Warnings: Minor Slash (Heyman/Punk), Slash Smut (Ryback/Punk) Blowjob, Dubious Moral Integrity, Profanity.
There is a saying about the best-laid plans of mice and men, though Paul is convinced that nowhere in that saying is there any mention of the WWE Creative team and the pervasive hatred of Vince McMahon. It is more than frustrating returning to the WWE. Paul is, more often than not, convinced that it is a worthless endeavour attempting to bring quality booking to a company which has forgotten what it is. He can't help but wonder what Vince Senior would have made of Sports Entertainment. If he's honest and he is alarmed at how often he is these days, Paul, himself, isn't sure what he makes of it. Yet, for Icarus, he endures. They fight together, fight creative, fight bad decisions, fight to try to establish some kind of reasonable push for those who deserve it. It is a hard job, guiding little Icarus without any kind of real power or influence and Paul is a man who often wars with himself on whether hard work brings rewards or not. In the WWE, it seems that the reward for hard work is often jobbing. He's listened to Philip's tirades on the way that the Ryder Revolution was crushed, comparing Creative to jackboot wearing thugs and Cena as their most favoured weapon.
Cena and Punk, Paul considers their relationship to be, perhaps, the most interesting in the whole company. It's curious, watching cool, collected Cena laughing raucously at something Punk has said, watching him trying to make Punk laugh, the goofy edge of his personality coming out in an attempt to amuse Philip and Philip, for all his apparent friendliness, with that core of aloof disdain. Paul isn't exactly certain what Cena has done earn the ire of Philip, he thinks it's probably related to the dumpy best friend but really there are all manner of things that people would never consider related to that relationship that Paul sees so very clearly. Then of course, it might be how Cena treated Philip when he first arrived. Cena fully admits that the praise Paul and the Internet gave Punk, somehow damaged him in Cena's eyes. There had been a feeling of is that all? Paul had laughed in Cena's face when he'd told him, had assured John that the all of Philip in his youth was and is far more than anyone in this company has ever and will ever recognise. Paul will fully admit that the shock on Cena's face had amused him more than it should have, the almost squawked you're still that high on him, had been so very entertaining. The phrase perhaps more than it should have been, the idea of being high on a man who is straightedge, definitely amused Paul more than it should have.
Hell in a Cell is approaching and the feud they have heading into it, sees Punk in the cell with the latest pet project of McMahon, Ryback. Awful creature all round, limited talent, prone to getting gassed, atrocious on the mic and huge, grotesquely over-muscled, the sort of thing that gives Vince wet dreams and makes Paul shudder. This feud, it feels rushed, this flirt with the main event will damage Ryback but Cena is injured and Creative went into panic mode. They fussed, they worried and have no idea what they're going to do. Ideas are tossed back and forth like a Frisbee and Paul watches as chaos reigns. Yet, the feud, such as it is, was set up decently, the tension building, Paul and Icarus playing the roles of dastardly villains with eloquent grace, Cena, the wounded hero, as ever playing his part with diligence and Ryback, trying, which Paul quickly realised is about all he could expect.
"They told you anything yet?" Punk is stretching, body contorted into some unreasonable position, showing the lines and curves off beautifully.
"No more than they know, Punk." Paul mutters and sits on a crate. He knows he shouldn't be staring but Icarus is a work of art and should be appreciated as such appropriately. Punk snorts and changes position, one foot on a stack of crates, his legs jack-knifed. Truly, a work of art, Paul thinks as he lets his eyes roam over the curve of Icarus' ass.
"They tell you guys anything bout the finish, yet?" Ryback, Paul absently thinks he should perhaps remember the man's name, Skip, maybe but that might have been a gimmick.
"Nothing." Punk snaps shortly and Ryback looks slightly uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, glancing nervously at Punk's back.
"You wanna go over some stuff for the match?" He asks, fidgeting even more, hands wringing, eyes no longer merely glancing but lingering. Paul's eyes narrow, it's not difficult to notice when people are staring at Icarus, are in the process of coveting him. What is difficult, getting more and more difficult for Paul, is to stop from punching them and throwing some kind of covering over his Icarus. Punk lets his foot drop to the floor and turns to look at Ryback, the set of his shoulders gives away his annoyance, at the interruption, at still not knowing the finish to the Pay Per View, on the damn night of the thing, Paul couldn't say for sure. He wonders if he should perhaps advise Ryan, Paul is unreasonably proud to have remembered the man's name, to fuck off. However, it is Fate and not Paul, that smiles kindly on Ryback this day and Philip's cell rings.
"What you want, fucker?" He answers. Paul thanks God that it's the best friend, if there's anyone on this Earth capable of keeping Philip happy and distracted, it's that man. Paul makes a mental note to show face at Synagogue, at some stage, in the future, if Adonai is looking out for him by sending a fellow Jew to help him, he should probably say thank you. "Ha, what do you think?" Philip picks up his hoodie and starts pulling it on. "What? No! Don't be fucking ridiculous, Cabana! Oh, sure and then I'll break out the kryptonite. Ha, if I thought it'd work." He puts his hand over the speaker. "I'll catch you later?" He says to Paul, the first smile of the night on his face. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously, man, wrong. Just plain, fucking wrong! No! Wait, what? No, no one told me anything." Philip returns to his dumpy little friend, barely sparing a glance at Paul and Ryback is completely ignored. His voice fades the further down the corridor he walks, till the little area is silent, save for the sounds of Ryback breathing.
"I, um." Ryback looks helplessly at Paul and the trickles of a plan flow through his mind.
"Mr Ryback, I have a proposition for you." Paul stands from his crate, straightens his suit jacket and smiles at Ryback.
"What?" He asks, staring at Paul, all earnest and hideous.
"I have an idea of a nice tidy finish for everyone involved." The other man's eyes light up, Paul claps his hand on his shoulder. "Something that lets you lose and yet still look strong." Which is more than anything Creative would come up with, Paul adds to himself.
"I'm listening, Mr Heyman, sir." The man reminds him of an ugly puppy, hideous to look at but at least eager to please.
"Well, I'm glad you'll listen. You see, Mr Reeves." Honestly, Paul is even more proud of remembering the surname to go with the first. "It's a very simple proposition I have for you." He nods, grinning inanely. Paul gently guides him along the corridor, to look for Punk, searching in circles. Eventually finding him sitting cross-legged, on the same crate Paul had been sat on earlier.
"Philip." Paul smiles easily at his Icarus, who looks back, all haughty disinterest, Ryback forgotten between them.
"What do you want, Heyman." Not a question, Paul smiles. It would seem, Philip had seen this game coming, had already laid out his pawns and is waiting for Paul to join him. Paul's smile bleeds into a smirk, Philip smirks back and stands, leading the way to his dressing room. Ryback has attempted to say something several times now but really, he's not a player in this game, he's a piece, not even an overly, valuable one at that. A knight, maybe a rook at most.
"To watch." Paul says softly, once the door is closed. He'd explained the bare bones to Reeves whilst searching for Punk. Service the Champ and the Champ's manager will ensure that you're not overly damaged by losing. Paul would like to think that this roided up lump will be able to grasp the concept, though as he stands there looking at Philip like he has no idea what to do, Paul thinks maybe he should have been slightly more graphic.
"Hmm." Philip's looks thoughtfully at Paul, ignoring the third man. Philip's eyes have an odd little gleam in them, Paul briefly regrets not making the plan more explicit even more that before, this is little Icarus' show now and Paul isn't sure where he's going to take it. "So, a rub for a rub?" He laughs softly and pushes down on Reeves' shoulders, he lands on his knees with a grunt and looks up at Philip but Icarus' isn't looking anywhere but at Paul, eyes locked and calmly focussed. He takes his cock out from his pants and jacks it hard. Reeves, thankfully, gets the message and moves forward, taking Philip's cock in his mouth, his hands resting on Philip's slender hips. It's slightly painful for Paul to watch another man touching his Icarus. Infuriatingly Icarus seems to know this; a lazy smirk on his lips as Reeves moves his head back and forth, gathering speed and moving one hand to cradle Philip's balls. He makes a soft little moan and presses his hands back against the wall. Reeves, it seems is talented, it almost takes no time before Philip is moaning almost constantly, nails scraping at the cheap plaster on the walls, leaving little furrows in it, his eyes closed. Paul watches everything above the waist, there is nothing appealing about the man on his knees, nothing that interests Paul in the least. His eyes are focused on Icarus' face and it is fascinating. Paul catalogues every twitch of an eyebrow, each little moan from between those thin lips, the way his long eyelashes, fan and flutter over his cheeks.
"Fuck." Soft and needy from Icarus', this means he's close, desperately close. Paul finds his attention caught by the way the plaster is crumbling under Icarus' nails. It feels like there is something of a metaphor to be read there but Paul forces it from his mind, turning his attention once more the beauty of his Icarus as he reaches his climax. As he comes down Reeves' throat, Philip's eyes lock with Paul's, his lip between his teeth, something Paul doesn't particularly want to think about stirs in his mind, something to do with plaster and metaphor. He shakes his head and watches as Philip comes down from his peak, chest heaving, a little sweat glistening on his brow. A lazy little smirk spreads over his lips as he mouths; Rogue Ref. Paul can't quite help the answering, amused smirk spreading over his face. Clever little Icarus worked it out all by himself, it would seem. Once Philip has righted his clothes, Ryback stands, looking nervously between both Paul and his Icarus. It is, perhaps, cruel to include other people in this game but sometimes in war, there are civilian casualties. The air is taut with tension but it seems as though dumpy best friend is acting as Philip's guardian angel today, his cell ringing once more.
"What now? You know, I have a life, unlike you, apparently. I might have been. Stuff. WWE Champion things. Blah, blah, blah. My wrist is almost as sore as yours." Philip leaves the room, still carrying on the conversation. Paul nods vaguely at Ryback, explains the finish quickly and leaves him standing in Punk's dressing room, alone.
That he's been requested to attend a meeting with Creative, is interesting, Paul thinks as he settles in a chair, looking at room full of people with notepads and cups of coffee.
"We agree that the rogue referee idea, you proposed a while back, is the one to go with tonight, Paul E but, Phil put forward something interesting when he came by to confirm the finish. Wrestlers, huh? They'd forget their own heads. We're thinking it might be something for Survivor Series. What do you think?" The head writer says, laughing nervously.
"I am sorry, what is Interesting?" Paul asks dryly. So that's how little Icarus knew the ending, clever boy, working him again and not the same work twice, he's learning, Paul thinks, a stab of pride warring with a glut of irritation.
"Calling up some guys from NXT to interfere in the main event. It's good, we like it." The writer continues, we like it, Paul resists the urge to scoff, McMahon likes it. He's liking ideas of Philip's entirely too often these days.
"Did he say who we had in mind? I'm as bad as the boys in the back with my memory." Paul asks with a half chuckle, voice nonchalant, like he was discussing the weather and not planning to get the upper hand back from little Icarus. The score, as far as Paul can tell, is two all; he means to rectify that soon enough.
littleone1389: Intense is kind of how I'd describe this whole... relationship to be honest! :D
EmbraceLove: Paul is a persistent man, that is very true but then Punk is a tricksy and stubborn one, 2 each so far is the score. ;)
Brokenspell77: I am kind of fond of the how straight is your edge line too, to be honest... :3 I am relieved you enjoyed your pegging scene!
alizabethianrose: Well, I'll leave it up to you on whether Punk was working Heyman or not! LoL Paul seems to have decided it wasn't a work, if that helps any! :3
Ladies and gentlemen, your thoughts on this are greatly appreciated: Please review. There's that whole big old box down there just waiting for you to type something in it...