Warnings: Slash (Heyman/Punk), Smut, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.
Honesty is not something Paul E Heyman is overly comfortable with, at least not in a professional sense. Professional wrestling is a business built on deceit. Lies told to the fans in the name of entertainment, lies told to wrestlers in the name of saving a buck, lies told to promoters in the name of making a buck. Fake/real, real/fake, kayfabe, all smoke and mirrors, to make the marks believe what you want them to believe, hide the bad and accentuate the good. If you asked Paul when is a work not a work, he would laugh at you and tell you that it is always a work. He's certain that this is why so many relationships in professional wrestling fall apart, everyone is working everyone else and no one trusts anybody, it's a world he is familiar and comfortable with.
Yet, it still came as a surprise to realise that little Icarus had worked him. It wasn't obvious to Paul at first, no, it had taken a visit from the best friend to realise that perhaps, sweet, shy little Punk was not quite as inexperienced as he would have led Paul to believe. Grown men are rarely that comfortable around each other, unless there is something else binding them together and well, Punk and his dumpy little friend were very comfortable with each other. If he's honest and Paul does so hate to be honest, even with himself, he's more impressed than annoyed about being worked by Philip; it shows that he's not wrong in his pinning his faith in him. It takes more than a pretty face to work Paul Heyman; it takes cunning, intelligence and a pretty face.
The time he spends in OVW, Paul feels, is a waste of his talents really, both his and his Icarus', really television, national television is where they both belong but Vince is stubborn in his hatred of Paul, stubborn in his determination to force Paul to fit some manner of McMahon approved mould. The idea amuses as much as it frustrates him so he endures, watches his little Punk get more and more over in a tiny little territory, in the armpit of nowhere and sings his praises in memos to Stamford.
"I received two memos this morning, Philip." It's back in Paul's little office, where he mentions this to Punk. The other man sitting on the same chair, though the timid act has been dropped in favour of something more assured. Paul almost misses the nervous, hand-wringing child but the man opposite him has become something of friend, the nights spent teaching him how to edit and produce television has given them a bond. It's an unexpected bond but then again what bond is ever really, truly expected in this business?
"That's nice?" He looks mildly confused, Paul hands him the first memo. A little note saying that they're are restarting ECW. Again if Paul is honest, how he hates that, he knows that this will not be the ECW he created, this will be the WWE-approved version of his grubby bastard child, homogenised and cleaned up, made to fit the mould. Another not-so subtle punishment from McMahon, another sharp little reminder that Vince is in control. Punk's eyes flit across the paper, eyebrows drawn, twisting the little ring in his lip around and around, a mildly distracting habit, it draws far too much attention to those thin lips of his. "I see." He set the paper back down and sighs. Paul nods and hands him the other memo. This time, Punk's eyes harden, narrow. Rage, genuine, soul deep fury is something Paul has never seen in his little Icarus and if he's honest, once more, it's rather beautiful; fire and wrath are good looks on Philip.
"Memo number two, Philip, memo number two." Paul steeples his fingers. "You see, I told you, you're really not Vince's type." Memo number two informs Paul that CM Punk is not to be used on national television, he doesn't have the right look, the company has no faith in him. "The way I see it, Philip, memo number two is bullshit. However." Paul pauses, waits for Punk to place the sheet of paper on the desk, the edges creased and crinkled.
"However?" Punk asks softly, eyes still trained on that sheet of paper. Paul grabs it and crumples it up into a ball, tossing it into the wastepaper bin.
"I have been given full authority to build the ECW roster as I see fit." Paul smiles easily, Punk shifts in the chair, discomfort flowing over him.
"And?" He says softly, still looking at the desk where the memo was.
"I believe we've had this conversation, Philip." Another shift and Punk's eyes finally meet Paul's own.
"A rub for a rub?" He sounds rather hopeless and small. Paul smiles easily, little Icarus is rather good at playing naive but fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, well no one fools Paul Heyman twice.
"Coy is a good look on you, Philip but you can't use the same work twice." Punk's eyes narrow and a lazy smirk spreads over his lips.
"What do you want, Heyman?" He sounds slightly resigned and bored, as though he'd not been expecting to get away with the innocent act twice and had reconciled himself to giving Paul something more this time.
"To watch." Paul smiles easily, opens a drawer in the desk and throws Punk the little bottle of lotion again. Punk stares back at him, one eyebrow raised.
"Watch?" He sounds mildly surprised, like he'd been expecting more.
"I'll stay right here." Paul pats the armrests of his chair and smiles easily. "Though this time, more of a show, Philip. Get undressed." Punk stands, takes the beanie off his head, pulls off the over-sized hoodie he's wearing and toes off his sneakers. The t-shirt and jeans follow quickly, till all he's wearing is his boxers and socks. Paul nods to the battered sofa along one wall. "A show, Philip."
"Yeah, yeah." He mutters, hair hiding his face, he sheds the boxers quickly and sets the lotion down on floor by the sofa. He lays down, his body stretched out; arms over his head, back arched just slightly, the light glinting off the metal hoops in his nipples. Paul's focus is on the tattoo on his stomach, the way it follows the curve of his rib cage, declares his morals and principles so boldly. It's a hell of a gimmick. A good gimmick is as much about the man that has it, as it is about what the gimmick is, you can make anything a good gimmick. Take the Undertaker, for example, that gimmick is, essentially, a wrestling zombie controlled by a little fat man but make the wrestling zombie, Mark Calloway and the little fat man Percy Pringle and you have gold. A gimmick is a hook, a lead in, a point of reference for your marks; it's the men you give that gimmick to, that makes them stick around. Punk, his gimmick is himself, well a facet of himself, shine the light through him differently and you get a different reflection, the whole straight edge thing, it's a hell of a gimmick. Punk trails one hand down the other arm, down his throat, over his collarbone, long fingers stroking his skin, simple but captivating, eyes firmly clamped shut, lips parted, breath soft and even. His fingers pinch and tug on one nipple, a soft gasp and his hips rise slightly, one foot braced on the floor. His hand skims over his stomach, one finger dips into his belly button and Paul is certain that shouldn't have been quite interesting as it was but quickly his hand is moving further south, down past his genitals and stroking down his leg. He lifts the leg his fingers are caressing and reaches up, pulling off the sock, showing some impressive flexibility and a teasing hint of his ass. The other leg, he picks up from the floor and rises it up beside the first, if the desk was in a better place, Paul would be able to see his asshole and suddenly interior design seems so much more interested than it had. The foot is back on the ground quickly and Punk grabs the lotion, covers one palm and takes a hold of his cock, stroking it slowly, teasing it to hardness with one hand. The other he trails over his chest and stomach, fingers lingering where it feels best. Paul watches, shifting in his chair slightly, the urge to take a hold of his own cock is strong but this is neither the time nor the place for that. He opens the desk drawer and tosses something else to Punk. It lands on his stomach and his eyes fly open, hand fumbling to grab the dildo, neither big nor small, merely average and flesh coloured. He stares at it incredulously and glares at the pot plant behind Paul's head.
"A show, Philip." Paul reminds him easily, smiling and crossing his arms over his chest, watching with cool detachment as Punk takes up the bottle of lotion again, coats a finger and eases it inside of his body. He bites his lips and his eyes screw shut once more, as he moves that one finger in and out of himself, more lotion and two fingers are inside of him, stretching and opening himself up. "Turn to face me." Paul directs casually and Punk plants both feet on the floor, then takes a hold of the dildo, coats it in lotion and slowly eases it into himself. "That's it, slowly." Paul murmurs, watching Punk fuck himself, the dildo probing deeper with each movement until eventually the fake balls rest against Punk's ass. He takes his cock back in hand and strokes it firmly, regaining the hardness lost through inattention. "Keep fucking it." Paul guides him, Punk's other hand takes a hold of the dildo and manages to fuck it in and out a little, he lets go of his cock and concentrates of fucking himself, both hands pulling and pushing at the fake cock in his ass.
"Fuck." It's a soft little pant under his breath but Paul hears it clearly. Little Icarus has finally found his prostate and keeps the dildo fucking at that angle, his legs spreading wider, hips moving to meet the dildo's movements. He uses one hand to keep the dildo inside of his body and starts jacking off with determination, chasing his orgasm. Coming quietly is Philip's preference, it seems, his lip between his teeth, eyes firmly closed. He lies panting for a while and Paul watches him, studies the way his chest heaves and his eyes remain closed, eventually Paul throws him the box of tissues and Punk takes the dildo from inside of him.
"So." Paul clears his throat, carefully not looking at Punk as he pulls his clothes back on, instead focussing very carefully on the glass of water he's pouring. Punk sits and sets the dildo down on the desk, very deliberately, a smirk on his thin lips. Little Icarus, clearly thinking he's won this round and if Paul is honest, he might have. "I believe, there will be a space for you on the ECW roster, Punk." They talk a little more and eventually Icarus leaves, closes the door behind him and Paul smirks, and sends off a quick email to Stamford. Little Icarus doesn't need to know that the second memo is old, that the real second memo Paul received that day was an exasperated are you sure you want him on your roster? Little Icarus may have worked Paul once but Paul is not one to let that lie, he's been in this business a long time after all and everyone is always working everyone else.
Rebellecherry: Thank you! I'm not sure if believeable is a good thing though! LoL I'm relieved you thought Paul was okay! :3
littleone1389: Little Punk is a devious wee soul, I'm glad he worked you too! :D
EmbraceLove: Punk was just gorgeous with the eyeliner wasn't he? :3 I'm very flattered that you only read this cause it was me, flattered and flustered, if I'm honest!
batwolfgirl: No, don't be scared because of me! The others, yeah, they are intimidating as all get out though! LoL
Brokenspell77: I had to have the real struggles in there, I've never tried writing something entirely kayfabe... I am glad you enjoyed it though, you terrible influence you! I hope you liked this one too.
alizabethianrose: I'm not sure I'd say Paul was evil, manipulative and far too clever for his own good but evil, not Paul E! He loveable, kind of at least!
bitter-alisa: Mentor! Your presence is both unexpected and most welcome! I shall endeavour to live up to your expectations! :D
I don't listen to the voices in my head,
I watch the pretty pictures there instead.
Watch to see what they do,
Write it down, to share with you.
What you think good or shite,
To find out, will be a delight
So with that in view,
Please, leave a review.
See I do poetry as well... my English teachers would be so proud. :3
