Chapter Text
In PJ's defense, it wasn't his idea to hire the strippers.
And, okay, so it was a bachelor party, and bachelor parties should have strippers--in fact, it was tradition. And PJ was best man, which meant he had to be in charge of all that.
But still, PJ hadn't wanted them, and so no one could blame him for what happened.
God, did PJ hate weddings.
***
Dan and Phil were adorable together, and PJ was happy for them. Really, he was. After all, he'd been friends with them for a long time, since university, and they were always meant to be together. It was so obvious. PJ clearly remembered their awkward dances around each other, remembered the late nights where he was on the phone with the both of them at the same time, trying to convince them to go for it. And when PJ finally walked in on the two of them kissing, he practically fell to his knees and thanked God because Jesus if those weren't the longest four months of his existence.
That being said, PJ really hadn't wanted to be best man at their wedding.
It was just the stress of it all--the stag night, the best man speech, the weird pressure that comes from odd uncles and aunts who don't want to bug the actual people getting married. But Dan and Phil had been so sweet about asking him, and he couldn't turn them down when Phil was giving him that shy smile and Dan was employing his puppy eyes too well, so now here PJ was, stuck in Las Vegas in some hotel room. And soon, he was going to have to force Dan and Phil and ten of their closest friends out to a gay stripper bar right in the heart of Las Vegas.
Not that he was bitter or anything.
Well, he was, if he was being brutally honest--they had the fairy-tale romance. Sweet kisses in public, soft smiles that could melt any heart, shoulders that fit under arms too perfectly. PJ would hate them if he wasn't too busy being happy for them. 26 years old and getting married, and everyone knew that they were soul mates. PJ didn't even believe in soul mates, and he knew that they were. They were quite literally each other's best friend.
And here PJ was, a starving artist of sorts (making films wasn't exactly the big money-maker), with a day job he absolutely hated and no love life to speak of. It was impossible not to be bitter, really.
PJ let out a huge sigh and flopped down on his hotel bed.
Soon, he'd have to take everyone out to get wasted and horny, and he'd have to pretend to be enjoying himself immensely.
But first? A nap was in order. Maybe he'd wake up when it was all over.
***
Dan and Phil, the adorable little gits they were, had decided to share a bachelor party, despite the fact that that kind of took away the whole 'bachelor' aspect of it.
PJ didn't mind, though; it meant less work on his end.
And, as aforementioned, it seriously was not his fault that they had strippers. That was totally due to tradition and Caspar Lee's incessant pushing at him for it.
So really, it wasn't PJ's fault. PJ cannot stress this point enough.
"I'm gonna...gonna go to the l-loo," Dan stuttered out, barely audible above the loud music playing.
Phil frowned down at his fiancee, who was currently using him as a crutch. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he shouted back, his eyebrows knitting together.
"Not iffff you're not...there with meeeee," Dan slurred. His hands went to Phil's chest, roaming around, popping open a button on his shirt. "Watchagonnadoboutit?"
Phil rolled his eyes and pulled Dan's arm around his neck. "C'mon, let's get you there before you start vomiting on the strippers."
"Waaaaittt!" Dan grabbed a shot off the nearest tray and dumped it into his throat. "Hah! I'm soooo good at that," Dan gushed. He dropped his glass. It shattered. Dan laughed.
"If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, it's because this loser killed me as a practical joke," Phil said loudly to PJ, and led Dan off to the nearest bathroom.
PJ rolled his eyes, taking another sip of his beer. He leaned back against the couch, a small smile playing at his lips. Ah, the joys of couple-hood, he thought to himself, and chuckled quietly.
Or not so quietly. "Hey, sugar, what's so funny?"
PJ turned his head abruptly, and his eyes widened almost involuntarily. Standing in front of him, was, quite simply, the sexiest man PJ had ever laid eyes on.
He had on black eye-shadow with gold eyeliner, and his cheeks were lined with the same coal and gold color scheme. His lips shimmered silver and copper, and his hair was swept back in a quiff with flecks of gold sprinkled on it. His blue eyes sparked and crackled like a fire. His face was round, but defined at the same time, and oh god his body.
A six-pack that was practically sculpted from marble. All he wore was a pair of metallic gold short shorts that stuck to his skin, revealing a very nice ass. His whole body was shaved and his skin looked so fucking soft. PJ could feel his heart skip a beat. Probably his dick too.
The stripper had on an infuriating smirk the entire time PJ checked him out, and PJ suddenly felt extremely self-conscious (which was a regular PJ feeling). "Um, sorry," he said, "Who...are you?"
The very hot stripper smiled. "Crabstickz," Hot Stripper introduced himself.
PJ raised his eyebrows. "Crabstickz? Sorry, what kind of stripper name is that?"
Crabstickz laughed. "Who said I was a stripper?"
"The ridiculously tight shorts and the money sticking out of them."
"Ah, you have a point," Crabstickz said. "Although these do make me look good. And maybe I just like having money sticking out of my ass. Don't judge me."
PJ raised his eyebrows. "Okay, you're crazy. You're a crazy stripper."
"Very astute. And while we're at it, you're British," Crabstickz pointed out.
"So why do you call yourself Crabstickz?" PJ asked. He sincerely hoped that the disco lights hid the blush on his face well, even though he knew the bulge in his pants was pretty much a lost cause. Crabstickz, for his part, looked faintly amused. PJ wondered if that was just his natural resting face.
"Why not?"
"Well, that kind of makes people think that you have crabs or something, right?"
Crabstickz shifted and sat down at the table near them, nodding for PJ to do the same. Without thinking, PJ did.
"Well, what does it matter? I'm not a prostitute. But, ah, just for the record, I don't. STD-free."
PJ let himself smile. "Very nice to know, I guess."
Crabstickz smiled. Then frowned. Then smiled again. "So, you don't seem the type to go to gay stripper bars just because," Crabstickz noted.
"Nope, definitely not. Two friends of mine are getting married. This is the bachelor party, or at least it was until they left to have sex in the bathroom."
"In Vegas? Shotgun wedding, then?" Crabstickz asked, raising his eyebrows.
"Hardly. They've been in love for, like, seven years. They just thought it'd be fun to get married in Vegas, but not a shotgun wedding," PJ explained.
"Ah. And you're the best man, then?"
"Very good, Sherlock."
"My pleasure, Watson," Crabstickz winked.
PJ squirmed a little, and crossed his legs. He traced his finger around the beer bottle that he'd been holding for three hours. It was still half-full.
Crabstickz's grin got impossibly wider. "Pity, the no shotgun wedding thing. I've always loved the idea of it. Might have one myself. You wanna?"
"Um, did you just propose to me?" PJ might not have sounded surprised, because now it was Crabstickz's eyebrows that shot up.
Crabstickz giggled, and it was a full-on giggle, the kind that was so cute that it sounded like it should come from a puppy. "Yeah, I guess I did. You're interesting and I'm having a boring night. So you want to?"
PJ laughed. "Let me think on it and get back to you."
"Ah, the words every man dreads when he proposes," Crabstickz deadpanned.
"What? I thought it was 'no' that they dreaded," PJ pointed out.
"Nope. 'No' is at least brutal and short. 'Let me think on it' means that you're going to sleep with someone else and then marry me anyway for the money," Crabstickz said.
"You're a stripper."
Crabstickz shrugged. "So? It's fun and it pays the rent. I'm probably richer than you anyway, Mr. Starving Artist."
"Now, how did you know?"
Crabstickz shrugged. "Call it a lucky guess."
"You're on fire tonight," PJ said, smiling.
"Nah, spent all my time talking to you. And you won't even marry me."
PJ laughed, full and genuine. "I can only handle one wedding at a time. Ask me after Dan and Phil are married."
Crabstickz smiled. "So, uh, want a lap dance or something?"
"Shouldn't I buy you dinner first?"
"This is a gay stripper bar and I'm a gay stripper, I'm pretty sure we can go forego that," Crabstickz shot back.
"Why do you ask?"
"Well, that erection sure isn't going away," Crabstickz pointed out. PJ blushed even deeper than he had been.
"Yeah, well, just give me a second to think about my grandmother."
"Ah, that only makes mine worse," Crabstickz said, and without thinking PJ leaned across the table and smacked his arm. Crabstickz moaned loudly over the music, winking at the same time at PJ. That cocky little shit. Okay naked grandmother naked grandmother Jesus his gold shorts are tight in all the right places nope need to think about my grandmother.
"Um..." PJ stumbled over his words, his legs wrapping together more tightly. He took a big gulp of his beer, letting his brain scramble for some witty remark to Crabstickz. "Just so you know...not a starving artist. Starving filmmaker, more like, but I do have a job on the side."
"Interesting," Crabstickz said with a quirk of his eyebrows. His expression was unreadable. PJ laughed uncomfortably. He could feel embarrassment creep up his face, and he ducked his head, rubbing his neck with his hand.
"Wow, you're almost painfully shy. Are you sure you don't want a lap dance or something? That usually loosens people up," Crabstickz suggested cheerily.
"Um...you know what, I'd better get going. Nice meeting you though, very nice. You're hot. You probably already know that."
Crabstickz raised his eyebrows. "Look, you're pretty cool and shit, and cute in a shy way too, but I can't let you off the hook like that. I'm a stripper. Time is money. Can you tip me then?"
PJ sighed, but nonetheless took out his wallet. America's bills were green and almost impossible to tell apart, but PJ slid what he was pretty sure was a twenty to Crabstickz. "Is this good?"
"Yeah. Hey, do you have a pen?" Crabstickz asked, holding up the bill to the disco lights to read it. "Also, $1 instead of twenty. I'll shave off forty-nine dollars from my regular price for you, Mr. Not-Fiancee," Crabstickz winked. He did that too much.
"Why a pen and a dollar bill?"
"Wow, how do you have any friends if you just ask questions all the time?"
"Alright, here you go Crabby-stickz." PJ handed him a pen and the bill, rolling his eyes slightly. Crabstickz smiled, his blue eyes electrifying in the backdrop of disco lights and loud music, and handed him back the twenty. Then, to PJ's distinct horror, Hot Male Stripper actually started to write on the one-dollar bill. Before PJ could even protest, Crabstickz had already capped the pen again, a smirk that should be illegal in twelve countries lighting up on his face.
"You know, with such a bad pun as that, I'm almost reluctant to give you this," Crabstickz said, sliding back the dollar and the pen.
PJ sighed. "You're giving me back ruined money?"
"Oh, it's just a dollar, relax. Plus, you just basically got my autograph, you know how many people would kill for that?" Crabstickz said, a slight gleam in his eye.
"I'm assuming anyone who has experienced the wonders of your lap dances," PJ said dryly.
"Don't you know it, babe. Now, if you'd excuse me, I need to get back to work. Nice to meet you, PJ. I hope I'll see you again." Then, without any warning, Crabstickz actually grabbed PJ and kissed him. Sparks flew throughout PJ's body, setting his spine on fire and causing PJ's skin to nearly burst into flame. Crabstickz winked and disappeared into the crowd, leaving the taste of chap-stick and makeup stuck on PJ's lips.
Numbly, PJ looked down at the dollar bill that Crabstickz had 'signed'. A number. Crabstickz's number. And, there, under that, a note:
Time is money, and honey you look like a million bucks. Call me.
-Your Future Husband