Scott's vision is fuzzy. Hazy. Unfocused like it hasn't been since the LASIK. He vaguely wonders why, but his head hurts so much he's distracted and can't figure it out. He thinks for a second that he's drunk. That he's given himself the mother of all hangovers. But his shoulder and his arm and his chest and his side and his leg also hurt-shit, his shoulder really hurts-and he's never been drunk enough for that to happen before. Plus, if he's not mistaken, that's his steering wheel in front of him, through the haze and the dust and the noise and the red and whatever the deflated white thing is. Regardless of how drunk he's been, he would never be drunk in the driver's seat of his car. Fuck. Fuck, he hurts. The spiderweb pattern across his windshield is kinda pretty though, sparkling like that in the sun. Blink.

"I take every boy there just to make out with them, you were nothing special, Scott." But he was. Scott was special. Mitch just didn't want to admit it. Not after they fought for so long and broke up. Scott had a hurt look on his face, but Scott isn't really one to share his emotions or burst out crying in front of someone he loves so dearly. So, he nodded his head. "O-okay. Um.... I guess you should leave then." Mitch nodded, "Yeah, yeah I probably should." ***** A/N: this story is based off of the Superfruit book. But with my twist on it. This book doesn't have any major spoilers, so don't be worried about that. All spoilers of the book have been posted on social media. Again, this is with my twist on it and it will not be the whole original story. Much Love ❤️

"Police! Open up!" I yell, banging again. I steel myself as this time I hear the locks click-clunk and see the door pull back slowly to reveal a half-naked blond bear of a man, who fucking towers over me. He's standing, blocking the doorway, with a frying pan in one hand and an aerosol can in the other. His face is flushed, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes wide with adrenaline, and his bare torso is glistening with sweat. He adjusts the grip on the pan and I see the muscles of that arm ripple underneath the monochrome sleeve that adorns it. Shit. Why the fuck did I not call for back up? (Aka the failed one shot. From the ship that sails itself.) Some content is mature. Caution advised, but specific trigger warnings will be given where appropriate. Note: AWOOGA is used to label the dirrrrrrty chapters.