasn’t me.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“They’re totally gonna think we’re screwing around up here.”
“Maybe we are,” Brian gets up too, tucking his hair behind his ear.
“Y-you wanna?” you back up. He nods, and falls on top of you on the other couch.
At the bar, Daisy sits, staring at the cup. He patters his fingers on his knees. “It’s okay, ghosts,” he says, smiling politely, “I can wait.”
He stares at it some more. The cup does not move.
In the room, you reach your hand up Brian’s back underneath his black t-shirt. “Fuck, I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Shut up and take my pants off.”
“Don’t tell me to shut up. Take your own pants o... ohhh, god, yeah.” Brian reaches up to massage your breasts, and you throw your head back, undoing his fly. “How long have you wanted to do this?”
“Since the day I walked into the dumb record shop and stole that David Bowie EP.”
“What the fuck?! I got fired for that!”
Downstairs, Pogo runs a hand over his smooth bald head. “I don’t know, man. This sounds very gay to me.”
“I mean,” Jeordie scuffs his shoe on the ground, “It doesn’t have to be. Or like, it could be. If you’re cool with that.”
“If I’m cool with being a homo?”
“...Yeah.”
Pogo looks up at Jeordie, and sighs. “For you?” He glances around the dark, creepy basement, then back to the bassist. “I could be cool with that.”
Daisy changes tactics. “Here. Don’t like moving cups? That’s okay, neither do I sometimes. Let’s try this again.” He smiles. “What’s your name?”
“Oh, god... Brian!” you moan from the VIP room.
“Br... Brian!” Daisy says, excitedly, standing up. “You have the same name as my friend! Oh god... okay, um... how did you die, Brian?”
“Get inside me,” you groan, and Brian takes his boxers down, kissing you as he sinks into your tight heat. The two of you moan, base instincts taking over.
“In... inside you?!” Daisy repeats, eyes lighting up at the apparent paranormal activity he’s discovered. “Oh! You died from an overdose, just like River, didn’t you? You had too many narcotics inside you!”
Downstairs, Pogo steps forward, and swallows. Jeordie closes his eyes, and waits. Suddenly, a car screeches through a red light outside, and Jeordie practically jumps into Pogo’s arms, forcing the two together at the lips. Pogo’s eyes fly open, and Jeordie’s close again, enjoying the kiss. They break away, and stare at one another. Pogo swears, and goes in for another kiss.
“Harder,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around the singer’s neck. He pushes his hips in faster.
“You like it rough, sweetheart?”
“Yeah Bri, I like it rough, yeah...”
He reaches down, finding your sweet spot. You arch into him, scratching your nails up his slender back. He keeps pounding into you, and grunts into your neck.
“Baby, baby, baby...”
“Do you have a message for me, or for any members of our band?” Daisy asks, and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You know... some insider’s industry tips?” He winks.
“Goood, you’re so fucking good!”
Daisy raises his eyebrows. “I... well thank you! Thank you very much, we really try to reach people with our music.”
“What the fuck are you blabbering about?” Pogo mutters on the stairs, wiping Twiggy’s lipstick off his chin. Daisy beckons them over.
“Shhh! Watch this. I’m sorry I ever doubted you guys... the spirits are so active in this place! Forget making records. We could be mediums!” Jeordie joined Pogo over by the bar as Daisy went on. “Okay—if you’re here with us now, give us a sign.”
There’s a loud bang, followed by a creak and a faint gasp. Jeordie and Pogo look at one another, actually a little bit freaked out by the response. Then comes the “communication.”
“I’m coming, oh-- I’m coming!”
“Where?!” Daisy cries, “Show yourself, come!” Pogo sighs, and Jeordie falls to the floor, laughing.
“I think they already did, pal.” The keyboardist raises his painted on eyebrows, and points to the VIP room. You stumble out, hair messed to hell, and Brian comes out behind you, buckling up his belt. Daisy stares at the two of you for the longest time, before getting up and walking toward the door.
The rest of you go to walk out, deeming the place a paranormal dud, when a gust of wind blows behind you. Brian’s about to turn around, accusing Jeordie of leaving a window open or something, but there’s nothing there. Then, everything happens at once. Daisy’s cup tips over the side of the counter and shatters. The door to the VIP room slams shut, and you all start to hear thumping footsteps coming up the stairs from the basement.
You and Brian grab at each other, running out first while laughing. Pogo shoves Jeordie over and bolts out. A few seconds later, he runs back in, grabbing the bassist by the hand and dragging him out too. Daisy stays, getting out the video camera. Brian walks back in, guiding the guitarist out calmly, and closes the club’s front door with a click.
“Hey uh, Bri?” you say, taking his arm. He grunts, putting an arm around you. “Next time you see your friend Johnny Depp... maybe don’t mention that we fucked in his haunted club. Kay?”
Synopsis: You and the band terrorize the local mall. AKA The totally fictional, fucked up origins of the samples from Cake and Sodomy.
Notes: Portrait era! Warning for intentions of assault (not from Manson) and general immature debauchery.
There's nothing left to do in this town.
You, your boyfriend, and a few members of his band that aren't still sleeping, are wandering around the small town they're set to perform tonight. The venue's gonna be tiny, just like the town, but at this point, any gig is a good gig. They're touring their asses off to promote their first studio album, an album nobody thought could possibly get produced. Lots of touring meant a few shitty stops (okay, a fair amount), and it meant days of either doing drugs in hotel rooms, pasting flyers around the city, or trying to do normal things.
"We could vandalize buses," Jeordie suggests.
"There's only one bus that comes by here, once every hour at half past sharp," Pogo replies, staring at the palm of his hand. "I've been watching it."
"What about the mall?" you suggest.
"Does barbie want to go shopping?" Pogo mutters. You throw a crumpled up fast food bag from the ground at him.
Brian finally speaks up. "The mall's not a bad idea, actually. There might be makeup stores there, I can swipe some pancake shit for tonight's show."
Now that their fearless leader had spoken, everyone grunted their own form of agreement, getting up off the park bench.
Making it to the mall, Jeordie runs over to the directory. "I'm going to the candy store." Pogo seems to like that idea, and the two walk off. Brian calls after them.
"Assholes! Meet us back at the doors by six, we've got a show to get to!" He turns to you, taking your hand and rolling his eyes. "As if they don't get enough drugs. Now they need sugar highs too."
The two of you walk toward the drugstore to check out the makeup. Brian immediately heads over to the lip aisle, and starts pocketing some reds and plum colours.
"You know... I wouldn't mind a bit of candy," you tell him, swinging your hand with his, "A nice, big lollipop."
Brian licks his lips. "How would you lick it, baby? Swirl your tongue over the tip?"
"I'd get it all into my mouth, then when it hits the back of my throat, I'd swallow all that sweet sugar." Brian groans, starting to walk toward the candy store with you too, and you shrug. "But I'd settle for some sugar babies."
"You get the sugar babies," he smirks, "I'll get the sugar daddy."
"You are not a sugar daddy," you laugh. He scoffs.
"I could be!" He slides his hand down to feel up your ass. "I could be your daddy, babygirl."
"You're the same fucking age as me, and you've got no money."
He shakes his head. "Just give this record a little more time. Once Interscope pushes it and Portrait sells a billion copies, stadiums all over the world'll want Marilyn Manson to scare the crap out of their upstanding citizens. We'll be in demand! Then I can buy you all sorts of weird relics."
"Special," you smile, "Normal sugar daddies buy their babies diamonds. No, I get prosthetic hands and Eichmann's aluminum dentures."
"You love it."
"I do," you giggle, and his eyes suddenly take on that mischievous glint.
"Photo booth."
"Bri, really?"
"We gotta go in, and do a porno shoot."
"What?!"
"There's nobody around but us. Come on baby, let's take really fucking dirty pictures."
"You know, they probably save these somewhere to print them, right?"
"Good, you can flash your tits, make the mall cop jack off. Here, we can record, and put it on the new single, Cake and Sodomy! It'll be perfect."
You blush, and he pulls you into the little tent in the middle of the pathetically empty strip mall. He sets up the camera, closes the curtain, and you keep giggling.
"You go here," he sets you up on mark like a master movie director, and you check the screen, making sure the star anatomy is properly centered. Then you reach down and pull your top over your head, unhooking your bra. Brian bites his bottom lip.
"Shit, you're gonna make me have to jack off." You knee him lightly in the crotch playfully.
"Focus on the shoot, Spielberg." He puts his hands over your breasts from behind, and you yelp.
"Jesus Christ, Brian!"
"What?!"
"At least warm your hands up a little. God, it's like being fondled by the Grim Reaper!”
“Geez--”
“Boobs are very delicate things, okay, they're not like dicks, you can't just whip them out and expect--"
"Okay, alright, there. There! All warmed up. You happy?"
"Yes," you pout, and he kisses your cheek quickly, before darting forward to press capture and resuming his position. The first flash goes off, with Brian's hands grabbing your breasts. Second one begins to count down.
"What should we do, quick, what should we do?!" you squeal, laughing, and he looks around. He gets on his knees, bringing his face up, and sucks on your nipple for the third shot.
"Get your dick out," you urge, "Hurry, do it!"
He unzips his pants, and gets his dick as close as he can to the camera.
For the fifth shot, you get on your knees this time, holding Brian's dick and licking the tip as the last flash goes off. He presses play on his tape recorder, and you stand up, kissing him and making the sexiest noises you can.
"Alright.... mmm... mmmm!"
The two of you are laughing uncontrollably like children as you exit the booth with the printed strip. "Gorgeous," you nod, inspecting it.
"We're hot. I'd wanna fuck us," he says.
"God, same."
"We should use these as album art."
"Go for it," you shrug, "I'm sure it'd help sell all those billions of copies you promised." You bite your pinkie nail, looking back at the booth. "What if there were cameras that were watching inside, though? Like other cameras?" He massages your shoulders as you walk.
"I told you, there probably were. I already shoplifted, might as well be arrested for public indecency as well. It'll help my, uh... dangerous rock star image."
You groan, hiding your face in Brian's shoulder as you two keep walking.
You meet up with Jeordie and Pogo in front of the candy shop, Brian having shoved the strip down his back pocket. Jeordie has a bag full of sweets.
"What did you get?" you ask, burrowing inside it. He hands you some laffy taffy.
"I know you like this stuff."
"Jeord! I absolutely love you!"
"I know." He grins. "Hehe, Star Wars."
Just then, a big, hairy motherfucker of a security guard approaches you four quickly. He's an imposing figure, even on your 6'1 boyfriend.
"I promise I paid for all these gummy worms," Jeordie begins to tell him, but he looks at you and Brian.
"You the kids from the photo booth?"
You're too shocked to speak, so Brian, ever the antagonist, nods, sizing him up. "Yeah. Is there a problem?"
"You're going to have to come with me," the portly guard says sternly, and Brian shoves him off.
"Like hell, buddy."
The guard starts to take something out of the back of his belt, so before either of you can find out what, you stop him.
"Wait! Wait, it's okay. We'll go." You lean in to Brian pleadingly. "The most he can do is give us a warning. Don't get your show banned here over some stupid, bloated mall guy with a bone to pick."
"Fine." You and Brian turn, noticing Jeordie and Pogo had fled the scene. "Great friends," Brian mutters, and the two of you start walking.
The guard leads you into a dark, grimy room down some steps under the mall's CVS, where you see a bunch of security camera feeds, and... your topless photos displayed on one of them. It smells strange down here, like spoiled chicken and vaseline. The guard sits down.
"So. You think creating pornography in public is funny, do you?"
Brian lets loose a stream of vitriol you knew had been simmering. "I do. In fact, I think it's the most goddamn hilarious thing I've ever done, you stuffy old dickhead!"
"Brian..."
"You wouldn't know much about that though, since you're probably so miserable working overtime for a mall who sees the local crackhead walk through maybe once every month or so and that's it--"
"Brian."
"--Getting paid to sit behind a desk in the dark, eat donuts and creep on people like a glorified cam-stalker--"
"Brian!"
"I bet you liked looking at my girlfriend's tits, huh? You like em, you fucking pervert? Why don't you--"
The guard finally has enough, and gets up out of his chair, walking behind Brian and tying a gag around his mouth. You go to stop him, but he grabs some duct tape, and sits you down, tying your wrists behind the chair. He does the same to Brian, restraining him. Shaking in fear, you sit still, paralyzed, as the guard sits back down in front of you two.
"You kids now and your alternative lifestyles. Think that acting outlandish and wearing black, Satanic clothing that never would've flown in my day is the way to give us civilized folk here in this good, god fearing little town the middle finger, huh?"
He sneers down at your leather miniskirt, and then to Brian's thick platform boots, looking him up and down. He's not really helping disprove the man's point about outlandish clothes, with his lipstick and shaved eyebrows. You think you see Brian fiddle with something in his back pocket, but your attention is directed back to the guard.
"Performing sexual acts in my mall. You won't get away with that."
"What are you gonna do?" you whimper.
"Put on a little show of my own," he starts to smile sadistically. You start to feel cold all over. He doesn't mean...
Brian's eyes close. Of course the two of you had found the Buffalo Bill of mall cops. Fucking lucky. Well. It'd be a story for the show.
The man sits back. "Smile."
Brian watches the guy closely. "You touch her..." your boyfriend warns. You struggle to pull your restraints free.
"Smile for me," the guard repeats, growing impatient.
You swallow. "Just let us go. We're really sorry about the photos!"
He finally stands up, cracking a fist. "Go on smile, you cunt!"
Brian jumps up, and though his wrists are still bound like yours, he turns around to grab you, pulling you both to the door. He spits the gag out. "Run."
The two of you dash out the side entrance to the mall, and keep running until you can't hear the guard yelling anymore.
Jeordie and Pogo come out of the woodwork, quickly gathering around you.
"Fuckin' redneck tyrant!" Brian shouts back, grabbing and tossing Jeordie's milkshake at the building. Jeordie stares in longing at the destroyed strawberry goop on the ground, debating if the 5 second rule worked for drinks too. Pogo takes a switchblade out to cut you two loose.
"I got the perfect sound bites on tape we can sample for Cake and Sodomy, of you moaning like a whore and that guy being a general asshole," Brian tells you, and you roll your eyes.
"After nearly being killed by a psychotic mall cop, that's all you have to say? Typical."
"What did you guys even do?!" Jeordie asks.
You dig out the photo strip from Brian's back pocket, and pass it to the other guys. Pogo nods, stroking his goatee like a critic.
Killing Strangers - Marilyn Manson x Reader AU [Smut]
Synopsis: Your boyfriend is a dangerous man, with secretive toys, a secretive past, and skeletons in his closet. But what will you do when he’s not around to protect you?
P1/? I may continue this on ao3.
Notes: Undercover Agent/Assassin Manson AU!! I couldn’t get this plot bunny out of my head, so here you go. This is me procrastinating on all my other planned MM fics. Enjoy! (Kill4Me, Killing Strangers, and Gangster by Kehlani are great songs to cycle while reading this)
It’s midnight in Stuttgart, Germany.
You spread out on the chaise lounge, your dress riding up to your knee as you rest your head in your arms and watch the lights of the city blink. It’s beautiful here.
Your boyfriend is an assassin working for a non-government branch, and has got three different places, in different spots. The first one is a penthouse in New York City, upper Manhattan. The second is, as he likes to call it, ‘homebase’, in Los Angeles, a hilltop mansion with bulletproof gates. He’s been spending the most time here in the German penthouse lately, having left behind much of his work in LA.
You rise from the chaise, dress brushing the floor as you walk over to the bookcase. He’s got a single photograph connecting him to anything he’s done in the past, and it’s a photo of him ten years ago, and five other men, all dressed in black suits.
That had been the dream team: The Antichrist Syndicate. It had started with his partner Jeordie, codename Twiggy, who used to run with Manson in the early days of the business. Then Kenneth, codename Ginger, John, codename 5, Stephen, codename Pogo, Skold, codename Arctic Wolf, and finally, your boyfriend: Brian Warner, codename Manson, the Pale Emperor. They had all worked for an international organization for undercover peacekeeping, called Interscope, under a philanthropist named Trent. They did good, keeping secrets, taking out high profile people. Trent ran a tight business, no loose ends. Then after Mission Grotesque, a particularly bloody affair in Berlin, they parted ways.
5 left first, then Pogo, then Skold, and finally Ginger decided it was time to leave as well. Ginger and 5 had teamed up again in some kind of partnership somewhere across the world in Romania, Pogo had left the life for good (and had probably gotten killed for it by now), nobody really knew what happened to Twiggy, and Skold had gone rogue, become a ghost, a gun for hire.
Manson would have done the same, if becoming a lone wolf wasn’t so unreliable. He liked the benefits he got from working under contract, which meant he could provide for you, keep you safe, keep you under protection when he wasn’t around to look after you. The Loma Vista organization under Bates paid him good, and made it clear that you and he would both be untraceable.
You adjust the framed photograph, dusting it off with your fingertips. Manson played it like he didn’t give a shit about anything or any of those ‘backstabbing assholes’, but you could read him well enough to know he missed those days sometimes.
You walk over to the bar in the penthouse, pouring yourself another cosmo. You had been a bartender before Manson had picked you up in that club three years ago, so you knew how to mix a good one. You run your fingers down your neck to your diamond dagger-shaped necklace, smiling. It felt good knowing how much he cared for you. The danger of his job was all worth it—you would kill for him, and he would do the same.
You walk back over to the window, and sigh. The cars passing below look like small fairy lights, dancing in the blur of the night, and your eyes in the glass reflection mirror the stars.
Suddenly, all the lights go out. You swish your drink, letting the lit up city illuminate its path up to your lips.
"There's an intruder in the house," you remark dryly, "Whatever will I do?"
"Beg for mercy," Manson's voice growls behind you, and fingers wrap around the back of your neck. You take another sip of your pink drink, blinking your eyelashes.
"You gonna choke me, daddy?"
He hums, vibrations rumbling against your back. "I've gotten too used to having you around. I’d probably go crazy without you." Instead of choking you as some lethal assailant in the night may have, he begins massaging you instead. "You haven't been relaxing. You're stiff, sweetheart." You reach back, hand finding his crotch.
"And you're not." You turn around, looking up at him teasingly. "That's a problem." He turns the lights back on, smirking as the shoulders of your dress fall down your back.
"We won’t have to worry about that for long." He walks over to fix himself a drink, undoing his top two buttons to reveal the tattoos on his chest. "What’d you do today, babygirl?"
"Made sure nobody broke in and killed me," you smile sweetly, sauntering by him. You hum, and look at his gun cabinet as you pass it. "That gets me wondering..."
"Mm," he mumbles, half listening as he downs his glass of vodka and pours himself another. You watch him, biting your lip. His black shards of hair are in his eyes, and his cuff links have the slightest trace of dried blood on them. It makes you wet imagining how it got there.
Turning to the cabinet your curiosity had brought you to, you unlatch it, and take a small gun out. You make sure to attach the silencer, as you’d seen Manson do a million times, and close the cabinet door softly. Walking back over to the living room, you stand across from the west wall.
Looking around, you aim at a plate on the shelf across the room, and pull the trigger. It instead blows a hole through a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Manson looks up from where he’s cutting lines.
“Mind telling me why you’re shooting up the place?”
“I’m practicing,” you shush him, getting up and inspecting the smoking bullet hole, “What am I going to do when you’re away one day and some thug comes in, trying to kidnap me to get to you?” He stares at you through dark eyes, taking a sip of his vodka. You go on. “Picture it. Bates sends you off to Hong Kong to kill some arms dealer who wouldn’t pay. I’m here... all alone... dressed like I am...” You inch your dress up your leg, and his eyes dart down, following the hike of your skirt.
“So, you wanna protect yourself with a gun?” he muses, using a rolled up hundred to snort his lines. “How patriotic.”
“Fuck off.” You lick your matte red lips. “If you get to play with guns, so should I.”
A smug smirk dances on his lips as he admires your form. At least your breasts are being pushed together nicely the way you’re holding that pistol. “Uh huh. Have some of this.”
“I’m busy.”
He walks over to the couch, and sits behind you with his drink, watching. “Okay. Try again.”
You look at him, then back at your target: the damn plate.
He settles in, elbows on his knees, and watches your finger stroke the trigger. “Careful, angel. Aim nice and close.” You close one eye, and pull the trigger. Manson cringes as you blow his first edition Alistair Crowley book away.
He gets up, sighing, and sets his drink down. “You wanna learn how to do what I do?” he mumbles in your ear. He presses his weight up against you from behind, and wraps his arms around you, rolling up his sleeves. His hand encompasses yours, tattooed fingers making sure your grip is right. “Here’s what I do.” He jerks your arm, shooting the plate. Then he shoots a cross pattern into the wall behind it, with four bullet holes, and strokes his hand down your hip. You moan gently, and he pauses. “Oh. You like that?”
“Mhm,” you nod, and he brushes your hair aside, holding your shoulder.
“Your turn.” You aim, and he holds your hand again, steady. “Shoot,” he whispers, pointing just past you, “Here. And the world’ll get smaller, sweetheart.”
His voice is like sandpaper honeyed over. You lean back into him, and his hand finds your breast, massaging it as you try to aim. You give up a few seconds later, and he guides the gun down between your breasts, down your stomach, and slides your dress up your thigh.
“Please,” you whisper, and he dips the barrel of the gun into your black lace panties.
“I fucking wanted you all week,” he growls in your ear, “It killed me being away from you.”
“You could’ve called me.”
He drags the gun up and down. “I don’t have enough burner phones for how many times I had to jack off thinking of you.”
You shiver, reaching back to palm him. He’s half hard in his pants, and you want more. “What did you think of?”
“You, putting on a little show for me. Those gorgeous eyes, staring up at me like I’m the world while you suck my cock like it’s all you live for.”
“Oh,” you breathe, and he massages your other breast, starting to move the gun against your clit.
“You look good holding a gun, babygirl. Aim and show daddy just how good you are.” He gives you the gun, but you drop it and press your lips to his. He walks you back into the floor to ceiling glass windows, and tears your dress, letting it fall around your ankles.
“I liked that dress,” you pout.
“Fuck the dress,” he mutters, and turns you around so you’re facing the building opposite you. You’re only in black pantyhose and a black push up bra, otherwise exposed. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his grill making the mark even more pronounced, and you purr, grinding back against him. He grinds his cock into your ass for a moment, just reveling in the sound of your soft moans growing in volume.
He finally pulls your panties down, and positions himself, slowly sinking into you. You gasp, palms splaying out over the window. He grunts once he’s all the way in, then starts up a pace. You grind back into every thrust, and he holds you around your middle, slapping your ass with his hips every time he pounds in.
“You know, if someone broke in, you could just fuck them to distract them until I got back. Your pussy could send a man to an early grave.”
Angrily, you shove back against the window so that both of you fall to the floor, and you get back on top of him. He holds your hips, mouth falling open and head falling back as you start to ride him hard into the floor.
“Babyg... ah, ah... ah...”
“You like that?” you circle your hips, slamming down, “Huh? Mister tough hitman, scary pale emperor, thinks I can’t protect myself. You like feeling my wet little cunt around you? Guess who’s on top of who?!”
“Fuck,” he groans, and you put your forearms on either side of his head, dragging your breasts up over his face.
“I’m close,” you whisper, “Oh god.” He holds you tighter, reaching up your ribcage to grope your breasts and suck your nipples.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum on my fucking cock,” he sneers, “Do it, I know you want it.”
“Manson,” you moan, and he rocks you through your orgasm from beneath. When he knows you’re done, he flips you over, roughly pounding into you a few times before his hips stutter and he swears again, finishing inside you.
He catches his breath, and kisses your forehead, rolling over beside you. His hair is messed up, eyeshadow smudged over half-lidded eyes.
“I’m sorry about the dress, babygirl. I’ll buy you a new one. Pretty one, just like that one, hm?”
“Thank you,” you whisper, crossing your leg with his. He holds onto your leg, chest rising and falling. You two finally rise, and you pull your panties up, so your lingerie set is at least complete to walk around in.
“Now. About this gun thing.” He runs his hand through his hair, and picks it up. “Why don’t we practice on something useful?”
He points out the window at the neighbour he absolutely despises. The guy has his Christmas tree decked out in LED blinking lights that never seem to go out, and while the building across from you seems like it’s miles away, it hasn’t stopped irking either of you.
“Kill Griswold over there.”
“I can’t kill him!”
“Your aim is fine.”
“I bet you I can’t.”
“I bet you can, and whoever is wrong has to give the other person... four straight hours of oral sex.”
You sigh, and aim the gun. “What about the windows, genius?” His hands find your hips, and he holds his hands together in front of you, resting his forearms on your curves. He lays his head in the nape of your neck, watching with you.
“We’ll replace them tomorrow, with your dress.”
“You think it’s smart to leave the penthouse of a contract killer wide open all night?”
“If anybody comes to get us, I know who’s gonna protect me.” He nudges you with his head. “Shoot the motherfucker.”
You pull the trigger, and hit the poor guy’s power box. His tree goes up in flames, and you stifle a laugh. You two watch as he comes storming into his living room, and looks over, trying to find who did it in a sea of tiny apartment lights. He finally looks all the way up at you two. Manson waves, grinning, and you blow him a kiss.
“My nasty little femme fatale,” he mumbles into your neck. He saunters over to the chaise, sitting back, and you sit on his lap, slinging your legs sideways over his.
“When’s your next job?” you ask, taking a sip from his tumbler of vodka. He plays with a lock of your hair.
“Next month. Contract in Berlin.”
Berlin. That’s... “That’s not far,” you murmur, mouthing kisses along the corner of his mouth, playing with the last few done up buttons above his navel. You trace the long upside down cross he’s got tattooed there.
“Mmm,” Manson agrees, fondly stroking up and down your arms. “I think we should get a cat. We can pawn it off on Bates when we leave.” He idly looks back at the picture frame on the shelf, staring for longer than usual. You follow his line of sight, and try to think of the best way to say it.
“Maybe... he doesn’t want to be found, babe.” Manson looks back to you.
“Good. I hope the fucker stays lost.”
Snuggling into him on the couch, listening to the late night Stuttgart traffic from the open air where your window used to be, you feel his heartbeat pick up a little. No matter how much he tried to deny it, the mystery was weighing on him.
After Mission Grotesque, where had his old partner disappeared to?
