#snapmare

“Aww, you're breaking my heart, kid,” he says, with a tone that suggests anything but. Nudges his leg with his boot, takes in the way Punk flinches away from the touch as if it were something more violent.

“You’d have to have a heart for me to break it,” Punk mutters. Quiet, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, and Raven doesn’t acknowledge it, but he makes a note of it in his head.

That Punk thinks he doesn’t have a heart.

That Punk sounds a little bit upset at the prospect.

Colt had told him he should maybe think about drinking more water. Punk had told him to fuck off in response before chugging the rest of his bottle of pepsi, ignoring the fizz burning his throat and sinuses. It had been preceded and followed by black coffee, enough to make the drive palatable, then enough to keep him going for the night.

In retrospect, maybe it had been too much caffeine.

But maybe it hadn’t been the caffeine at all. Maybe it was the sheer shock of the chair shot, the immediate fear of coming to tied to the ropes, of Raven standing over him, close, too close, the can of beer tilting over his head.

Or maybe it had been the kick. When he’d struggled against the ropes, and Raven had kicked him to stop him thrashing. And Punk thinks Raven had been intending on kicking his stomach, and that was where the first hit had landed, sure, but...

Then his next kick hits a little lower.

And then Punk feels a different kind of wetness, separate to the sticky, tacky beer on his skin.

And then the shock when it doesn’t stop and he can’t stop it and it just keeps coming and spreading and pooling under him and oh—please not here, not now, not in front of everyone, but especially—

Raven looks down to the wetness spreading at his crotch, staining his shorts. Up to Punk’s mortified, furious expression.

Opens the second can and lifts Punk up. Angles him in such a way that when he empties the can over him, it drains down his chest to his shorts. Covering up the mess he’s made. Hiding his shame.