#pittheart

@pittheart / text message prompts

" i think you might need this more than i do... " there's an understanding smile on his lips as he slows his steps, setting his untouched cup of coffee on the desk beside her. it's a unique look of exhaustion that you find in the eyes of a senior resident - a look he himself was wearing not so long ago. it's hard not to empathize with that... he'd come down to the pit for a consult - the fresh caffeine was meant to power him through the last few hours of his shift. but he knows a worse case when he sees one... " i'd ask if it's a rough day but... i know better. "

trinity comes in the front door after her shift like a tornado as always. she's listening to music through her headphones so loud that anyone can hear it. her bag gets thrown wherever it lands while she toes her shoes off and cheers when they land more in the other room than where she's standing like that was the goal. she lets her hair out of the bun and moans. she's taking off her shirt and unbuckling her pants the second the door is shut.

she pauses. she sniffs the air. food.

⤷ 𝚁𝙴: send a 📸 to see 3-5 pictures that my muse has/has taken of your muse. ⤷ 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂: accepting.

The ER was a storm of noise and movement — too much, all at once. The hiss of oxygen, the shuffle of shoes against linoleum, the steady pulse of someone’s heart monitor three beds away. It all blurred together until Matt could barely separate one sound from the next. He could smell the blood before he felt it — metallic, sharp, tangled with the chemical sting of antiseptic. His own heartbeat roared in his ears, too fast, too shallow. He tried to pull away from the hands guiding him, but Foggy’s grip only tightened.

“Matt, sit. Please.” The weight of his friend’s voice landed heavier than any injury. Matt let himself be eased onto the edge of the gurney, jaw locked tight. He hated this part — the helplessness, the exposure. The cool press of the metal beneath his palms felt like judgment. He could hear the doctor before they spoke: the crisp rustle of gloves, the shift of a lab coat, the faint scent of soap and something floral. Calm, controlled. Not one of the frantic interns. Someone competent. He wished that made him feel better.

The cut along his cheek burned when he tried to speak. “It looks worse than it is,” he muttered, because that was easier than explaining why he hadn’t come here on his own. Foggy exhaled near his shoulder — part frustration, part relief. The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, and Foggy looked up, spotting the doctor heading their way.

“Finally,” he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You might want to bring restraints. He’s already tried to make a break for it twice, and I’ve only got two hands.”

Matt managed a faint, pained huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Exaggeration,” he mumbled.

Foggy leaned close enough for only Matt to hear. “Just—don’t make this harder than it has to be, okay?” His voice softened. “I’ve gotta run back to the office, but I’ll come get you once they patch you up.”

Matt only nodded, the words sticking somewhere behind his teeth. He listened to Foggy’s retreat — footsteps fading toward the exit, the door’s soft hiss sealing him in again — and then to the steady, even rhythm of the doctor’s heartbeat drawing closer.

He straightened just a little, tilting his head toward the sound. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

It always starts with a little peck on the nose and a smile catching on his lips. The next part is his hands on her hips, drawing her closer, right over his lap. Thumbs right under her scrub, teasing her hip bones and tongue sweeping over his lips.

He liked this part. A lot.

The smile she gives him after was just an added bonus.