Scott loves music. Mitch loves coffee.

{fu·nam·bu·list: a tightrope walker/rope-dancer} Scott Hoying had been sitting in row 4, seat number 23, when he had been sure that his heart stopped beating. With his fingernails burrowed into his dark jeans and his lip between his teeth, he could do nothing but stare upwards - 50 feet above him- as the figure pranced along the high wire. The performer's body swayed to the melody around him, a stunning smile lighting up his entire face as he moved; his arms were thrown out to the sides, toes pointed, as he jumped along the tightrope. The massive tent expelled a blinding white light in the performer's direction, casting an ethereal glow upon his black-clad figure. On cue, the performer then quickly leaped forward, smile still intact, executing three of the most perfect front flips Scott had ever seen in his life. He thought the boy looked miraculous up there, and that was definitely an understatement. Though he was around same age as Scott himself, his way of performing showed experience and talent far beyond his years; the performer quite literally personified the music. It's sure that Scott was definitely the last person to be able to judge circus performers, as it wasn't exactly his area of expertise, but he knew passion when he saw it. Scott was certain that if he even attempted something of that calibre, he would probably start crying, if he didn't break his nose first.

not sure if I'll ever return to this story but feel free to read :) When Mitch joins University and is thrown into a flat with three boys that hate him, he thinks that nothing can make it better. Until a tall blonde greets him in the elevator - mysterious, perhaps dangerous, yet endearing. Scott Hoying impacts Mitch's life in a way he never thought was possible. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Mitch Grassi..." He breathes, a smirk growing on his face, "nice to meet you." I take my card, a small blush emerging on my cheeks as Blondie stays stood opposite me, almost making me feel pressured to stay pinned up against the wall. The elevator doors ding open as the guy turns away from me, walking away with his head turned over his shoulder and his eyes still on me. "W-what's your name?" I stutter, pressing a button to keep the doors open. He turns towards me, walking backwards down the corridor of the second floor. He laughs, raising his brow, "See you around, Mitch Grassi." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

Two complete strangers, Scott and Mitch, put into one prison cell. Could this be a horrible mistake, or could it kindle true love? *EDITING COMING SOON BECAUSE THIS STORY IS TRASH*

Scott owns a bakery. Mitch is a loyal customer. Scott is happily married, and Mitch can't change that. But fate can.

Mitch Grassi is a florist. He uses his knowledge to make the most appropriate arrangements for his clients and to confess his feelings towards an oblivious regular of the shop. - A collection of cute oneshots.

"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.

When you come of age, you are only given a certain amount of time to live. Time is your currency, your body's clock. Use it wisely-- it flies. (Based loosely on the movie "In Time".)

Back again with a medium sized supernatural AU story. Not trying to reinvent the genre here, just having fun. Hope you enjoy. As it currently stands, this will have seven parts. It's almost halfway done, so I'll try and update quickly. Props to my best girl Mal for the stunning cover.