It’d been eight entire years since he’d knowingly been in the same room as a bag of H; eight entire years spent wondering what he’d do were he ever face to face with the son of a bitch again. And now John knew. Now he’d seen that the bastard still had his number, having never forgotten his name. It’d still managed to call to John, clapping him on the shoulder like an old friend with no concept of holding grudges.

And as soon as the door shut, John felt like he was drowning, gasping for air, gripping the edge of the mattress, and dropping his head while tears swelled into his eyes. How was this even possible? How the fuck could he still harbor even the slightest hint of a desire to taste the very fucking thing that had mutilated him?

What the hell was wrong with him?

I was tagged by the delightfully extra @silversexual and the baddest bitch in the game @jadedbirch 🙏🏽

The subtle chime of bells above the shop door replaced the nervous tapping sound that James hadn’t realised he’d been making against the side of his mug.

(I know, I know! Very exciting! Heh)