#dirty jobs with mike rowe

[stellarred]

Deja Q's cut scene

Riker: Q, we can't have you just wandering around the ship. You will either work, or be confined to the Brig. Understood?

Q: Work? Hmph. You mean labor. I'm as old as Time itself. I've created celestial marvels, wrapped the Universe around my little--

Riker: Q, I'm warning you.

Q: And now I'm being sent away to row with the rest of the slaves.

Riker: You like the Brig? Okay. Have it your way then.

(Riker motions for a security officer.)

Q: Ok, fine! What are my chores today?

Riker: We need someone to clean out the residue from the walls of the photon torpedo tubes. The viscous sludge is slowing down the speed of the torpedoes, and it has to be scraped off the walls from time to time.

Q: You have got to be kidding me.

(Riker smiles as someone enters the room with a bucket filled with water and soap, and a cart full of scouring pads.)

Riker: Nope.

Q: Just wait until I get my powers back.

(Riker smiles at Q, and then looks at the officer that came with the cleaning supplies.)

Riker: You're a new face, Lieutenant. You're...?

The lieutenant nods.

Lt. Rowe: Lieutenant Michael Rowe, sir.

Riker: Excellent. Have fun, Q. Lieutenant Rowe, let me know when he's finished. It shouldn't take more than eight hours or so.

(Riker leaves Q and the lieutenant alone in the room.)

Lt. Rowe: Right this way, Q.

Q: Someone's head is going to roll in the Continuum for this humiliation. A god on his very knees scrubbing space sludge off a wall! I may never recover from this.

Lt. Rowe: It won't be so bad. I'm sure Commander Riker will appreciate your efforts. He's always impressed when someone does dirty jobs to keep the ship operations running well.

Q: It's not Riker I want to impress. Besides, who does he think he is making me the Enterprise janitor and forcing me to do gopher work? Since my former family dumped me here I've delivered orders and equipment, and now I'm cleaning out the bowels of Picard's ship! What's next? Cleaning toilets? What am I going to get out of this?

Lt. Rowe: Appreciation, maybe? Now, to get to the inner torpedo chamber, you need a wrench to undo these bolts.

(The lieutenant shows Q the tightly- closed hatch covering the entrance.)

Q: I won't do it, I tell you! I refuse!

Lt. Rowe: Not even for Picard? He might be nicer to you.

(Q hesitates for a second.)

Q: I'm hoping for much more than nicer.

Lt. Rowe: I see. I think I can inspire you to go this extra mile for your captain.

Q: Go the extra mile for Jean-Luc, uh, I mean Captain Picard?

Lt. Rowe: I'll tell you what. You do this, and I'll arrange a date with him. Candles, romantic ambience, and all.

Q: Ridiculous. Why would you do this for me? Starfleet would have you clapped in irons in a microsecond if they found out!

Lt. Rowe: Hey, don't you recognize a helping hand when you see one, Q?

(A flash of light, and another member of the Q Continuum is standing there, smiling.)

Q: Q! What are you doing here? No one from the Continuum is supposed to help me!

Q8: Well, let's just say someone back home owed me a favor. Now, will you degrade yourself like this for your human?

(Q8 disappears just as Riker returns)

Riker: Well, Q? Why aren't you scrubbing gunk off the walls? Are you going to get to work, or not!

Q: Hey, I'm the man, Riker. Hand me a wrench.

[facialhairy]

Mike Rowe (has a magnificent smile)

[razzek]

Other fic writers carefully putting together their intricate and cozy coffee shop AUs to spread comfort and cheeer.

Me at midnight mashing together a transcript of Mike Rowe going insane when he was a QVC host with graphic descriptions of death and decay like I'm stiring expired tuna into lukewarm mac and cheese. 8)

[lost-technology]

I had a thought today that is either funny, disturbing or both, depending upon how you take it. So, the Mister and I went forth a-voting today and we went off to get ourselves some lunch. Coming home, we saw a homemade campaign sign on the side of the highway protesting / urging people to vote against a couple of candidates who were proposing an expansion of a local sewage plant. Me: Since I've had my brain in Trigun lately (I was writing a fanfiction chapter last night) I've been thinking about THOSE Plants - you know, the humanoid sapient caged-people ones who make and process everything on that planet. This means that SOME of them HAVE to be sewage-processors, doesn't it? THOSE POOR PLANTS! My Lovely Mister-Man: Meet Mario and Luigi. This one's Mario, this one's Luigi. Me: I think I'm going to write a fanfic about that now.

[descendantofthesparrow]

dirty jobs with mike rowe was the shit when i was a kid

[culturevulturette]

My new favorite carol! 

[sutrala]

Millions of vacant jobs because of ‘harebrained’ decisions and college push, says ‘Dirty Jobs’ host Mike Rowe

[exploring-sars-cov-2]

Host of dirty job invites a guest who speculates on the 60 of COVID vaccines in 60,000 excess deaths of working age Americans.

[motivateandinspiretoday]

Mike Rowe Words of Wisdom.

Mike Rowe is an American television host, narrator, and producer. He is best known for his work on the Discovery Channel series "Dirty Jobs," where he showcased and participated in various challenging and often dirty occupations. Born on March 18, 1962, in Baltimore, Maryland, Rowe has also been involved in other television projects, including hosting shows like "Somebody's Gotta Do It" and narrating programs such as "Deadliest Catch." Additionally, he has been active in advocating for skilled trades and promoting the importance of manual labor.

[redtwin]

Dirty Jobs.

[trans-rights-adam-jensen]

oh yeah i forgot to post this but I made this out of a half-assed need to cackle at my own writing when I wrote chapter 8 of WRH and Finch made the Dirty Jobs joke.

[nycbabyjoey]

Escape From Silly Times Daycare - PROLOGUE

NSFW 18+ Only

Sunlight peeked in through the cracks in the blinds as the alarm on Michael's iPhone started to chirp. Michael struggled to crack open his eyes as he threw his large, weighted comforter from off of his body. He slumped his hand over and hit the phone to stop the incessant noise. His phone showed the same time it always did: 6:30 a.m. This was the start to Michael's day... every day.

Michael turned his eyes over to the other end of the bed to his wife, Phoebe, who was thankfully still sound asleep. Phoebe didn't work and Michael's habit of making noise early in the morning (i.e. getting ready for work) made it so he had to endure an earful from his cranky wife in addition to his early routine. So, as he slipped out from under the sheets, he made sure to do so without making a peep.

He quietly made his way over to his walk-in closet and slowly slid the door open. Rows of repeating articles of clothing were on either side - one shelf of khakis, one closet rod of grey suits. The only articles which offered a more colorful variety were Michael's button down shirts, which alternated between white or blue, and an assortment of ties to match with his outfit. The most standout tie was one covered in a pattern of dollar bills, which Phoebe had gifted him ironically enough with his own money to celebrate his first day at his new job three years ago. It was a novelty tie; obviously, he couldn't wear it to work but that didn't stop Phoebe from ranting at him that he didn't appreciate her gifts.

First, Michael stripped out of his sleeping outfit, including his dirty boxers, partially stained with the remnants of an especially exciting dream he had had last night. He chucked them into an ever-growing pile of his dirty underwear that was mounting in the laundry basket. These dreams were hazardous to the load of laundry, but they were pretty consistent since Phoebe had expressed her disinterest in having sex regularly.

Michael groggily changed into his typical outfit - white button down shirt with the top collar buttoned with a grey suit and a striped tie. After changing, he slid the closet door behind him, wincing in fear as Phoebe stirred at the sound of the door squeaking. With the door completely shut, he sighed a quiet sigh of relief, happy that he hadn't woken his wife up at the last possible moment.

Safely in the kitchen, Michael's breathing returned to an audible norm now that he was blissfully alone for the only time of his entire day. For thirty minutes, he was able to sip his coffee, eat his toast, and work on a few clues from Sunday's crossword without anyone interjecting and telling him what to do. Once the thirty minutes were up, he had to begin his drive to the office, which added to his alone time but was not nearly as relaxing as his morning coffee due to the overwhelming amount of traffic. It was a long commute into the city, which is why his alarm was set so early in the morning. He dreaded it; nonetheless, he grabbed his keys and braced for the flood of cars.

As the chorus of horns on the interstate surrounded him, Michael gripped his steering wheel and took a long, deep breath. Car horns were always the background noise to his yacht rock radio station, but Michael hadn't been able to come to terms with their daily occurrence; in fact, they only became more irritating with every commute. Michael turned up the current song, trying to drown out the roar of never-moving traffic.

"Arthur, he does as he pleases All of his life, his master's toys Deep in his heart, he's just, he's just a boy Living his life one day at a time And showing himself a pretty good time Laughing about the way they want him to be"

The verse echoed in Michael's head until he was jolted back to reality by a shout, "Mike!"

Michael was sat at his cubicle in the office with his computer monitor turned on and his email opened to several unread messages. He must've gotten lost in his routine, mindlessly parking his car, making his way up the elevator, and setting up his work area as if he were on autopilot. As if he were a zombie.

The shout came from his coworker Jim, who was sat partially on the edge of Michael's desk but with both feet on the ground. He held up a folder of forms. Michael hated Jim for always showing him up at work and brownnosing the boss. Jim had the charisma that Michael lacked but made up for in actual work.

"Morning Jim," Michael managed. "How's your day so far?"

"Not bad, not bad," Jim responded. "Just had a meeting with Mr. Boss Man. Seems like they're going to announce who's getting the big assistant manager promotion later today."

Michael had his eyes set on that promotion since the former assistant manager left the position. He was a shoo-in, after all. He had the most sales of any of the agents, was always on time, and even stayed late most days. He didn't want to seem too excited in front of Jim since that was the sort of thing that would earn him some ribbing from his coworker, so he played it cool.

"Oh yeah?" Michael inquired, continuing the conversation. "You have any idea of who's going to get it?"

Jim looked around the office, raising his eyebrows as a sly grin grew on his face. "Well... it's me!" he announced. "That's why I just had that meeting. Oh gosh, I'm supposed to keep quiet about it, but I just can't keep my big mouth shut!"

Michael's heart sank. Of course Jim had schmoozed his way into the big promotion. Why would Michael even bother getting his hopes up? Jim must've noticed Michael's reaction because he immediately took the opportunity to dig the knife in deeper.

"Hey, keep your head up," he feignedly encouraged. "There'll be other promotions. Now that I'm your supervisor, I can always put in a good word." Michael had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes and groaning. "Speaking of being your supervisor," Jim continued. "I have some sheets I need filled out before EOD that I won't be able to get to because I have a lunch thing with a client. If I send you a link with those sheets, would you be able to handle those for me?"

"Actually, I..." Michael began to protest.

"Perfect!" Jim celebrated. "That'll be such a big help! You are such a team player!" He then opened his manila folder and placed one of the forms in front of Michael. "Also, before I go, could you sign and date at the bottom there?"

Michael began to look over the form. "It's just performance review stuff," Jim clarified. "All very standard."

That was enough for Michael to sign - if it would get Jim to leave him alone faster.

Jim took the form back and thanked Michael before leaving him to get to those Google sheets that needed to be completed. Michael opened Jim's link to a folder with a dozen sheets, each with hundreds of rows that needed to be math-checked and approved. He groaned, mentally rescheduling all the tasks he had planned to work on today. These sheets would take him all day.

And so they did. As Michael diligently did the math for each row and verified the result, he felt his mind wander to the reoccurring dream he had been having. The dreams never involved his wife, which Michael would sometimes feel guilty about. Last night, the subject of Michael's fantasies was Zendaya. She had busted down the door in a pair of sexy lingerie and crawled towards the foot of the bed, ravenous for his cock. She jumped on top of him before whispering sensually, "I want to feel it throbbing inside me."

Michael came back to reality, realizing that he'd have to redo the math of the last few rows as he hadn't even been consciously paying attention to the results. He looked around anxiously, worried that someone may have noticed the slight bulge in his dress pants. It was hard for Michael to focus on the task at hand, not only because of his sexual frustration, but also because it was so goddamn boring! And as Michael would get distracted, it would only take longer and longer.

A coworker stopped by at five o'clock to tell Michael about the happy hour happening in the lounge area to celebrate Jim's promotion, but Michael still had two sheets left to do. Regardless, he would rather jump out his office's sixth floor window than "cheers" to the tool who assigned him the extra busywork anyway.

At 8:00 p.m., Michael finally finished the last row and forwarded them back to Jim before shutting down his computer.

The drive back home wasn't as painful as the one that morning, mostly because the interstate was clear of rush hour traffic at this late hour. Still, the impatience to get home after a long day frustrated Michael. It was 9:06 when Michael made it inside his front door, which gave him an hour and twenty-four minutes to eat dinner, shower, and brush his teeth before going to bed.

Phoebe was in the kitchen as Michael walked in to reheat some leftovers. She wore a black see-through lace robe, which caused the immediate return of Michael's bulge. She had rollers all through her dark hair and she snacked on some potato chips with one hand as she swiped on her iPad with the other. She didn't bother saying "hello" to Michael before rushing towards him with the iPad.

"Babe!" she exclaimed in her dash, "Look at this bag! Don't you think it would look so great with my new heels?"

Michael glanced at the Prada website only briefly, not really looking but just out of a sense of obligation. "Yeah, definitely," he half-heartedly agreed before making his way to the fridge.

"I'm so glad you think so, baby!" Phoebe cheered. "Because I ordered it earlier!"

"Didn't you get a Prada bag like three weeks ago?" Michael asked as he pulled a cold dish of ziti out of the fridge.

"I know!" Phoebe said. "Now, I'll have options!"

Michael popped the ziti in the microwave before turning back to Phoebe. "Ok, honey, just..." he stammered. "We may need to be a bit careful with spending going forward. I... I didn't get the promotion."

"Oh, honey," Phoebe said with melancholy. "I heard. I'm so sorry."

"You did?" Michael questioned.

"Um... yeah," Phoebe responded. "Your... your boss called."

Michael sighed as the microwave beeped. He dejectedly opened the microwave door and grabbed the now hot bowl of ziti, throwing it on the kitchen counter as his fingers quickly felt the burn.

"Come tomorrow, that silly promotion isn't even going to matter," Phoebe declared as she grabbed her bag of potato chips and started to head upstairs. She paused though and turned back towards Michael, "Oh, before you take a shower, can you take the trash out? It's full. Thanks, baby!" She made some kissy noises and made her way upstairs.

Once Michael finished his dinner and took the trash out to the end of the driveway, he took a shower before joining Phoebe in the bed where she was reading Gone Girl next to the reading lamp stationed on her bedside table. Michael, horny from earlier, started to cuddle up to his wife and kiss her on the cheek. Despite his obvious hints, Phoebe would just smile and giggle shortly with her eyes glued to her novel. Michael figured his best chance would be to just ask, preparing himself for the usual rejection.

"Oh, baby," Phoebe pitied. "I'm in the middle of my book."

"It'll be quick," Michael bargained, knowing that was typically a bad thing.

"Fine," Phoebe agreed, much to Michael's surprise. She lifted her robe to unveil her pussy, dry as a desert. Michael, on the other hand, was ready to go and his precum acted as an instantaneous lube. He climbed on top of his wife and inserted himself; his tiny penis didn't cause any discomfort for his wife as he did so. As he thrust, Phoebe held her book behind his head, continuing to read as Michael did his best to pleasure her. She read about a paragraph before the sex ended with Michael whimpering and keeling over to his side of the bed. Michael gasped for air in pure ecstasy while Phoebe turned to the next page in her book. "That was nice, dear," Phoebe said simply, obviously not believing her own words.

It was 10:39 at that point and Michael closed his eyes as Phoebe continued her book. As Michael started to fall asleep, he thought ahead to the day that awaited him. It would be another average day where he would be used and emotionally neglected by his wife Phoebe, teased and condescended to by his coworker Jim, and rendered involuntarily celibate much to his sexual frustration; all the while feeling trapped in this never ending, soul-crushing cycle that made him feel worthless.

Michael was right about the details of tomorrow, but his overall conclusion was not correct - tomorrow would be anything other than an average day.

Waking up to his alarm at 6:30 a.m. was much the same as was his regimen of throwing his messy boxers in the laundry, getting dressed in a replica of yesterday's suit, and making his way downstairs to the coffee machine without waking Phoebe up.

However, as he sipped his coffee and worked on his crossword, he noticed Phoebe coming down the stairs in the same lace robe from last night. He set his coffee down and immediately began pleading, "I'm sorry, babe. I didn't mean to wake you up! I'll try and be quieter next time!"

"You didn't wake me up," Phoebe said morosely. "I came to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Michael questioned. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Michael turned to it as if something alien was on the other side; no one ever knocked this early in the morning. He looked to Phoebe for some type of validation, but she stared at the floor. After a moment, he walked over to the front door and opened it. Two large uniformed men pushed past Michael and entered the house.

"Hey!" Michael called after them, following closely behind. "Hey! You can't just barge in here! What's the big idea?!"

He made his way back to the kitchen where the two men were stood next to Phoebe. "I assume this is him?" one of the guys said, pointing at Michael. Phoebe silently nodded and the man turned to address Michael for the first time.

"You've been enrolled in a special program for reeducation," the man explained coldly. "Your program begins immediately and we are here to escort you away as soon as possible. You are required to leave all personal belongings behind or they will be confiscated from you at your arrival. If you resist, we are authorized to detain you through force. If you don't have any questions at this time, then we ask you to turn around and leave with us peacefully."

Michael's mouth hung agape. For seconds - what felt like minutes in his head - he was speechless. "Any questions?!" he finally responded. "Any questions? Yeah, I have a few questions. Phoebe, what are they talking about?"

Phoebe looked up at Michael with some shame. Her voice cracked a little as she spoke, "I love you, Michael. I really, really do, but... you're not the kind of husband I need. I need someone who can provide for me. Someone who bets on himself and wins every time. I need a real, supportive man."

"I provide for you!" Michael shouted back.

"You can't provide everything I need!" Phoebe claimed.

Michael scoffed. "All of this is because I didn't get the promotion, isn't it?"

"It's not just that!" Phoebe answered. "Our sex is terrible. I barely feel your prick inside me and it only takes ten seconds of me lying there like a starfish for you to..."

"Ok! Ok! I get it!" Michael interrupted, suddenly embarrassed that this intimate conversation was taking place in front of two strange men. "So what? You think you can just send me away to this 'reeducation' program and they're gonna teach me how to be a big, strong man for you?"

"No, that's not what they're going to teach you," Phoebe clarified. Michael was puzzled. It felt like every minute detail Phoebe dropped into the conversation changed Michael's understanding of the problem entirely. Why was Phoebe complaining about his inability to provide and please her if she wasn't going to send him away to a program that fixed those issues? She continued, "When you come back, things will be completely different. But, we can be together forever. And happy! It's for the best."

"You can't make me go," Michael said, standing his ground. "You can't take me against my will. That's illegal!"

"We have all the proper paperwork," one of the men said, pulling a piece of paper out of his uniform's inside pocket. Michael's eyes widened as the man unfolded the form to display to him. Michael's signature and yesterday's date were at the bottom, clear as day. It was his performance review forms - except it wasn't. He had agreed to something else entirely without his knowledge.

Michael turned to Phoebe with a look of absolute betrayal in his eyes. Phoebe looked away again, unable to make eye contact with him. "Jim?" was all Michael could utter in absolute disbelief at Phoebe's disloyalty.

"Alright, time to go," the other man said, grabbing Michael by the wrist. The other man held Michael by his other wrist and Michael complied as they lead him towards the front door.

An unfamiliar van was parked outside Michael's house. Michael was lead to the back of the van and instructed to climb inside. The van doors were shut, sealing Michael away from his mundane, everyday life.

Michael took one last look through the van windows as the van pulled away from his home, unaware of the experience that was waiting from him at his ultimate destination.

If you missed my last post, then you may not know that all future chapters of this story will be posted on a monthly basis to my Patreon exclusively for patrons at the $7 tier. If you want to know where Michael is being sent away to (you can probably guess; it's in the title), then join the club over on Patreon! Thanks guys!

[keirawantstocry]

that one time tubbo called pac a dilf 😵‍💫

okay wait…

young teacher tubbo and dilf pac comes to collect his son from class…..tubbos got such a crush on him and maybe he asks pac to stay back to talk about richas’s behaviour but it turns into something else….

you've come to the right person (guy who is obsessed with pacbo)

Tubbo wasn't quite sure how he ended up with this job. He had never in any of his years considered being a teacher of any sort. But after he adopted his daughter, he needed a second job. Mechanics weren't paying him enough. Luckily there was a daycare nearby that was hiring. It was a more difficult process than he had expected, much like the adoption. But he got it. 

His daughter stayed with her “other father”. Tom's name was always said in a sigh like that. They were young and stupid and drunk and Tubbo didn't know what he was doing when he signed the stupid paper that Tommy had slid him across the dirty bar table. 

Tommy, and unfortunately Molly, found it hilarious. They both insisted on watching Sunny while he was at work. Thankfully Sunny loved them. Tommy would do her hair in braids. It was something they did when they were younger. Tubbo remembered sitting in fields with Tommy's older cousin braiding his long hair. 

As soon as Tommy saw Sunny's thick 3C curls, he stayed up two nights in a row researching and watching video after video of how to do cornrows and other braids in her hair. 

Molly often sent him videos while he was at work on Sunny prattling on while Tommy listened intently, braiding her hair as best he could. As much as Tubbo joked about divorce and threatened, he was glad to have two people he loved watching his child and caring for them so well. 

He closed his laptop with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. He was the last one there, his co worker had to leave because she had to pick up her own child but they needed someone to watch the singular child whose parents were incredibly late. 

Opening his eyes, Tubbo stared down the young boy in front of him. 

He was a Latino boy, probably around 7 or 8 with an oversized yellow jersey that he wore every single day. He was staring at Tubbo with large brown eyes. It was almost unnerving but he was a cute, decently well mannered child. 

Tubbo remembered the day he joined the daycare. A man with shoulder length brown hair and a singular white streak through it brought him in and explained how the boy had been born without part of his leg but was still very capable of movement with the prosthetic his Pai had made him. 

The owner of the daycare had nodded, assuring the man over and over that his child would be well cared for and that they would make sure the other children didn't say anything nasty as children tended to do. 

Richas, Tubbo remembered, as he continued to stare down the boy. His name was Richas. 

“Hello,” he said. 

The boy grinned. “Ola!” 

Tubbo laughed at his enthusiasm before picking up his phone to attempt to call the boy's parents once again. It rang and rang, like it had three times before click. 

“Holy shit, we are so sorry. Our schedule got all mixed up and we didn't know who was supposed to pick him up today. Fuck!” 

“Hey, hey,” Tubbo said calmly. “It's okay. I'm here with him. Get here whenever you can.” 

The voice on the phone that Tubbo didn't recognize took a few deep breaths. “Sim, sim, of course. Peqi is on his way already. He should be there any minute.” 

Tubbo smiled at Richas who bounced up and down excitedly, trying to climb up the front of the desk to reach the phone. “Sounds good, Mr…?” 

The voice laughed. “Just call me Mike yeah?” 

Richas made the saddest noise possible and Tubbo's heart melted. “Wait, before you go, I think he wants to talk to you.” 

He removed the phone from the side of his ear and carefully handed it to the boy who cradled it with both hands and held it up to his mouth. “OI, PAI.” 

Mike's voice came through quietly. “Oi, Richas. Você está sendo bom?” 

“Sim, sim,” the boy sang happily. “Eu sou bom.” 

“Bom menino. Pai Pac will be there soon okay?” 

“Okay, okay.” 

“Eu te amo.” 

“Eu também te amo.” 

The phone clicked, ending the call and Richas handed it back to Tubbo with a smile. Not even five seconds after the phone was back in his hand, the door slammed open. Standing in the now open doorway was a frazzled and incredibly attractive man. 

Richas ran over, bounding easily into his arms. 

“Richarlyson!” the man cooed, swinging him back and forth in his arms. He met Tubbo's eyes over his son's head. ‘Thank you’ he mouthed. 

Tubbo was almost too stunned to nod but he managed to as Richas's father slowly lowered him to the ground to step over to Tubbo. 

“I have to sign him out, yes?” 

Tubbo nodded, still speechless. He cleared his throat and slid the sign-out sheet across the desk. “Yeah, uh, yeah.” 

The man, Pac, from the signs of his scribbled signature, smiled blindingly at him, his son clinging to his leg. 

Tubbo noticed at that moment that Pac had a near identical prosthetic to his son. “You match,” he said before mentally slapping himself. You don't just fucking point out a man's prosthetic, no fucking wonder you're still married to Tommy. 

But Pac just laughed softly. “We do,” he said softly, rubbing the top of Richas's head. “He is very clearly my son.” 

“Are you his biological father?” Tubbo asked. Holy fucking shit, shut up you fucking idiot. He is so tired of you already, why are you asking so many questions? 

Pac just laughed softly again and the twist in Tubbo's chest felt like falling off a cliff. “Sim, yes, I am. I was the one who gave birth to him.” 

Tubbo stopped himself from asking any questions about that. He knew better than that at least. “That's really cool.” He tried a smile and felt so awkward. 

“Thank you,” Pac said. “And thank you for watching him past time. I know you probably have places to be.” 

Tubbo brushed him off with a wave of his hand. “Oh don't worry about it. My daughter is more than happy to spend more of their time with her ‘other father’.” Out of instinct, he raised his hands and made quotation marks with his hands. 

Pac raised an eyebrow curiously. 

Tubbo flushed. “A, uh, friend of mine. We got drunk married and now my daughter considers him her other father.”

Pac laughed. “No spouse of your own then? One that you're in love with anyway?” 

Tubbo flushed darker. “Ah, no. Just my husband and his girlfriend.” 

“Mmm,” Pac said, leaning over on the desk. “Good to know.” 

Tubbo froze in his spot as Pac's eyes, big and brown just like his son's, stared into his soul. He gulped before clearing his throat. “Yeah, uhmm, yeah.” The heat of his face was nearly unbearable. 

Richas gently smacked his dad on the leg. “Oi, stop that.” 

Pac leaned back, holding his hands up with an innocent expression. “What?? What?” 

The little boy glared at him with no heat. “Pai Mike told you to stop that.” 

“Well, Mikey isn't here right now is he? And he also has no control over my life.” Pac turned back to Tubbo and grabbed the pen again. He motioned towards Tubbo's arm which he held out willingly. 

Quickly the man scribbled a number onto his arm, his grip strong and warm. Tubbo felt dizzy. 

Pac dropped the pen with a smile and a wink before grabbing his son's hand. “Call me yeah?” 

Tubbo stared in disbelief, red as a beet. “...yeah,” he said softly as Pav happily bounded out the door, his son berating him in Portuguese. 

“Tommy,” he said softly when he got home, holding up his arm. “I think I got hit on.”

[vomitdodger]

Great read.