Work Text:
This was supposed to be a good night, you know.
A night where Patrick wanted to free himself from his strict job.
But no, it was all ruined by one simple thing:
His coworker HAD to be the stripper he hired for the night.
Now, they were both in an awkward silence, Pete's heels tapping lightly against the floor as he leaned against the front door, and Trick was sitting on the couch with his hands in his face, sighing and cursing in his mind.
".. They don't pay us that badly for you to work in this, you know." Pete raised an eyebrow at this, placing his hands on his hips now, shifting his weight, the sharp click of one stiletto heel echoing in the sudden quiet.
"Oh, don't lie to yourself, Patrick" He snapped.
"Rent's due next week, and corporate cut overtime again." He shrugged, the motion making the cheap fringe on his shorts shiver. "This gig pays triple what we make filing compliance reports." His voice stayed flat, matter-of-fact, but a faint flush crept up his neck beneath the thick stage makeup.
Patrick finally lowered his hands, revealing eyes wide with horrified disbelief. "Triple? For... this?" He gestured vaguely at Pete's entire ensemble—the fishnets, the absurdly tiny silver shorts, the platform heels that added a good eight inches to Pete’s usual height.
"You wore feathers during the routine, Pete. Actual ostrich feathers. Out of your—" Patrick choked, unable to finish the sentence. The mental image of Pete, their perpetually grumpy spreadsheet jockey, doing a dramatic feather reveal was somehow more traumatizing than the fishnets.
Pete’s flush deepened as he crossed his arms, a defiant tilt to his chin. "It’s called being a showman, Trick. And the feathers get big tips." He uncrossed his arms, letting his hands drift deliberately down his own sides. His voice dropped, losing the defensive edge, becoming smoother, almost liquid.
"Besides... you seemed pretty invested in the show before you recognized me. Your jaw was practically on the floor." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the sharp 'click-click' of his heels punctuating the thick silence. The cheap fringe swayed hypnotically with each movement. "What part did you like best? The chair work? Or when I used your tie as a... prop?"
Patrick choked on air, his face burning hotter than the cheap whiskey he’d been sipping earlier. He remembered the tie incident vividly, VERY vividly, the cool slide of silk against his throat, Pete’s breath warm against his ear as he’d leaned in, smelling faintly of sweat and cheap body glitter. He’d thought the masked performer was flirting with him, specifically. Now, the memory was fucking mortifying... and weirdly electric. He stared resolutely at a stain on the rug, unable to meet Pete’s suddenly knowing gaze.
"... I thought you were just... enthusiastic," he mumbled weakly.
Pete’s laugh was a sharp, unexpected bark, cutting through the tension. He planted a hand on his hip, the stiletto tapping impatiently.
"Enthusiastic? Trick, honey, I saw your eyes practically glued to the sequins on my ass when I did the spin. Thought you were gonna combust." He mimed a dramatic spin, the fringe fluttering wildly. A stray ostrich feather detached itself from his waistband and drifted lazily to the floor like a fallen soldier. Patrick flinched.
Before Pete could launch into another mortifying dissection of Patrick’s reactions, Patrick lurched forward on the couch. His movements were jerky, fueled by a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline. He fumbled for the worn leather wallet tucked into his back pocket, fingers clumsy against the stiff material. He didn't look at Pete; his focus was entirely on the task, his brow furrowed with intense concentration. Bills rustled as he pulled them out – twenties, mostly, crisp and green against the faded upholstery.
"Here," Patrick blurted, shoving the small stack of cash towards Pete. His voice was tight, much more higher than usual, betraying nerves he couldn't suppress. His knuckles were white where he gripped the money.
"What we agreed in the club and.. uhmm.. the.. extra time." He added the last word quickly, almost tripping over it, his gaze flickering briefly to Pete’s startled face before darting away again.
The bills trembled slightly in Patrick’s outstretched hand. He focused intently on a loose thread on his own sleeve, avoiding the bewildered expression he knew was plastered across Pete’s face. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the faint rustle of the twenties. Patrick’s mind raced – was it enough? Too much? Did Pete even wanted payment now that the anonymity was shattered?
Pete didn’t move. His hand remained planted on his hip, the defiant tilt of his chin softening into pure confusion. He stared at the cash, then slowly lifted his gaze to Patrick’s flushed profile. A flicker of something unreadable – amusement? offense? – crossed his features beneath the thick makeup. The sharp click of his stiletto heel ceased its impatient tapping.
"Trick," he said, his voice losing its earlier liquid smoothness, reverting closer to its usual office-grump timbre, laced with disbelief. "What the hell is this?"
Patrick kept his eyes glued to the loose thread on his sleeve, twisting it nervously. His throat felt tight.
"Payment," he mumbled, forcing the word out. "Like… like we agreed. Before…"
He gestured vaguely towards the discarded feather boa draped over his armchair.
"Before I knew it was you." He risked a glance upward, meeting Pete’s incredulous stare. The orange foundation couldn’t hide the genuine bewilderment etching lines around Pete’s eyes.
"Look," Patrick blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush fueled by sheer, mortified desperation,
"The… The night’s not over. You’re here. You… you haven't done the routine." He swallowed hard, the memory of Pete’s deliberate fingers tracing his own waist flashing unbidden.
"I… I still want the service. The full… package." He shoved the cash forward again, his knuckles bone-white. "Just… finish the job."
Pete’s hand finally dropped from his hip. He stared at the trembling bills, then slowly, deliberately, took a step closer. The sharp scent of cheap glitter and sweat intensified. He didn’t take the money. Instead, he leaned down, bringing his face level with Patrick’s, the stiff fringe of his shorts brushing against Patrick’s knee. His voice dropped to a low, smoky whisper that sent an involuntary shiver down Patrick’s spine.
"Finish the job?" Pete echoed, a dangerous glint in his eyeliner-rimmed eyes. His gaze flickered down Patrick’s body, lingering for a heartbeat too long on the strained buttons of his shirt.
"Alright, Trick. Payment accepted." His fingers, cool and surprisingly deft despite the stage nails, brushed Patrick’s wrist as he finally took the cash, folding it smoothly and tucking it into the waistband of his absurd shorts. hands on his hips now before pushing Patrick upright in the chair with one of his hands, "Let this begin."
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Not so long after this, both men were in Trick's room, Pete was kneeling in front of him, his hair was now being stroked by timid hands while the only sound in Patrick's room was his own moans and Pete's occasional dirty talk.
Stump's eyes were closed in pleasure as he let out a couple of pathetic sounds, feeling how Pete's mouth could take his entire cock without choking a bit, man oh man, he had already begun to love this service, and he was already missing it knowing that it was soon going to end.
Suddenly, he let out a louder moan as Pete began to suck him off more intensely, pleasure filling his body with vibrations, his eyes fixed on the tanned's extravagant makeup, he'd be lying if he said Pete didn't look attractive in an outfit like that, so different from what he was used to at his day job.
Pete usually maintained eye contact while performing his 'special job', and he would also be denying it if he said he didn't like doing this, but obviously he wouldn't say anything, it would be crossing the rules of his job—As if he hadn't already crossed the rules of his other job.
His mouth was almost expert for a touch-starved man like Patrick, who had only escaped a couple of moans this whole time. wordless because of the pleasure he was filling, the way Pete did it almost made him forget he was a man.
Almost.
"God, you're too good to be a man..." Patrick moaned without thinking as Pete continued with the Vai van, but now slow and torturous.
"I've been told" He replied, spitting on his cock again to suck it again, at that moment he only cared about pleasing Patrick—Basically, his job— but he would be lying if he said that phrase didn't stay with him.
After not long, the warm white fluid filled Wentz's expert mouth, who began swallowing it before starting to clean Trick's thighs and cock with his tongue, an act that made Patrick shiver softly.
When Pete finished doing that, he didn't take long to stand up and sit next to Patrick, who was sighing heavily as he pulled up his boxers and pants.
"How can you... act so normal after this?"
"Habit." He said.
"Besides, we're still co-workers after this, so we have to... maintain professionalism."
As soon as Patrick finished buttoning his pants and belt, Wentz wasted no time getting out of bed and heading for the door, leaving Patrick perplexed.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, Pete!" He exclaimed, surprised at the scene.
Trick stood up quickly, almost running to get to Pete, who just let out a sigh before opening the door.
"I don't know if I'm still a 'man' after all the compliments you gave me about being good at this.."
"But hey, you payed me good so.. guess that makes it better in someway."
Pete leaned over to give Stump a small kiss on the cheek, who didn't react to it, at least not physically, which made the black-haired man smile.
"See you tomorrow."
Patrick was even more shocked after seeing the dark-haired figure in front of him close the door to his own house and leave. After having the best sex of his life, he walked off as if nothing had happened.
But he was right, somehow.
Just co-workers.
That was all they were, for the day.
Professionalism is more important than a good blowjob, right?