Mitch was a fan way before he got the job. Can he balance friendship with fandom? Can he remain professional without revealing his inner fangirl? Is that even possible?

Collection of oneshots, naughty and nice:)

Inspired by Calvin & Hobbes and Toy Story

Happy Valentine's Day! Little one-shot about this snap.

This is by request from my dear friends Bat Girl and Blondie. I hope they approve. This is 1000% fiction.

Scott has a problem. Mitch might be able to help him, but what's the price? Will this add something on their relationship, or will it just mess things up?

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.

Mitch takes a much-needed break from family time at Christmas to go clubbing and hopefully find a hot hookup. He wakes up the next morning with no regrets, save one.

He's captivating, I was enraptured from the moment I first set eyes on him. Never did I dream that he'd even spare me a glance, let alone a second or third. I've always blended with the shadows, faded into the background, unseen, invisible.... but he... he saw me. [Originally started in my short story book 'Brevity'] SHOUT OUT TO MALORY FOR MAKING THE CUTE COVER IMAGE FOR ME <3<3<3

"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.