Author note: I don’t have any one to beta read my content. As stated I've tried to make everything I’ve wrote gender neutral but If I have slipped up somewhere please just let me know and I’ll fix it asap. <3
Triple Frontier Boys :
Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales
Do you want to know a secret? (Gender Neutral)
Oh My love.. My darling (Gender Neutral)
Will Miller
Hello Nurse (Gender Neutral)
Benny Miller
You are my sunshine (Gender Neutral)
Waking up in Vegas (Gender Neutral)
Santiage ‘Pope’ Garcia
Hey Brother (Platonic x Triple Frontier boys)
Yelena Belova:
To make her smile: (Ace!Yelena Belova x Gender Neutral Reader)
i am an emery walsh little spoon truther and you can pry this from my cold dead hands
after samira moves to night shift to in part get away from fuckass robby but also to align with emery. it allows both of them to curl up in bed in the morning, blackout blinds drawn and samira knows it’s coming
laughs quietly to herself when she feels emery, back already turned to her, just start to fucking wriggle backwards like some sort of confused worm, grumbling under her breath until samira slips an arm round her waist, pulls her flush against her body
and that is the cue to emery’s entire body to go lax, sinking boneless into the bed and 12+ hours of work seems to fall off her shoulders all at once
she’s asleep with in minutes and samira smiles against the hair, wiggles as best she can to avoid the inevitable pins and needles that will accompany the arm emery is using as a pillow and closes her eyes too
forever and always accepting the headcanon that eileen shamsi literally would not gaf if victoria came out to her. lesbian bi whatever you hc victoria as. she's getting herself all worked up and anxious, even though she thinks at least her dad will back her up, maybe. telling her mom with a watery voice that I like girls, mom.
and then eileen is going on a tangent about how well then you really need to go into surgery I'm sure women find that attractive, and you need to be able to support a wife and surgery would give you the funds to do so, really, think about your future victoria—
I don’t see enough PTMC Secretary!Reader fics, so I’d love some Brendon Park x Secretary!Reader fluff/meet-cute type fic
hi!! thank you so much for requesting <3 I actually love this one a lot so i'm excited haha, hope you enjoy!
dr. brendon park x secretary!reader who needs to know who he is ✿ 1.5k words
summary: no one will tell you anything about the handsome doctor you saw on the ER floor. turns out they don't have to.
cw: fem!reader, secretary!reader, implied sunshine!reader, reader is implied to be newer at the PTMC, everyone wants to protect reader
the pitt masterlist
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“Woah.” The word leaves your lips involuntarily, pressed from your lungs with something akin to awe. You move a little to the left, escaping from the bar on the window that was obstructing your view.
The doctor you’re watching is stunning. You feel like he’s walked right out of one of your late night fantasies and into the real world.
“Who is that?” You ask, your voice suspiciously thin like you’re out of breath. Lupe looks up at you, then follows your gaze. Her lips purse and she shakes her head.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Your brows furrow, eyes meeting hers before glancing back to the ER floor, only to see that the doctor has vanished.
“I was just asking a question.” You try innocently, taking a seat in your chair again. “I haven’t seen him before.”
“It’s probably better if you didn’t.” Lupe assures you before she turns back to her monitor with no further explanation.
You turn your head back one more time, hoping to catch another glimpse of him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. You sulk back into your chair, shoulders slumped in defeat, and move on. Well, as much as you can while his silhouette and sharp jawline stay etched in your mind like a wine stain in carpet.
By your next shift, after a night of dreams haunted by a tall, broad, handsome stranger, you decide to go on a hunt for more information despite Lupe’s warning.
You don’t get far before you run into another obstacle. Setting down your coffee at your desk, you slip through the door into the ER and approach the nurse’s stand. Dana looks up at you over her glasses, a chart in her hand that’s forgotten as you approach.
“What’s goin’ on?” She asks, smacking her gum. You run your hands over the counter, nails tapping against the flat top as you try to piece together your question.
“There was a doctor down here yesterday that I’d never seen before.” You play innocent, though there’s something in Dana’s gaze that makes you think she can see right through you. You try not to fold immediately. “I just think it’s a good idea that I know everyone’s name…”
Dana is silent for a long moment before she places the chart down in front of her. She leans back in her chair, taking a long breath, before she sighs and leans toward you again.
“Listen, kid.” The tone of her voice immediately dampens your enthusiasm. She continues, her eyes having an almost motherly gaze when she looks at you over the nurse’s station counter. “I know who you’re askin’ about. I also know that Lupe already told you askin’ after him is a bad idea. And I’m going to reiterate that for you. He’s not nice, he’d eat you alive.”
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your shoulders curving in on yourself. You wish you could disappear into the floor. Had they talked about you? Did Lupe tell her you’d been watching him? Does everyone know?
By the time you meet Dana’s gaze again, there’s a pitying smile on her lips. She stands, picking up her chart with one hand and patting one of yours with her other. “It’s better if you drop it.”
But you couldn’t drop it. You found your eyes drifting on more than one occasion toward the emergency room floor, tracing for any familiar details that might suggest your the doctor had returned. He lingered in your dreams, imbedding himself in every fantasy. You didn’t even know his name but you’d imagined him doing things to you that would make anyone else blush if you said them out loud.
You decide to try one last resort. You know you can’t ask any of the doctors, mostly because they’re too frantic and fast-paced for you to have any chance to. But nurses… nurses are fair game, especially ones who have been nice to you since you started working in the ER.
You arrive early, another iced coffee clenched in your hand as you wait like a predator stalking prey. You watch some of the night shift leave, some of the day shift doctors arriving before dawn to take their place. Your victim arrives shortly, and you scramble to exit your car at the same time she does, jogging to reach her side as you shout her name to get her attention.
“Princess!”
She looks up with wide eyes, but then her lips turn up in a smile with only a hint of confusion beneath it. “Hi!”
“I have a question for you.” You say, keeping in step with her as the two of you approach the building. You adjust your bag on your shoulder as you continue, “There was a doctor down here the other day. I’ve never seen him before, and I was wondering-”
“Oh no.” Princess shakes her head, holding up a finger in your direction, “I was told explicitly not to tell you anything about a certain evil orthopedic surgeon that you seem to have your eye on.”
Orthopedics. Well, that’s more information than you’ve gotten out of anyone else. You conveniently ignore the other adjective she’d used to describe him.
You try to push for more, “Not even his name?”
“Not from me.” She shakes her head again, lifting her fingers to mime zipping her lips closed. You groan in defeat, but you still hold the door open for her as you walk in.
You keep your eyes peeled for him, this handsome doctor who has somehow wedged his way between the folds of your brain. But as shifts pass by, days and days of them, you lose hope. Maybe he was just visiting, and that’s why no one wanted to tell you anything? Or had other women like you fallen into the same trap and gotten burned, and that’s why no one had entertained you, even for a moment?
Your brain goes around and around, shifting between fantasies of the mysterious man and disappointment that you’d probably never see him again.
And then, one early Saturday morning, fate decided to intervene.
You’re off work surprisingly, not trapped between white walls or engulfed in the scent of antiseptic. You’re enjoying a nice walk, breathing in the fresh air, and splurge a little with a stop at your favorite coffee shop halfway across town.
You’re waiting at the counter for your order to come out, scrolling mindlessly on your phone. Your ears perk up when you hear one of the baristas call out your coffee order, placing in on the counter. You make a mad dash through the small crowd of people also waiting, your hand clasping around the cup. You give a quick ‘thanks!’ to the staff working behind the counter, beginning to lift the straw to your mouth for a drink.
A throat clears behind you. “I believe that’s mine.”
You turn, and to your horror… it’s him. The doctor from the ER, the one who has been present in every fantasy and every dream you’ve had since you first saw him. You’re gaping at him, mouth slightly parted like a fish, and a look of annoyance crosses his face.
“That’s my coffee.” He says again, and some part of your brain must finally reset and work because next you’re practically shoving it into his hand.
“Sorry!” You tell him, trying to put on an apologetic face while simultaneously urging your heart to slow down. He doesn’t nod, doesn’t give you a smile, doesn’t give you any kind of acknowledgment at all. Instead, he begins to turn away.
You can’t let him escape again, you think. Not without at least knowing who he is.
“Hey,” You take a step forward to get his attention again, but it doesn’t work. So instead, you just blurt out, “Do you work at the PTMC?”
This does make him pause. He turns back toward you, his eyes more narrowed but less annoyed this time when they meet yours.
“I do.” He says. He gives you a once-over, his head tilting just the slightest bit to the side. “Do you?”
“Yes.” You tell him with a nod. Your mouth opens for you to speak again, though you aren’t able to get anything out before the barista is calling out your order. The exact same as his.
No wonder you’d gotten them confused.
His eyebrows raise, eyes glancing back at the counter where your coffee sits. “You have a good taste in coffee.” He gives you a nod, and you feel like you won a battle. He doesn’t say anything else before turning to leave, and the giddiness of the interaction has you on a high that almost makes you feel like you don’t need a coffee after all.
It’s not until later that you realize you still never learned his name.
Omg long-haired Brendan where companion is kissing him with her hands just carding through his pretty pretty hair……..ughhh
you discover it in pieces. because it's not one moment. it's a slow accumulation of evidence that builds into a case.
the first time is innocent.
you're on the couch watching a movie and brendan's hair is falling in his eyes and you reach over without thinking, sweeping it back from his forehead and his whole body goes rigid. just for a second. a full-system pause, his breath catching mid-exhale, and then it passes and he's fine, he's normal, and you think nothing of it.
the second time is less innocent.
you're sitting behind him on the floor while he reads, and you're bored, and his hair is right there, curling against his nape, and you start playing with it. idle. absent. twisting strands around your finger, dragging your nails lightly across his scalp, and you feel a shiver roll through him. not a small one.
brendan's shoulders draw up and his head tips back into your hand with this involuntary yielding and the book sinks in his grip, and he swallows so hard you can hear it. and you file that away in a place you don't examine too carefully because he's your best friend and best friends play with each other's hair and the fact that his eyes fluttered shut and his lips parted means nothing. nothing at all.
the third time is different.
because you're kissing him.
finally, after all of it, the pining and the waiting and the years of almost, you're kissing brendan bennett franklin and his mouth is desperate against yours and his hands are shaking where they grip your waist. and your fingers slide into his hair. both hands. burying themselves in those long, soft strands, nails dragging across his scalp, and the sound he makes into your mouth is carnal, more animal than man. this low, cracked groan that vibrates through your teeth and brendan shudders. his whole frame, and you feel it everywhere your bodies touch.
so you pull.
just a fistful of strands at the nape gathered in your fingers and tugged. his reaction is so immediate and so violent, it steals the air from both of you.
his hips jerk forward against yours, a helpless grinding thrust he didn't choose and can't take back, and you both gasp at the contact. at the sudden, hot pressure between you, and the gasp feeds back into the kiss which feeds back into your hands tightening which feeds back into his hips rolling again, harder, more urgent, and neither of you is steering this anymore. it's just happening, this desperate feedback loop of your fists in his hair and his body surging against yours and his groans getting higher and more broken with every tug.
"wait—" he manages, pulling back half an inch, and his eyes are blown so dark you can barely find the blue, his voice is raspy and his cheeks flushed. his hair is a disaster, ruined, tangled where your hands have been. "wait, if you keep—I'm going to—"
and you pull again, slowly this time, watching his face. watching his eyes roll back and his mouth drop open. his neck arches into your grip and the sound that comes out of him is so raw and so starved that it borders on cruel. it is cruel. this boy has been in love with you for years and now your hands are in his hair and you've found the cheat code and you are using it mercilessly.
"good," you whisper against his mouth, and pull harder.
brendan's hips snap forward and his hands crush your waist and his forehead drops to yours and he's gasping, trembling, muttering your name between clenched teeth, and neither of you has taken a single piece of clothing off. neither of you needs to. this is enough. this is almost too much. your hands in his hair and his body pressed against yours and the slow grind between you that builds and builds and builds.
those gifs of finn w longer hair r sooo twin bb after going away to harvard
brendan leaves for harvard in late august with his hair cropped short and neat because his mom made him get it cut for the "fresh start" and he didn't argue because brendan doesn't argue.
he comes back at thanksgiving and it's grown out. sandy and still straight, falling across his forehead, tucking behind his ears half the time, and brushing the back of his neck where it's starting to curl at the ends from the length. he didn't cut it because nobody told him to and honestly he kinda forgot. he's been too busy drowning in coursework and eating dining hall food and quietly missing you so hard it's become a background frequency he barely notices anymore. like tinnitus, like breathing.
and you spot him in the franklin doorway and your whole face lights up. you barrel into him the way you always do, arms around his neck, face in his shoulder, and then you pull back and look at him. your expression shifts, openly warm and delighted.
"oh my god, BB. your hair."
and your hands are already in it. both of them. pushing it back from his forehead, tucking a strand behind his ear, carding through the length at his nape, and his whole body has turned to stone because your fingers are on his scalp and your face is three inches from his and you're beaming at him.
"you're only missing the preppy glasses and you're going to be one of those super smart harvard stereotypes. tweed jacket. elbow patches. reading kant in a library with a cup of tea."
and bobby, from the kitchen: "he already reads kant for fun."
and you laugh, brushing another strand off his forehead and go, "I like it. it suits you. very scholarly. very brooding." and your thumb grazes his temple as your hand drops and he hasn't spoken a single word since you arrived.
because every syllable he has is stuck behind the fist currently in his throat.
he's not cutting it. ever. he decides it there and then. harvard coursework can wait. the dining hall can burn for all he cares. you touched his hair and said you liked it. liked him not looking like bobby. he's taking this information back to school and holding it against his chest like a lit match for the entire winter semester.
"thanks," he manages to the doorframe, three inches left of your eyes.
Imagine if the backrooms bleeds more into reality and BB becomes the monster under your bed. And Bobby has been pulling away and he didn't even touch you for a while so when one lonely night when you thought he was out somewhere but he wakes you up for cuddles you don't question the instinct that's screaming at you that something is off about him
you'd been asleep maybe an hour when the bed dips.
you don't open your eyes. you don't need to. the mattress shifts and settles behind you, then there's an arm sliding over your waist, palm flat on your stomach, pulling you back against a chest. and your whole body just goes soft with relief because it's been weeks. bobby's been pulling away. not cruel about it, not cold exactly, just distant in a way you couldn't name and didn't know how to ask about. you've missed him reaching for you like this.
so when his hand strokes up your side, slow, over your ribs and back down to your hip, you make a small, pleased sound and press back into him.
(there's something. right at the base of your skull. a low hum of wrong. you don't listen to it. you're half asleep, and you've missed him, and you're not going to interrogate the first good thing that's happened in a month.)
huh. he's cool. that's odd, isn't it? bobby runs hot. bobby is a furnace, bobby kicks the covers off in january, bobby has never once been cold in his life. and right now the skin of his forearm against your stomach is cool. not cold. just cool. like a room that's been closed up.
it's nice, actually. you're always overheating. you press closer.
he hums into the back of your neck. a low sound, wordless, vibrating against your vertebrae.
"go back to sleep."
quiet. so quiet. lips moving against your skin.
"you're so warm."
said like a discovery. said with something in it that isn't quite affection, or is, but the wrong flavour of it. like warmth is a fact about you he's just now learning and finding remarkable. his nose drags up the back of your neck into your hairline. inhales deeply.
"you're so warm."
again. exactly the same. exactly the same cadence, same fond... hunger.
his arm tightens. his hand finds yours in the dark and threads his fingers through. they're cool too and slightly too long but you're too far gone to do the math on that.
"I've missed you."
and god, you've missed this so much your chest aches with it. you turn your face into the pillow and squeeze his hand and feel him settle in behind you, chest to your back, knees behind your knees, mouth at your neck.
the thing at the base of your skull is screaming now.
you don't listen.
you only press closer.
and somewhere on the other side of the apartment, a key turns in the front door. it's bobby (warm, loud, real, calling your name from the hallway because he brought back food) and your eyes fly open.
