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Girl from the lil snippets youâve shown us of yourself, I could tell youâre a baddieeeee ! And your personality fs makes you even more attractive (respectfully)
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Thinking ab Brendon park again.. but ur giving birth to his baby and theyâve got your legs up and your laughing and smiling through the pain and when he finally asks why youâre smiling (in front of all the doctors and nurses he works with) you go
âI think this is the position that got us hereâ
The room falls silent for a brief moment, before a nurse lets out a shy laugh, followed by the laughter of the other nurses and doctors
summary: after a bad fall leaves you with a broken leg, brendon turns your recovery into a full-time mission. no matter how insane he gets about your healing, every moment becomes proof of just how deeply he loves you.
pairing: brendon park + fem!reader
word count: 4.8k
warnings/tags: surgery mention, overprotective!brendon hehe, established relationship, excessive supervision as a love language (but not in a bad way!)
notes: based on this ask from anon, tysm for requesting!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
The first thing you realized after your surgery was that the anesthesia haze was temporary.
The second thing you realized was that Brendon Park being insane about your recovery absolutely was not temporary.
It started in the hospital. The fracture had been bad enough. It was a clean break, the orthopedic resident had explained while showing you the scans, but unstable enough to need surgical fixation after your spectacularly humiliating fall down a rain-slick stairwell outside your apartment building.
You remembered the pain. The ambulance. The sickening crack that had echoed up your leg.
You also remembered Brendon arriving at the ER. That part had honestly been scarier than the fracture.
Because Brendon Park, the notoriously composed orthopedic trauma surgeon who could calmly handle shattered pelvises while every else spiraled, had walked into your trauma bay looking one bad sentence away from committing a felony.
He'd still been in scrubs. Blood on the sleeve, surgical cap hanging around his neck. His eyes had gone immediately to your leg immobilizer, then your face, then the pain monitor.
"Why is her heart rate still that high?" had been the first thing out of his mouth.
Not hello. Not are you okay. Just immediate interrogation.
The ER nurse, who knew exactly who he was and looked vaguely terrified of him even on good days, had blinked.
"She just came back from imagingâ"
"She's already been medicated."
"With what?"
"Brendon," you'd groaned from the bed.
His attention snapped to you instantly, sharp and terrifyingly focused. "Did they move you after the X-rays?"
"Yeah."
"Did it hurt?"
"Yes, because my leg is broken."
His jaw had clenched so hard you thought he might crack a molar.
And somehow things only got worse from there. Because apparently orthopedic surgeons became unbearable when the patient was someone they loved.
You found this out over the next forty-eight hours.
Brendon sat through every consult, every update, every medication discussion.
He questioned your surgeon despite literally being able to perform the operation himself (But he couldn't for obvious reasons).
"You're using the locking plate system?" he asked Garcia with narrowed eyes.
She stared at him. "...Yes?"
"What approach?"
"Brendon."
"What?"
"You are not interrogating my surgery."
"I'm verifying."
"No, you're being annoying."
Then came the surgery, which went well.
Too well, actually, because apparently the moment Brendon heard "successful procedure" his brain immediately transitioned from anxious boyfriend to maximum-security prison warden.
The discharge papers had barely printed before he was taking over.
"No weight-bearing for six weeks," he repeated while adjusting your blankets for the hundredth time.
"I know."
"You use the crutches every single time you get up."
"I know."
"You do not try to hop."
"I'm not an animal, Brendon."
"You joke now," he muttered.
The nurse handed over your prescriptions with visible relief. "You're all set."
You thought freedom awaited you. You were wrong. Because the second you got home, Brendon transformed your apartment into what could only be described as an orthopedic dictatorship.
Within an hour, throw rugs were removed, furniture was rearranged, cords were taped down, ice packs were lined in formation inside the freezer, medications were sorted by time and dosage, and your entire life was relocated to the couch and bedroom so you "wouldn't need unnecessary movement."
You watched all this from the sofa with increasing alarm.
"Brendon."
"Hm?"
"You took my coffee table away."
"It has sharp corners."
"It's a coffee table."
"You're on meds and your balance is impaired."
"Baby, I have one broken leg, not a traumatic brain injury."
The first night home, you woke up at two in the morning needed the bathroom.
And normally, this would not have been an issue. You had crutches, you were medically cleared to use them, you were perfectly capable of traveling the astonishing distance between the bed and the bedroom.
Unfortunately, you were dating Brendon Park.
You'd barely shifted under the blankets before his eyes opened instantly in the dark.
"What are you doing?"
You stared at him. "Were you awake?"
"I am now."
"I need the bathroom."
"Okay."
"...Okay."
But instead of going back to sleep like a normal person, he immediately sat up. Then stood. Then reached for your crutches before you even could.
You blinked at him. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you."
"I can use crutches by myself."
He ignored that. You tried to take the crutches from him, but he held them out of reach.
"Brendon."
"I'm making sure you don't slip."
"You cannot stand in here while I pee."
"Yes I can."
"Brendon."
He finally sighed and backed out exactly one step beyond the doorframe. You stared at him in disbelief.
"Why are you still there?"
"I'm supervising."
"You're insane."
"You love me."
Unfortunately, that was true.
And now, it became a recurring issue. If you adjusted position on the couch, his head snapped up from whatever he was doing.
"Brendon, if you ask me one more question I'm going to fracture your leg too."
"You'd need help reaching me first."
Three days into recovery, cabin fever started setting hard.
You were exhauted, sore, itchy beneath the cast and dressings, and so catastrophically bored that you genuinely considered reorganizing your email inbox for entertainment.
Meanwhile Brendon had become worse. Not better. Worse.
There was something about medical professionals witnessing injuries in clinical detail when it happened to someone they loved.
You could practically see the knowledge haunting him in real time every time he looked at your leg.
So instead of relaxing as you healed, he became even more vigilant. He brought you food, adjusted your pillows, timed your medication down to the minute, and hovered. Constantly.
One afternoon you attempted the dangerous and reckless activity of standing to reach for a book on the kitchen counter.
You hand your crutches, you were stable, you were literally fine. Unfortunately for you, Brendon walked in halfway through.
"What are you doing?"
You nearly jumped. "Jesus Christ!"
"You should've called me."
"For a book?"
"You shouldn't be putting pressure on your other leg for prolonged periods."
He crossed the kitchen in seconds, immediately reaching for your elbow like you were seconds from collapsing.
And then he paused, looking at you properly for the first time all day.
Your messy hair. Your oversized shirt that was definitely his. The irritation building behind your eyes.
Something in his expression softened immediately.
"Honey."
"I know you're worried," you said, quieter now. "I know. But I can't just lie there twenty-four seven while you stare at me like I'm made of glass."
His hand slid carefully around your waist.
"You're not made of glass."
"You treat me like I am."
"That's because you snapped your tibia in half."
"Well, technically it wasâ"
"Do not correct me on anatomy right now."
He looked exhausted suddently and that finally made the pieces click together.
Brendon wasn't hovering because he thought you were incapable, he was hovering because he was terrified.
Terrified of you getting hurt again. Terrified of complications. Terrified of pain he couldn't fix fast enough.
You reached up, touching the tense line of his jaw.
"Hey."
His eyes flicked to yours.
"I'm okay."
His expression did something painful then. Small. Fragile around the edges in a way Brendon almost never allowed himself to be.
"You were screaming," he said quietly.
"When they moved you in the ER," he continued, voice low. "I heard you from the hallway."
You hadn't realized that stuck with him.
"I've seen people in pain before," he muttered. "Obviously. But hearing youâ"
He stopped. You stared at him for a second before your irritation melted clean away.
"Oh, honey."
His laugh came out humorless. "Now I sound insane."
"You are insane."
He rested his forehead briefly against yours.
"You scared the hell out of me."
And for a few days after that, he genuinely tried.
Tried not to hover. Tried not to leap upright every time you shifted. Tried not to track your movements like a paranoid mom.
And that lasted approximately forty-eight hours.
Then he caught you attempting to carry your own tea mug while using crutches.
"What the hell are you doing?"
You froze mid-step. "...Transporting tea?"
"You could spill that."
"Yes."
"You could slip."
"Brendon."
"You have one functioning leg."
"I know."
He took the mug from your hands immediately while looking personally betrayed by your decision-making.
"You are unbelievable."
"I survived medical school," you informed him. "I think I can handle tea."
"That attitude is exactly why you fell down the stairs."
You argued for a good ten minutes. And it dissolved into bickering so domestic and ridiculous that by the end of it both of you were laughing too hard to continue.
Still, the hovering remained. Especially at night.
You once woke up around three in the morning to find Brendon gently checking the circulation in your foot.
"...Baby, what are you doing?" you mumbled sleepily.
"Just making sure swelling hasn't worsened."
"In the middle of the night?"
"I woke up."
Another night you caught him staring at your discharge instructions like they personally offended him.
"Honey, I think you've already memorized those."
"There's a typo."
"You are impossible."
But the worst one, the one that nearly ended with you smothering him with a pillow happened two weeks into recovery.
By then you were mobile. You were comfortable on crutches, restless beyond belief, and deeply tired of being supervised every waking second.
So while Brendon was in the shower, you decided to perform one singular independent task.
Make your own sandwich.
That was it! It wasn't anything dangerous, nothing dramatic, it was just a sandwich.
You were reaching into the fridge when you heard:
"What are you doing?"
You nearly screamed. Brendon stood in the hallway dripping wet, hair soaked, shirt barely put on, staring at you like he'd walked in on a crime scene.
"How do you move so quietly?!" you yelled.
"You weren't in bed."
"I was just making lunch!"
"You should've called me first."
You stared at him in genuine disbelief. "Did you just tell me I should request supervision before making a sandwich?"
"No, I'm not sayingâIt's just that you're still recovering."
"I have a broken leg, Brendon. Not a terminal illness!"
"I know."
The sharpness drained right out of him and he looked tired again. Worn thin around the edges.
"You think I don't know I'm overdoing it?" he said quietly. "I do."
"But every time I look at your leg, all I can think about is what could've happened if you hit your head too. Or if nobody found you right away, or if the fracture had been worse."
He exhaled slowly.
"And I know you're capable, I know you can use the crutches, I know you're not helpess." His mouth twisted faintly. "You're probably the least helpless person I know."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
"Because I love you."
You looked at him standing there. An exhausted surgeon, damp hair dripping onto the floor, eyes shadowed from stress and lack of sleep. You felt your irritation unravel completely.
"You realize this level of hovering is classified as annoying."
"Last time I checked it was called caring?"
You laughed despite yourself. "C'mere, baby."
He stepped closer instantly. You wrapped your arms around his waist carefully, leaning into him while balancing on one leg.
His hands settled against your back with automatic gentleness, like he was afraid squeezing too hard might hurt you somehow.
"I love you too," you murmured.
"I know."
"But if you follow me into the bathroom one more time, I'm filing a restraining order."
"That seems excessive."
He kissed the top of your head to hide his smile. And annoyingly enough?
Even with the hovering, and the overprotectiveness, and the absolute loss of personal autonomy...
You'd never felt more loved in your life.
thank you for reaching until the end! i'd love to know what you thought about this story anddddd if you'd like to see more ;)
0:Â Height
1:Â Virgin?
2:Â Shoe size
3:Â Do you smoke?
4:Â Do you drink?
5:Â Do you take drugs?
6:Â Age you get mistaken for
7:Â Have tattoos?
8:Â Want any tattoos?
9:Â Got any piercings?
10:Â Want any piercings?
11:Â Best friend?
12:Â Relationship status
13:Â Biggest turn ons
14:Â Biggest turn offs
15:Â Favorite movie
16:Â Iâll love you if
17:Â Someone you miss
18:Â Most traumatic experience
19:Â A fact about your personality
20:Â What I hate most about myself
21:Â What I love most about myself
22:Â What I want to be when I get older
23:Â My relationship with my sibling(s)
24:Â My relationship with my parent(s)
25:Â My idea of a perfect date
26:Â My biggest pet peeves
27:Â A description of the girl/boy I like
28:Â A description of the person I dislike the most
29:Â A reason Iâve lied to a friend
30:Â What I hate the most about work/school
31:Â What your last text message says
32:Â What words upset me the most
33:Â What words make me feel the best about myself
34:Â What I find attractive in women
35:Â What I find attractive in men
36:Â Where I would like to live
37:Â One of my insecurities
38:Â My childhood career choice
39:Â My favorite ice cream flavor
40:Â Who wish I could be
41:Â Where I want to be right now
42:Â The last thing I ate
43:Â Sexiest person that comes to my mind immediately
44:Â A random fact about anything
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Brendon park has been arguing with you for the past five and a half minutes, he knows this because youâre flailing around in the tiny transport bed, âdonât cut my clothes! Donât cut them!â You shout; repeating and repeating until your voice is hoarse.
âFemale, 25. Fell off during an equestrian event. Tib-fib fracture. Dislocated pelvis. Possible fractures to her arm and shoulderâ
Heâs looking down at you now, watching as you stare back at him with the stern faced aggression heâs giving you, âIâm going to cut your boots off. And your pants. And your clothesâ
You grunt, âtake them off, these boots were six hundred dollars!â
He stares at you like youâre crazy. Maybe you are. The pain is blinding, but the pain of your bank account is going to be worse, âthe more arguing I am doing with you the higher likelihood that you are going to lose your leg isâ
You snap back, âIf youâd just do what I asked the first time- we wouldnât be here. Thereâs zippers. Use âemâ
He shakes his head, âarguing with a teenagerâ he curses at you, grabbing the shears. And you watch in horror as he cuts your 600$ custom made parlanti boots into scraps, your stomach sinks. That might be the internal bleeding, but you still wince slightly when he cuts the beautiful white; now muddied samsheild breeches, your sparkled black belt. The soft blues of your show shirt.
Itâs a sight even Brendon Park feels pitiful for, heâs sure the financial strain of not only competing. But now hospital bills that will leave you in debt for life. Itâs not an emotion heâs comfortable with, âhow is your painâ a nurse asks you; you look with your eyes. Chest deflated as you look around the room
âTwelveâ
âThe adrenaline is wearing down, letâs get her up to surgery and notify next of kinâ Abbot says, âgot real mangled up, Iâd like to have neuro check for a concussionâ
âI need to get her pelvis stabilized Abbot, her belly is full of bloodâ
You feel like youâre floating, drifting above yourself. Detached from your body, at least if you died now your doctors were total cuties.
You donât remember much, or anything after that. The fall you remember; youâll remember that till the day you die.
A quirky approach to a funky ditch, that the ground slipped from under his studded shoes. Youâd committed; heâd bailed. Thrown you over the hedge; where youâd caught on the wooden log and just. Slumped over.
You blink in the light, the sterile smell. Beeping of machines, unfamiliar faces that brush past you.
Everything hurts, a criminally large cast around your leg, a sling around your hips. You can only stare up at the ceiling.
A doctor comes in, navy blue scrubs. Hair slicked back so hard it looks like itâs holding his forehead up, âyouâre a tough patientâ he comments, âcalled your emergency contact. Parents will be here in a few hoursâ
You shift your head slightly, ââm still upset about my clothesâ
Brendon bites the eye roll out of his system, âuh huh. Put your hip and pelvis back into place, your arm was fractured so thatâs in a sling. Broke your femur and tibia. And by some miracle your concussion is very minorâ
Laughing hurts. But god does it feel good, âmy horse. Is he okay?â You ask, ashamed that itâd taken you this long to ask about him, âbay- warmblood heâs um. Heâs nine, blaze, his names Theo but he responds to Burgerâ
Brendon exhales, âIâll have to ask one of the nurses. Other than that Iâm not sure. Howâs your pain?â
âFine. Shouldnât a nurse be asking that?â
âI like to know how my patients are doing after major surgeryâ
Dr. Brendon Park follows you around, he makes an excuse to see you during physical therapy. Asks how youâre healing, watches the range of movement in your leg and hips.
You come in once a week, resistance bands, stamina, learning to walk and run again. To trust your body after everything.
You fascinate him, in some. Odd way. Maybe itâs the grit, how youâd told him off, how you continue telling him off, âIm not clearing you yetâ he shakes his head
You stare at him, âwhy. Im doing the PT. Iâve got full range of motion. More than I had before. Why.â
âI owe you a pair of boots.â
You stare at him, eyebrow raised, âdo this with all your patients?â
He scoffs, âno. Definitely notâ
Even months after your accident; he somehow remains to keep tabs on you. How your first competition went, because he was there.
Heâd never wanted to come to something like this. Masses of people and more people. Horses and grooms bustling and bumping past, the ring of bells. He doesnât make his presence known to you, just watches from afar.
Follows you from the dressage court to the show jumping ring.
He justifies it by saying he wants to make sure your hip can keep up with you. Since youâre so young. Still have so much life left to live. Dreams that still needed to be cradled in your hands.
But you see him, as youâre exiting the dressage court. Smiling bright as you stare over at the familiar hat wearing face. Wearing the boots heâd bought you because heâd destroyed the last ones.
You smile at him. And for a brief second. Maybe you hallucinate it, but his lips quirk up. He smiles back