The Event, Sex, and Smelling Children (A Marilyn Manson MPreg Fanfiction)

The two men stank of alcohol and lust. Their thoughts raced and their drunken desires blurred their senses and logic. The ugly motel room's dreary interior didn't matter, not this time. This wasn't a romantic ordeal. It was pure, senseless lust caused by drunken antics. There are no sparks, no candles and flowers, not even a little bit of music. Just the two of them in a crappy motel room used for one night stands. It's meaningless. 

Twiggy felt himself being pushed down onto the creaky, and rather uncomfortable, bed. Manson slammed his own body down on top, wedging his legs roughly in between Twiggy's, none too gently.  Twiggy groaned as he wrenched his legs apart to let Manson in between, rolling his eyes and mumbling a comment about cut it out or neither of them would make it out f the motel room that night. Manson was never the gentlest person in bed.

The pair was already shitless before they even got into the room. Twiggy was already completely naked before they even reached the be. There sweaty clothes lay discarded, but not forgotten after a long and particularly difficult show with a lot of drinking fterwards. Manson was in his boxers and in the process of uneremoniously shedding them only to throw them to the floor.

Heated kisses were exchanged, sloppy and extremely messy. Twiggy knew his face was covered in saliva, a misxture of both his and Manson's. He cringed but did nothing to wipe it off of himself. Instead he focused on Manson, the way his eyes opened and closed in a disorganized pattern, the way his long black hair flell forward and tickled his chest, the way his hands made him feel as he went to work on his lower half, stroking his half-limp member until it became rock hard. The friction made him moan out, a soft whimper escapingfrom his lips. Manson chuckled a little at that. "Cute." he mumbled. 

Then,  Manson took his fingers and wiped them across Twiggy's face, collecting the saliva and easily slickening his thin, long fingers. Twiggy noted to hmself that they reminded him of the creepy tree branches that wre used in almost every single cheesy horror movie. But he didn't have too much time to put thought in it because Manson had slipped a finger in, then another, and another, scssoring him. Twiggy gasped out in pain, not being given any time o adjust to even one finger before Manson was going rather roughly.

The stench of sweat and alcohol filled the air and Twiggy's nostrils, assaulting his senses. He wound up in a coughing fit, wretching for a few minutes. He couldn't shake the small stabbing pain in his chest as Manson continued to prepare him. He guessed Manson didn't notice, or maybe he just didn't care about his coughing fit or the smell. That was the most likely. In their drunken state Twiggy's sense of smell heightened while Manson's dulled.

Eventually Manson decided that Twiggy was prepared, he slammed his body down on Twiggy's nce again, knocking the breath out of the both of them. He thrust in immediately and begin banging Twiggy hard against the creaky bed. 

The alcohol lessened the ain of Manson's girth as he moved in and out of Twiggy's tightness. There was a dull pain that Twiggy could feel around his thighs and inside him that steadily grew more and more intense. Twiggy figured it was because Manson went in almost completel dry, only a small amount of saliva lubing up himself before thrusting in. It hurt, the friction was greater than he anticipated, even without the assistance of a proper amount of lubrication. Still, there was pleasure behind the pair's movements. It made Twiggy gasp and whimper accordingly as Manson ha his way with him. However, like the pain, the pleasure was dulled by the effects of the large amount of alcohol he had consumed before accepting Manson's jaded advances. 

Twiggy placed his hands on Manson's back, nails digging in and drawing blood. He arched his back, half from the pleaure, and half to get away from the annoying spring that kept digging into his back. He moaned as Manson finally hit his prostate whimpering. Manson noticed this and began to pull on Twiggy's dreads. So he is aware that I exist, Twiggy thought to himself as his dreadlocks were savagely pulled at by the man on top of him. He felt his lower regions tighten and he climaxed, seed pouring all over himself and Manson. Manson's sticky cum filled him, sticky and warm and Manson pulled out, exhausted from the exertion in his state. 

Without a word, Manson got up, collected his clothes and headed for the door. As the door slammed shut, he was still in the process of getting his shirt on. Not even a glance at Twiggy.

Twiggy lay there, taking in the smell of sex around the room. Him and Manson mixed with something else. Probably the last couple in here before us, Twiggy decided. And judging from that cheap perfume and lipstick stain on the pillow, it was probably a cheap prostitute. The motel was the crappiest motel within a ten mile radius but it was the cheapest, and money was involved. So Twiggy decided to stay at the motel for tonight and get his money's worth. Just barely.

What Twiggy really needed was a shower, but he coudn't muster the energy to actually get up so he decided he'd wait until the morning. So he laid there, coated in sticky, wet cum that made him want to compare himself to the last cheap whore that had been fucked in that room. He almost could sympathize with her. She was probably left in the same situation as he was in now. Poor girl.

With his last bout of energy for the night, he got under the soiled sheets and fell asleep, alone in the musty hotel room, and possibly, the world.