In the Theater

Author's Note: This is the first thing involving explicit sex that I've ever finished, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes I've made. For the uninitiated, our stars are Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails and his wife Mariqueen Maandig from How To Destroy Angels, and the story takes place roughly in 2008/2009.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. The events in this story never occurred, and the characters involved are not an accurate reflection of the individuals presented therein.

"I'm all outta bullets, but I still got... my fists!"

They sat huddled in one of the middle of the dark theater, alone except for each other and the giant screen. The sound of gunfire and running footsteps filled the room as the typically macho action hero punched his way into the villain's hideout. Mariqueen rested her head against Trent's shoulder as she sipped all-too sweet soda. In a chair next to him sat Trent's dark coat.

He hung his arm across Mariqueen's back and stroked it softly. For the first time since the tour started, they finally had some time to do something alone, no bandmates or anything. However, the only thing they could do before leaving town was see the latest "Damn I wish I was Die Hard" summer blockbuster. The hype surrounding the movie had already died by the time they bought their tickets for the weekend matinee, and Trent noticed that there wasn't a single other living soul inside the theater when they entered. Or, for that matter, since they entered.

If he was being honest, he preferred it that way. He liked not having to deal with people loudly commenting on the movie, or teenagers calling each other on their phones, or parents needing to take their children outside because they didn't bother checking the goddamn rating. No, he liked being there just with her.

Now if only the movie was, you know, good.

"Getting tired?" Mariqueen asked him quietly after he yawned.

"You know you don't have to whisper, right?" He said at a more 'normal' volume. "I'm not tired, the movie's just... really bad."

"Yeah," She said less quietly. "How many explosions do you think we've seen so far?"

Trent shrugged. "Don't know, I was too distracted by the main actor's line delivery." He shook his head. "Shit, how hard is it to say a one liner?"

On the screen, the hero threw down the blow torch he used on a random minion. His eyes looked nervously at something unseen in the movie. "Looks like he's fired," He declared robotically.

"Shit, you're right," She said. "You just wanna get out of here? We can probably do something else before we leave town."

"Nah," He replied. "We already wasted our money enough. Might as well stay for the long-ass ride."

They settled back into silence as a huge, badly rendered CGI explosion filled the screen (the hero surviving in a confusing and contrived way not seen since Kingdom of the Crystal Skull). Trent, who at that point was thinking less about the movie and more about the next rehearsal ("What if I added some more tambourine?"), suddenly felt something on his thigh. He looked and saw Mariqueen rest her hand suspiciously close to his groin.

"That bored, huh?" He asked, nonchalantly.

"I like to make my own fun," She said, trailing her hand near his inner thigh. "Lots and lots of fun."

A pleasant chill ran up Trent's spine, but he shifted nervously in his seat. "We should probably stop before the usher catches us."

"What, scared we're gonna get in trouble?" She teased. "Besides, we're not doing anything that bad, no one's gonna kick us out."

Back in the movie, the hero and his love interest (who had barely shared a total of three scenes and no chemistry) awkwardly kissed. A boom mic could be spotted in the upper left hand corner.

"But now that you mentioned it..." Said Mariqueen. "That does give me an idea."

Trent's face turned red in the shadows; was she suggesting what he thought she was suggesting? "Yeah?"

"How much longer do you think the movie is?"

"I don't know, fifteen, twenty minutes?" He shrugged.

"So, I'm thinking," She paused. "I think that should give us plenty of time."

He met her eyes, and Trent realized it; Oh, she was definitely suggesting that.

With that, Mariqueen placed her hand right on his jean-clad cock. Tracing the outline, she slowly started to massage it through the material. The look in her eyes was more than eager.

Just underneath her hand, he twitched a little.

Despite that, something in the movie caught Trent's eye - or rather, ears. The villain was in the middle of his 'obligatory bad guy explains his evil plan' bit, and only then did Trent notice that the actor was obviously American but putting on a very bad 'English-or-Australian-or-possibly-Irish' accent (in the back of his mind he vaguely toyed with the idea of showing the movie to Atticus, just to see if the sorry attempt at an accent would send even his mild-mannered partner into a blind rage).

"So?" Mariqueen's low voice snapped him out of the movie. "What do you want to do?"

Trent mentally weighed his options: he could either sit and watch the movie, teetering between being bored out of his skull or baffled at everything he saw... or he could do something potentially extremely stupid (especially if they got caught; he wasn't looking forward to any headlines reading "Rockstar Caught in Theater Tryst"), but whatever Mariqueen had in mind, it had to be more interesting than this.

God -- or whoever the hell was out there -- knew he made some terrible decisions; surely this wouldn't top the list, right?

He kissed her neck, then whispered in her ear. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

She whispered back, almost purring, "Relax, and I'll show you. I just need you to do one thing."

"Yeah?"

"Take off your pants."

Trent, heart racing, stood up and (hoping that the projectionist didn't see his bare ass) slid both the jeans and his briefs down his legs until they were a pool around his ankles. Exposed for the world - or at least the theater - to see, Mariqueen gazed down below his waist. She grinned, pleased.

"Good boy," She said, making the hair on his neck stand up. "Now sit back down for me."

He did so.

Mariqueen wasted no time getting out of her seat and kneeling between his legs. Giving him an impish look, she spread his legs wide open and traced her fingers along his legs. She bent forward and lovingly placed a kiss upon his inner thigh.

Trent exhaled slowly and leaned back in his seat, feeling his body relax more as she smoothly rubbed her hands against his legs. He completely forgot about the movie; no, his mind was solely focused on Mariqueen and her hands.

Then he felt it; an all too brief wet flick against the tip of his cock. Even as quick as it was, it was all she needed to put him at the edge of it all. If the hairs on his neck were standing up before, he could only imagine what they were doing now.

"Fuck," He breathed. "You're such a tease sometimes."

"You like it then?" She asked playfully.

"Ye- yeah," He stuttered. "I like tha-"

There was the sound of a door closing, and, stomach sinking, he knew it didn't come from the movie.

Trent hissed through gritted teeth, "Shit!"

A few rows down, three tall silhouettes walked over to their seats; they looked to be in their early twenties, all men. They walked oddly, and for some reason Trent couldn't figure out in the darkness of the theater, they were keeping their arms close to their torsos.

One of them threw his hands up. "Goddamn it, we already missed most of the movie!" He gruffly exclaimed before taking a seat next to his friends, followed by a psssp! noise that Trent was sure came from a can of some sort.

"Q?" He whispered, remembering that his girlfriend was still kneeling. "You did hear that, right?"

"Yeah," She groaned in displeasure.

"What do you wanna do?"

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"Well..." He bit his lip a little. "Do you want to, you know, keep doing this?"

There was a pause.

Mariqueen answered with a swirl of her tongue.

Trent's knees tensed in surprise; she was way bolder than he thought. She looked at his face, put a finger to her lips and "shushed" him.

"Whatever you do," She whispered. "Don't let them hear you."

She lowered her head again, and gently wrapped her right hand around his shaft and started stroking. Gradually, she put her thumb right on the head and circled it slowly and tenderly, over and over. Trent suppressed the moan that was forming at the bottom of his throat and breathed slowly. Electricity flowed through him, all the way from his toes right up to his scalp. Each steady stroke of her hand, each caress of her fingers made him feel like he was floating.

Something squeaked, and he went from floating to falling.

Paranoia cut through Trent's arousal like a knife, and he risked a quick peek at the three other moviegoers; one of them was uncomfortably shifting around in his seat, but otherwise all three of the men were glued to the screen. They were talking loud enough that he could hear them, but it was mostly mumblings of "holy shit", "look at that explosion", and "did you see that main chick's tits?"

Well, at least some people were enjoying the movie.

A soothing motion on his thigh brought him back to the current 'activity'. "We're fine," Mariqueen assured, then licked her lips.

That caught Trent's attention.

Without missing a beat, she slipped his tip in between her soft, wet lips. Trent gasped like someone had dropped an ice cube down his shirt, and he dug his fingers deep into his armrests as her warm tongue flicked. As her tongue circled and she took his cock ever so further inside, he wanted so badly to close his eyes, to lose himself completely in her touch.

She let go of him. "You like the way my mouth feels around your hard cock?" MQ asked him breathily.

"Y-yeah," He nearly whimpered.

One of the men in front of them turned his head around, and Trent's heart just about skipped a beat. To his relief, the film's hero started shooting at something and the man turned back to watch.

"Fuck," Trent muttered. The sound of his own pulse pounded in his eardrums, overpowering even all of the gratuitous explosions and gunshots; at this rate, he'd have a heart attack before he came.

Unbothered, Mariqueen slid his cock back inside her mouth until it was right up to the ridge. Her right hand wandered all over his body; going from his thighs, to his navel, all the while her tongue played with the underside of the ridge. His hips were writhing in the seat, and despite his attempts he couldn't keep still to save his life. Mariqueen's hands stopped their exploration, only for her to grasp him at the base of his cock and continue stroking, faster and rougher than before.

Trent's seat, which wasn't exactly quiet in the first place, was starting to squeak from his squirming. Common sense told him it was probably a sign that they should stop right there before it was too late; hell, at least he could keep himself from moaning. You can't do much with a squeaky chair, and there's only so much that can be covered by the sound of cinematic explosions.

But, sweat rolling down his back, heart pounding, eyes suddenly locking with her's... he didn't want to stop. Not when he was so close.

He caught something in his peripheral.

Someone was walking. Reluctantly, Trent tore his eyes away from Mariqueen's to see what it was.

In the light of the screen, he saw a middle-aged man in a red vest at the very last row; the same red vest as the girl in the ticket booth, and the guy at the concessions stand.

And at a steady pace, he was checking each row.

That had to be the usher.

"Q- Q..." Fuck, he was so far gone he couldn't even get a single letter out, let alone a complete sentence. He looked back down at her, pleading with his eyes in the hope she'd get the message.

A few rows down, the usher was getting into an argument with the three men; Trent thought he overheard something about beer, but frankly he didn't give a shit.

To Trent's relief, Mariqueen understood what he was getting at, and took his cock out of her mouth-

Just as her face was hit with a hot, white fluid.

She gasped loudly.

A single thought ran through his brain: 'Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck...'

They stared at each other in total silence.

Or at least as silent as one can get in the presence of four increasingly angry men (three of whom had been drinking), and yet another random explosion from the film.

Trent did the one thing he could do with his head buzzing with a mixture of terror and post-orgasm euphoria; blink. All he wanted to do then was lean back in his seat, and just bask in it all with Mariqueen. Then he remembered where he was, what was going on, and that he wasn't wearing any pants.

The three men were being escorted out of the theater by the frustrated usher - one of them shouted "Man, fuck you!" - and Trent saw his chance to get dressed.

'Might as well do something about that while they're not looking,' He thought, then looked back at the still surprised Mariqueen. "You want some help getting up?"

She gingerly touched a smear of cum on her cheek. "S- sure. Maybe a napkin, too."

Mariqueen took his hand and stood up, somewhat dazed from the stress. While there were no napkins to be seen, he handed her his discarded jacket.

"Trust me, I can always have it washed," He insisted. "And, uh, sorry about that. I didn't mean for-"

"It's fine, really. I'm fine."

The movie seemed to have only a few more minutes left, and with him redressed and her cleaned up, they huddled back together, both quiet. With the three men and the usher gone, it seemed as if the last however many minutes never even occurred, and the only thing they did do was watch the movie.

Speaking of which, Trent was completely lost on where the plot was, but he figured that it would've been the same had he actually watched the movie.

Mariqueen sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "That was so stupid."

"The movie?" He asked.

"You know what I mean, smartass," Said Mariqueen. "I shouldn't have even thought about that."

Trent took her hand supportively. "I don't think it was stupid."

"Mmh, that's because you got your dick sucked."

"Okay, you're right," He half-shrugged. "But... I've done a lot of stupid crap in my life, including paying to watch this sack of shit."

On screen, the villain fell off a skyscraper, but after a poorly edited cut was replaced by an obvious CGI model that looked straight out of the PlayStation 2. His scream would've put Fay Wray to shame.

It cut back to the hero, who looked directly at the camera, paused for a few seconds longer than he probably was supposed to and dully muttered, "See ya next fall, asshole."

"And, uh," Trent said, softly caressing her hand. "I just wanted to say, um..."

"Yeah?" She broke away slightly, giving him a small smile.

"That was, um, really nice. Y'know, minus the 'nearly getting caught' part."

Her eyes lit up with some reluctance. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?"

He answered by embracing her and kissing her forehead. "Let's not do that again, though."

She nodded. "Oh, God no."

They took one last look at the movie before standing up to leave. In big, white letters were the words, "Directed by Alan Smithee."

"Huh," Said Trent. "That's... not surprising.""

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