Max 🦔

the simple answer: he has no idea what to do with you. but he wouldn't admit that in a million years, so he just acts like he can tolerate the rainbows and unicorns that follow you around.

he brings them down with him on a consult in the ED, some construction worker with a severed hand that had high hopes of reattachment.

everyone puts on their best military-grade facade, even garcia's back straightens noticeably because park is just that much of a dick to everyone.

and here comes reader, practically buzzing with excitement as they trail right on brendon's heels. it really throws everyone for a loop because you're so close to him, and you're the one asking all the questions to robby—who seems so chuffed by all of this—and he answers happily.

park unwraps the hand and you're right there with him, cheek squished against his meaty bicep with eyes glimmering bright with wonder. you're grinning with delight and clapping your hands when brendon green-lights the reattachment.

and then you're both gone, park the shark being tailed by a little intern bristling with anticipation.

everyone is fucking gobsmacked because, what the fuck? since when was anyone under park's supervision happy to be there?

it wasn't uncommon to see park followed by a brood of his residents. the usual joke was that they were his shark pups, his offspring that he molded into annoyingly good surgeons.

but that doesn't apply to you. you're nothing like him, yet you learn from him all the same. your relationship is almost symbiotic, in a way, where you thrive on the challenges he throws at you and he secretly feeds off of the warmth you radiate.

and the correlation smacks garcia square in the face after crossing paths with the two about five ED consults later.

you are his remora. you clean up the mess of his apathy and he feeds you the fruit of his knowledge.

and that's what she starts calling you—that's what everyone starts calling you.

and brendon? he starts to call you the stupid name too.

but to him, it's possessive. it is a name that claims you as his own, not as offspring, but as something far more important that he doesn't want to name.

"i'll write a recommendation letter for you," he says one quiet afternoon when you're both munching on leftovers in the breakroom.

you're confused, he can tell by the apparent tilt of your head.

"when you complete your residency. i'll recommend you for an attending position here."

"... that is disgustingly generous for a guy like you."

"i won't work without my remora."

stay tuned for season 48 episode 7 when they finally kiss and hold hands🙂🙂🙂

Washi Tape

This is a bit random because I mostly just post fanfics, but I was bored and wanted craft themed dividers.

Well, Mecha Man is no stranger to fans. One doesn't exactly become the protector of LA without attracting some attention, not to mention everyone still in love with the late Bobby and Robbie. Robert himself is unknown to the public, but at SDN, he hears the occasional mention of his name in conversation. To say people sing his praises is a little excessive, but they know Mecha Man’s a damn good superhero, and therefore have at least a grudging respect for him. So he’d say he’s pretty well-liked overall.

Put simply, he’s aware of the concept of a celebrity crush. No, he wouldn't say that he knows much, but he's become familiar with the pop culture articles and social media edits and the fanfiction, the latter of which presumes quite a great deal more about what he’s capable of than what he can actually do with his perpetually pained body. It doesn't take much to faze him, at this point.

Even still, the revelation that someone he actually knows is a fan of his surprises him more than he thought.

In his defense, he doesn’t initially intend to eavesdrop, but it happens during his scheduled break (and here’s another new aspect of office life that he’s getting used to — break time, that you get paid for). With Chase and Beef getting grandpa-dogson time, he’s making himself a cup of coffee and shotgunning it to chase away the rampant ache in his bones, when the end of a sentence cuts through the brain fog and pierces his eardrums.

‘…cha Man again? Really?’

He's alert upon hearing his name. You would too if you’ve heard it constantly for fifteen years, though it doesn’t sound like this is any sort of distress call. If anything, the way the person says it — incredulous and a little amused — makes him think they’re probably calling him washed up, which he’s heard plenty of in the past few weeks from his team.

The voice practically cackles, and this time it’s not hard to discern that it belongs to Invisigal before she trails off, listening to the other side of the conversation. Whatever answer is given is too quiet for him to hear, which means either you're trying to avoid Galen, which isn’t possible, since he hears everything, or you’re frantically trying to shush her, which is even less possible since she will not let a thing go.

He might as well try to see what’s going on. If you’re making fun of him, he needs to workshop new insults anyway. Taking his coffee in hand, he strolls leisurely to the source of the conversation.

It doesn’t take him long to find that it’s coming from your cubicle, a few rows down from his own, and he pauses to observe the scene from across the room. He's heard correctly — you’re not alone: Invisigal leans over the thin partition, a delighted expression on her face, and you're sitting in your office chair, a mortified expression on your own.

A magazine is clutched in your hands. As you attempt to prevent the Z-Teamer from getting a better look at it, the chair swivels so that the cover, the print thick and glossy, reveals itself to Robert.

Oh. That’s him on the cover. The photoshoot he’d done out of the Mecha Man suit a few years ago that had the hashtag #mechahot trending for three days. He’s got a box of them somewhere in his warehouse, still. What do you want with that? Target practice?

Oblivious to his presence, but very tuned into yours, Invisigal grins as she leans over and deftly plucks the magazine from your hands, whistling as she turns it over. ‘Who even needs lobby catalogs? What, did you steal this for jerk-off material or something?’

Blunt as always, Visi, Robert thinks amusedly, taking a sip of his coffee.

‘Shut up,’ you hiss, bristling. ‘I didn’t steal it, okay? For your information, I was going to make a copy of it and then very respectfully put it back.’

‘What happened to the last one?’

‘I spilled water on it.’

‘Water. Uh-huh, yeah, sure.' She snorts. 'Listen, it’s fine. Lots of people want to fuck him. I would, and I'm not half the fan you are.'

You make a choked, indignant noise and put your head in your hands.

Oh.

Well. He didn’t see that coming.

And, see, he must have been blind, because he’s suddenly picking up on so much more about you that he hadn’t seen before. Your cubicle has a little Mecha Man bobblehead on it. Your water bottle has an M sticker plastered on the side, buffed and faded with age. And while your shirt is the same as every other dispatcher’s in the department, the little pin you’ve affixed to it is not…

Higher reasoning, as well as the other kind of HR, would dictate that this would be an excellent opportunity to leave now and pretend he didn’t see anything. But curiosity gets the better of Robert, and so he remains where he is. His grip on the mug grows slightly tighter.

‘That’s not the only reason I like him,' you mumble, face still obscured by your palms.

The woman eagerly fans herself with the magazine. ‘Oh? What else does he have going for him?’

'God, isn't it obvious?'

'You're the superfan. You tell me,' Invisigal says smugly, handing you back the magazine. You stare down at it petulantly, leaving Invisigal and Robert both with bated breath.

‘…I just think he’s nice, okay?’ you mutter, quieter than before, but loud enough that every word screams out at him clear as day. ‘Like, yeah, of course he looks nice, sure, and I’m into that. Obviously. So’s half the fucking city. But he’s also just — nice.'

Oh, Robert thinks for the third time now, and absently slurps much too loudly from the mug trying to get at the dregs, his teeth clinking on porcelain.

The sound might as well have been a gunshot. Silence descends upon the office.

Invisigal’s head snaps up, and the look on her face is first surprise, then pure mirth, a smile broadening on her face. You glance over, stiffen, and swivel in your chair, turning your back to him without a word.

‘Well,’ Invisigal chirps cheerfully — much too cheerfully — ‘keep at it, and I’m sure he’ll notice you eventually.’

‘Go the fuck away,’ you grumble, and, for once happy to comply, she walks towards Robert, giving him a gleeful expression — just try to fucking get out of this one — before sauntering off. Only after her footsteps have receded well into the corridor (and you've glanced around for equal measure, because you simply never know with her) do you gain the courage to straighten back up, your face burning.

Robert walks over, coming to a stop at your cubicle. He might as well, at this point. He’s been caught red-handed, or mug-handed, in this case.

He's about to say something when you look him directly in the eyes, and he's struck by your expression: your stare does not hold an ounce of regret, and you’re jutting your chin out a little shakily, ready to defend your favorite hero to the end. The magazine is clutched tightly to your chest.

‘What,’ you say flatly.

‘Nothing.’ He fights the urge to grin, schooling his face into nonchalance. ‘I think he’d appreciate that.’

Your eyes narrow at him, and then you swallow and turn back to your monitor, pausing just long enough to delicately place the magazine down before you resume work.

Robert's no stranger to fans — has never really gotten the appeal of fans. But he thinks that you might have just changed his mind.

(A mint edition of the magazine appears on your desk later that week. Signed.)

It wasn’t on purpose.

When he was young, he was so deadset on becoming a surgeon that everything else became an afterthought. He maintained relationships here and there (he wasn’t a saint) but by the time he was an attending none of his girlfriends managed to keep up with his relentless schedule, demanding workload, and emotionally reserved nature.

Truly, he doesn't blame them. He wasn't exactly carving out the time for them either --- too focused on being the best and too single-minded in his career to put any relationship as a priority.

Long story short – good surgeon, bad boyfriend.

And then he woke up and he was 40 years old with a very pissed off mother.

When he reluctantly asked his friends about it, the warnings were immediate and repetitive.

Dating in the modern century is different now. The women are different. Difficult.

Too demanding. Too clingy. Too much.

By the time Yolanda sidelined him quietly with a proposition, he was already dreading the worst and preparing himself to disappoint his mother for the first time in his life.

You were a welcome (gorgeous) surprise.

Yolanda’s friend of a friend of a friend that she set him up with. Something about a ‘sweetie-pie that could just soften you up, big guy’.

What she failed to mention was the noticeable difference in years between the two of you.

He was never one to go for someone young just to compensate for a void in his life or make himself feel better about getting older. Even though he saw the appeal, it was never a requirement. If you had asked him before the date, he would’ve thought dating someone younger was more trouble than it was worth.

But watching you beam as he waits for you by the door of the café he had reserved a table for today’s date, holding a fresh pink bouquet of flowers just because Yolanda mentioned that it was your favorite, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was too confident with that assumption.

“Flowers on the first date? You’re winning me over already.”

He couldn’t help but frown in confusion, remembering a coworker's quip about not coming on too strong. Already feeling an unfamiliar feeling of minuscule panic creeping up his throat. “Is it too much?”

Your eyes widened, head shaking, “No! No, they're beautiful. It’s just – men don’t really – it’s less of a thing now.”

He hums, deciding that that was stupid. Especially when he saw just how beautiful the flowers looked when you held them --- like they belonged in your arms. He opens the door for you. “That’s a shame.”

You laugh, head back and so carefree. It warms something in his belly. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

The two of you continued a casual conversation as you lined up for your orders, an official introduction of sorts. Thankfully, it wasn’t as awkward as he dreaded, your cheerful disposition perfectly counteracted his restrained one.

He couldn’t help but notice you intimately checking out the pastries bar but not ordering any when you got to the counter. Thankfully, he was quick enough to take note of those that caught your eyes for longer than half a second, ordering it along with his drink and swiping his card for both of your orders.

As he pulled back a chair, he noticed the few seconds of shock on your face before you sat. A small touch on his bicep and a bashful ‘thank you’ had him concluding that this was also no longer ‘a thing’ in this generation.

If he were honest, he'd admit he was dreading this. It's been a while since his last proper date. He wasn't sure if he could muster up enough topics to keep the conversation going or accidentally say something rude or stupid that would turn this date into a humiliation ritual.

But you were pleasant company and a surprisingly great conversationalist. Picking up where he was prone to awkward silences. You carried the conversation with an ease that he admired. To his surprise, the conversation shifted from one topic to another, and by the end of the night, you somehow even managed to get him actually interested in the New York sports team you were dedicated to. A sport he had never given a thought to his entire life.

“You live in Pittsburgh.”

“So?” you giggle at his obvious accusation.

“Now, that’s just treason.”

That got an adorably loud laugh out of you that embarrassingly puffs out his chest – he knew he wasn’t exactly the funny type so to have you genuinely throwing your head back at his banter felt good.

Three drinks, 6 pastries, and too much caffeine later, he realized it had already turned dark outside and your friend (probably Yolanda wanting all the details) was already texting you incessantly about dinner.

“So, how much do I owe you?”

He looks down at you in confusion as he helps you put your jacket on.

“For what?”

A respectful palm gently leads you by the curve of your back and into his car, which was parked just a few feet from the café.

“Lunch.”

He shuts the door, still confused even as he pulls out of the curb.

“I asked you out, it’s on me.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask me out. We were set up.”

He rolls his eyes at that, huffing out a laugh. Cheeky brat.

“I’m the man. I pay for dinner.”

“That’s very old-fashioned of you, Brendon.”

“Well, I am 15 years your senior, baby." It doesn’t escape him how you press your legs together at that statement. Interesting. “I get to be old-fashioned, don’t you think?”

You turn your body fully toward him, blessing him with a shy, sweet smile.

“Old-fashioned enough to not to kiss on the first date?”

He takes a deep breath, pressing on the gas.

“Old-fashioned enough to ask first."

‘Busy morning and tied up in surgery this afternoon. I’ve got about 30 minutes for a call at 11:30 if you're free?’

‘Sounds perfect. Can’t wait <3”

“👍”

“What’s this?”

You flip the thick piece of paper back and forth as if the words were written in hieroglyphics.

He watches you register what he had just done.

“Tickets. For the Knicks game this weekend.”

You stare at him as if he just popped out a second head so he sighs and continues. “You said you loved them on our first date.”

“Brendon.”

“It’s the Eastern Conference Finals.”

“Brendon.”

“What?”

“It’s in New York.”

He cocks his head at another pair of tickets sitting on his coffee table.

“Those are our plane tickets.”

“You bought plane tickets?!”

“Can’t exactly walk there, sweetheart.”

“You bought Knicks tickets, plane tickets, and planned an entire trip without telling me?”

“Well, such is the nature of a surprise.”

You actually let out a snort of laughter before jumping into his lap on the couch pressing kisses and ‘thank you’s’ on whatever skin you could reach. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You haven’t even heard of the restaurant reservation yet.”

Or the fact that he somehow tracked down a friend of a friend of a friend who is somehow dating someone working game day operations just to make sure the kiss cam landed on the two of you during half-time.

And they said he wasn’t a romantic.

It took Park 3 months in your relationship to realize … you have never truly slept over his place.

When you mentioned on your second date that you were a virgin and that you planned to wait until marriage, he was – for the sake of honesty – taken aback.

Not that there was anything wrong with it and you had bashfully admitted that you were willing to do some 'other stuff' as long as you didn’t go 'all the way'. Something about a vow with the women in your family that the only man who should be able to touch you is the one who is willing to commit.

It makes sense, in theory. But they never took into consideration that the man who plans to worship the ground you walk on is a stressed-out orthopedic surgeon in a trauma center whose only source of relaxation is in between your thighs.

So, yeah. He was a bit taken aback. And frustrated.

But he respected it.

(He was too far gone for you to let this minor complication stand in his way.)

Sucked it up like a man, met your parents, swore to them that this relationship would end in marriage once you were ready, and now added meditation to his workout routine so he wouldn’t pop a boner every time you lounged around his place in just his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

He asks from the en-suite bathroom’s door, finally ready for bed after a long day of bullshit in the hospital only to find his girlfriend quietly trying to book a taxi from his bed.

“Oh! I figured you’d be too tired to drive me back home so I was just going to book a car.”

He frowns in confusion. Quickly walking to where you were lounging in his bed to grab your phone and cancel it.

“Wha – hey!”

“I think we’re past asking permission to stay over.”

You open your mouth to protest before hesitating, choosing instead to crawl to the edge of the bed so you can sit by where he was standing. The fresh smell of his soap, body wash, and clean skin lights your skin on fire.

“I don’t have my skincare stuff in here,” you weakly protested.

He hummed, hands petting the back of your head.“Let’s go buy it tomorrow after brunch. It’s my day off.”

You beamed, gasping in glee. “Really?”

"Really." He can’t help but chuckle at your delight – so pleased with a couple hundred dollars of products. Seems he wasn’t doing quite a good enough job spoiling you, he plans to change that starting tomorrow. “Anything else I should know before our first official sleepover?”

You rubbed your cheeks into his hands like a cat before shyly nodding.

“I know you’re having a hard time with the … abstinence thing,” you pout your lips up at him, your chin digging firmly on his navel which definitely didn’t help.

He clears his throat, taking a beat to look up at the ceiling and collect himself before letting his hands cup your cheeks, “I’m a grown man, babydoll. I can handle sleeping next to my woman without pouncing on her.”

“I trust you, Bren,” you insist earnestly. “But it doesn’t mean I want to frustrate you any more than I already do.”

“Hey, where is this coming from? I’ll behave,” he pokes the tip of your nose to lighten your mood but you only bit your bottom lip in even more hesitation. “Or is there another reason?”

He wouldn’t want to push you if you were truly uncomfortable.

“The thing is,” you groan, cupping the hands holding your face. “I can only sleep naked.”

If he had to go back to the bathroom for five minutes to listen to the calming meditation exercise his therapist recommended to him, it would be something the two of you agreed to take to the grave.

“Alright, my eyes are closed, babydoll.”

He prepared as best as he could.

Lights are off, sleep mask on.

Now he just needs to not think about his girlfriend sleeping naked beside him for the entire night. His adorable, sweet, angel of a woman who is not wearing a stitch of clothing on her bo –

“Thanks for doing this, baby.”

He sucks in a sharp breath when he feels you press a kiss to his cheeks.

He grips the comforter so tight he swears his nails ripped through it. “Warn a man next time.”

Your giggle disappears under the duvet. He makes it a point to put a pillow between the two of you – for your sake and mostly his.

It’ll be fine. Everything will be –

-- fucked! He is so fucking fucked.

The nudity wasn’t the challenge – difficult, yes but manageable with the proper monk-like focus. What you have failed to disclose was that you slept like a possessed octopus. Something he himself only found out when he felt your entire body weight on top of him at 2:47 in the morning.

Once he felt the swell of your chest on his ribs his entire body instinctively flinched so quickly, he almost developed a cramp.

“S-Sweetheart,” he whispered, trying to see if he could jog you out of your sleep gently to save him from the suffering of having to push you back.

To his horror, you just whined, grabbing even more tightly to his biceps as you dragged your body up the length of his so you could push your face in the juncture of his neck.

The contrast of the warmth of your skin on his, the small puffs of air a siren’s call on his ear, and the plump of your lips grazing his neck as you sleepily mumble mindless nothings was torture to his already frazzled sense of self-control.

He grips his bedsheet tightly, knowing his willpower would snap if his hands ever got ahold of you.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“’luv yu’, Bren.”

He sucks in a breath. What the – did you just say – “Babydoll?”

“So nice to me,” you whimper the words on his neck. “Love you so much.”

That felt like a jagged knife of guilt to his heart.

The shame and responsibility you felt for what he could only believe other lovers saw as a drawback or a burden. It must’ve been a heavy weight to carry for his sweet girl.

He swears you won’t have to carry it anymore as long as he is here.

He holds his breath for 10 seconds and lets it out for 5. He thinks about surgical risks, antibiotics, anesthesia regulation, and proper post-op instruction. Thinks about Gloria on his neck, the pressure to live up to their expectation as the upcoming Chief of Surgery. He thinks about Robinavitch’s jealousy even though the both of them knew the pressure Brendon was in would eventually fling the ER attending from the roof he so often escaped to.

Anything and everything to keep his mind clear and disciplined as he refuses to be another weak man who resents your boundaries.

With a deep breath he finally gathers you in his arms, curling around you until his body threatens to swallow you whole.

Saying instead the words that always seemed to get stuck between his heart and his tongue whenever you looked at him. Reminding himself to repeat it tomorrow before you could say it first.

He’s an old-fashioned man, after all.

“I love you, babydoll.”

'Going to the gym but i'm gonna be busy all day. Text me '911' if it's an emergency and my assistant will track me down.'

'Go it. I'm planning to cook you steak for dinner tonight, can I use your kitchen?'

'DON'T SEND ME MONEY. It's my treat.'

'I know your fingers are hovering Brendon Park. Don't!'

'Fine'

'Fine <3'

'Check your jewelry box. I slipped a spare key to my place there.'

'Okay <3'

'Wait what.'

“Hi, babyyyy,” you jump into his arms as he drops his work bag unceremoniously on the floor.

Your text that said you were going to spend your day off going to the grocery store and preparing him a steak dinner genuinely was the only thing that pushed him through a long day of surgeries and consultations.

He lets you rope him into a kiss, sitting the two of you down on his couch as you continue to map out his face with your mouth.

“Missed you so much,” you mutter in between kisses. He smiles at your earnest confession. “Say you missed me too.”

You press a finger on his chest, and he glances down at it as if unconvinced. You squawk in offense and try to get off his lap but not before getting caught in his arms and flipped into the couch.

“You’re all I ever thought about all day, sweetheart.”

You hum, running your hand on his hair. “That’s a dangerous habit, doctor.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a professional.”

With one last deep kiss he lets you out of his arms and back into the kitchen. He prepares to stand up and set the table but you pressed a hand into his chest with an explicit instruction to go shower and relax.

“It’ll be ready when you’re out.”

By the time he was done, you were already getting the wine out of the chiller. “Oh, by the way, some important-looking envelope from your bank arrived.”

You point a finger at the side table by the door. He opens it, his eyes moving carefully with each line.

“Babydoll?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you give me your landlord’s bank details?”

A pause, he turns back to see you staring at him in bewilderment.

“Uh, what for?”

He drops the letter on the coffee table before walking towards you. “I need it to set up an auto-pay in my account.”

You blink up at him as he casually presses a kiss on your lips before sitting at his seat beside yours.

“Are you … moving?” You ask even though you had to admit how incredulous it was. Why would he switch his immaculate penthouse to your subpar building? Is he buying the building then?

“No, for your apartment, honey,” he continues patiently, taking your hand.

Your eyes widened, finally getting what he is implying. “What?! Why – you don’t have to do that! I-I know I complain a lot but I’m fine really!”

He presses a kiss on the back of your hand. “I know, sweetie. But I’m planning on moving you with me by the end of the year, and I want that transition to be as smooth as possible for you.”

Your mouth opens and closes in shock as he drops two bombs on you at once.

“Are … are you asking me to move in with you?”

He slices a piece of his steak before feeding it to you.

“By the end of the year,” he reiterates casually. “At least that’s the deadline I gave my realtor.”

You audibly swallow the barely chewed steak, pushing it down with large gulps of wine.

“I … I don’t want to make it seem like I-I’m a gold digger or something.”

His face hardens at that. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m serious. People talk.”

“Let them talk,” the reprimand was there but it was gentle. “I know why you’re here.”

That softens you.

“Because I’m funny and a good lay.”

You almost snorted your wine into your nose and he finally smiles hearing you laugh. He raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘see?’.

“Brendon –”

“Hey,” he takes your hand, pulling you closer and letting the chair screech in protest. “You’re allowed to like the things I do for you. I work hard, I make good money. And I’d rather spend it making you happy than letting it sit there in the bank.”

He holds your hesitant eyes, only letting a victorious smile appear on his face when you let out a resigned sigh.

You stand up and he automatically pushes his chair back so you can sit in his lap.

“Okay. Thank you. I love you and I will move in with you by the end of the year even though you technically didn't ask.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispers on your lips. “Also, that was your new credit card in the envelope.”