Walsh: Why do you look like that?
Garcia, lying face down on the floor: Like what?
Walsh: Like you’re dead.
Garcia: It’s because I’m dying. Leave me here to perish.
Ellis: Garcia accidentally called Santos “babe” in front of everyone today.
[Garcia sobs into the floor]
i hope you all enjoyed the little postcard snips i shared while i was traveling <33 but we are so back with regular wip weds posts!
and to celebrate it being the first week of pride, we have an extra spicy selection today!!
from what if I’m not a good person?, rated e, the garsanshimi end game continuation of my ongoing series
There was a fucking bite mark on Trinity’s inner thigh.
Baran only noticed it when Trinity was fully sprawled out across the bed below her, head thrown back, eyes closed as she waited for Baran to continue. A sick, jealous feeling coiled in Baran’s gut but she pushed it down as she reminded herself that it had been her idea to encourage Trinity to keep seeing Garcia if that was what she wanted.
Leaning down, Baran tried to ignore the mark, instead channeling her feelings into the way she ran her tongue along Trinity’s cunt before sucking on her clit hard enough that Trinity’s hips jerked as she let out a cut-off whimper. Baran glanced up to see that Trinity was covering her own mouth with her hand to keep quiet and Baran wished that she could tell her to stop, that she could hear every sound she wrung out of Trinity as she slid two fingers inside of her, but that wasn’t an option tonight.
from the currently untitled garshimi interlude fic, rated e, that is also a part of the same series (i shared the last line in a tag game earlier the other day and thought i should also share a longer snip <3)
“You don’t even have a harness?” Garcia’s voice was close to a scoff. Baran closed her eyes and took a deep breath and reminded herself that, at the end of the day, she was here for Trinity.
“I don’t,” Baran said. At least she didn’t yet. She’d considered it, had been thinking about buying on to surprise Trinity with after having tried Trinity’s a couple times, but she hadn’t gotten around to it. But there was no way in hell she was going to let Garcia make her feel insecure about that.
“Huh.” Garcia’s lips had settled into a smirk and Baran didn’t know it was possible to fit so much derision into a single syllable.
Baran kept her tone cloyingly sweet as she said, “It’s okay if you aren’t able to get a woman off without a toy to help, but I’ve never had that problem.” Garcia’s smirk morphed into a glare.
from part 2 of pick your poison babe garsantos, rated e
“Hm, I’m not sure you’re ready,” Trinity said as she continued to slowly pump her fingers into Garcia’s cunt, teasing her the way she was so often on the receiving end of. It was so rare for her to have the upper hand, she wanted to take advantage of it,
Garcia’s hand wrapped around her wrist, stopping her. “Fuck me correctly or you can go sit in the corner and watch while I get myself off.”
Trinity could admit to herself that maybe she’d never had the upper hand at all as she pulled her hand back to get the strap ready.
from just watch as I crucify myself, crashtos rated e
Victoria didn’t really have a clear plan in mind when she straddled Trinity’s lap, her thoughts were too clouded by want, her movements driven only by the heat building between her thighs. Every sense was overridden by the need to press closer, to feel Trinity’s body against hers.
She had no idea where to put her hands or what to do with her tongue as she felt Trinity’s brush against it, a fleeting contact that made Victoria immediately crave more.
Wrapping her arms around Trinity’s shoulders, she fought through the haze in her brain to try to figure out what would be the appropriate amount of tongue to use. But before she could land on an answer, Trinity was pulling away.
“Stop overthinking, Crash.” Trinity’s voice was rough as she let her forehead rest against Victoria’s. Her hands squeezed gently where they were holding Victoria's hips.
“How did you—”
“I know you,” Trinity said before she could even finish the question. The easy assertion made Victoria’s stomach flip, made her want to kiss Trinity until she forgot her own name and want to run from the room and never see her again at the same time. “Just relax, I’ve got you.”
from more like resting than running, mowalsh omegaverse au, rated e (sequel to my garsantos omegaverse fic)
As Emery sank inside of her, Samira couldn’t believe she’d ever been afraid of this. It felt right having Emery so close, like it was everything her body had been craving since her last heat. No cheap plastic toy could ever come close to comparing to this.
“Are you alright?” Emery stilled, one of her hands gently swiping at Samira’s cheek. Samira hadn’t even noticed that she’d started crying.
“Yeah,” Samira said quickly. “I’m so good. I just— you feel it too, right?” Please, Samira thought desperately.
Emery looked down at her with something like wonder in her eyes. “I feel it too, sweetheart. Of course I do.” She leaned down, lips pressing to Samira’s and Samira wrapped her arms around Emery’s shoulders, holding her close, breathing her in until feeling Emery inside of her wasn’t enough, she needed her to move.
Her hips shifted and a whine escaped her throat. “Em, please.”
from I’ll take care of you the way she should, walshtos rated e, the sequel to my first walshtos fic (i may or may not already have 2 additional fics plotted for this series... and the last one may or may not be walsh/santos/garcia...)
“Kneel for me,” Emery said as she sat at the edge of the bed. She needed to get Santos relaxed again, to get her closer to the subspace she’d nearly been in before Emery had opened her stupid mouth trying to get too personal.
Santos complied easily, kneeling between Emery’s thighs, but the set of her shoulders was still tense. But she was still here, still trusting Emery to make her feel good.
Reaching down, Emery cupped Santos’s chin, brushing her thumb against Santos’s bottom lip. “Open.”
Santos’s lips parted, her eyes meeting Emery’s as Emery’s thumb slipped inside, pressing against her tongue. She remembered how last time Santos’s gaze had gone hazy as she’d sucked Emery’s strap and hoped that this would have a similar effect. Her free hand threaded through Santos’s hair, nails lightly scratching against her scalp.
“There you go,” Emery muttered as Santos’s eyes fluttered shut.
summary: emery and samira were together, until it all fell apart. now here they are, angry and hurt and so confused.
title from the alcott by the national (ft taylor swift); everyone thank @scout-spaeny for reminding me this song exists, i've been destroyed until further notice.
wc: 4.6k
Samira’s stomach churns and rolls as she stands on the front porch of Emery's house, hand poised to knock just an inch away from the door. It had been six months since that awful last fight that had led to them breaking up. They weren’t working, was what Emery had said, entirely straight-faced as if she was delivering the news of a death to a patient's family. And maybe she was right; maybe all they were meant to do was fall apart.
But deep down, Samira knew that wasn’t true, that Emery was just as hurt as she was despite the stony facade she put on. The majority of their relationship had been good, great even. They'd been in love, and by an unsolvable rift, they’d drifted apart.
There was no blame to be placed on either of them; it had just been a hard two months of barely seeing each other, of squeezing in phone calls and quick hugs in between shifts. They saw each other maybe once a week if they were lucky, settling for quick photos and texts to stay updated. But none of that was enough; it didn't replace falling asleep together or the feel of Emery's lips on hers before they drove home. It was neither’s fault that they’d been back on opposite shifts again, that Samira had been moved to cover for Abbot’s much-needed vacation. It fucking sucked, but it was just two months and then everything would be back to normal again.
Or so they’d thought. Samira had been worried about what it would do to them, but Emery had been resolute that everything would be fine and had kissed her with finality, as if she was sealing it in. But the distance had gotten to them; it had pushed them apart until they were standing on two opposite mountains with a giant chasm in between.
It made both of them all the more irritable, the frustration of falling asleep cold and alone seeping into their voices during phone calls. They refused to admit that the loneliness was getting to them, that they resented the other for not trying harder. Every single day was just more distance between them, an irreparable gap that kept growing wider and wider.
The distance had broken them and what they thought was unbreakable, wedging an immovable block into their relationship that left them stuck screaming from either side. It meant that the rare occasions their days off lined up were spent sniping and biting at each other, storming off in anger after an argument about the other not caring about their relationship enough would go south.
It’s been six months since Samira’s last seen Emery outside of work, and she’s scared. Scared that all they are to each other now is strangers, that there was too much anger between them to ever truly move on. But most importantly, she’s scared that she’ll fold again with one look at Emery, forgetting the ugly parts and only seeing the tenderness that used to exist in those deep brown eyes.
Sucking in a deep breath, she reaches out and knocks three times, saying a quick prayer to whichever gods are listening to please make this easy and quick. She was so stupid for forgetting her necklaces in Emery's drawer, stupid for even responding when Emery had texted.
It had been like old times again, when her heart rate used to speed up at the sight of Emery's name on her phone. Six months later, nothing had changed. She would still come running if Emery called, even after everything.
The door opens and Emery stands there on the other side, surprise and guilt on her face for a split second before quickly shifting into something cold and hard. She's wearing an old t-shirt and shorts that Samira's seen her in way too many times to count — has even taken them off to reveal the soft skin underneath — and the memory sends a wave of nausea through her. For so long, Emery had symbolized home, but opening the door now like on so many previous occasions, she's cold instead of warm, hostile instead of welcoming. She silently steps aside to let Samira in, shutting the door behind them.
“Shoes off,” she says, as if they haven’t replicated this exact scene hundreds of times, as if Samira hadn’t spent more time here than her own apartment for the majority of their relationship. It’s a jarring reminder that this isn’t hers anymore, that she’s lost her right to anything in this house because she was merely a temporary addition, never really meant to stay because she and Emery were never meant to last.
Samira follows Emery down the hall to their – her – bedroom. It’s entirely unchanged, the photos they’d taken and put up over the course of eight months still lining the walls. It makes her footsteps stutter for a second, nearly knocks her backward at the realization that Emery had purposely left them up instead of erasing any reminder of them. It’s proof enough that she still cares despite however little, that this whole situation had affected her more than she let on.
Samira stops in the doorway of Emery's bedroom. It's exactly as she remembers, messy sheets tossed halfway off the bed and piles of clothes everywhere. Emery may have been a neat freak and perfectionist at work, but only Samira knew the truth: Emery Walsh was a slob. Her home was a professional organizer’s nightmare, piles of items left in paths along the floor, to be stepped around but never picked up.
Her cat Thoracotomy – Thor for short and named after her favourite surgery – sits on the bed, eyeing Samira interestedly as he licks a paw. The sight of it sends a deep ache through her; she had laid there at one point, wrapped around Emery with Thor curled up between them.
It felt like so long ago that they had been deliriously happy together, unable to take their hands off each other and only separating if absolutely necessary. But here they stood now, pointedly avoiding each other’s eyes in an attempt to stay impersonal, to avoid having to face the visible hurt and resentment on the other's face.
“Here,” Emery says, breaking the silence. She walks towards the doorway and holds something out, waiting for Samira to extend a hand so she can drop it in. She raises an eyebrow when Samira simply stares back at her, feigned passiveness twisting into annoyance.
“Here,” she repeats more firmly, a sharp edge crawling into her voice. Her fingers flex at her side, fighting the urge to force the delicate items into Samira's grasp. Six months later and she could still feel the tug between them, still feels the desire to pull Samira in close and make everything better.
But she’d lost that right. They both had, after the things they’d said all that time ago. They had been angry and hurt and resentful, and it had come out like a storm, picking up speed and catching onto everything within reach.
She’d said the worst things she could think of, hurling bullets and not caring where they landed. She’d found a sick pleasure in watching Samira's face crumple then twist with fury as she threw her own knives right back. She feels none of that at the thought of it now, just an overwhelming sickness at how cruel she’d been to someone she cared about.
And Emery regretted it all; she regretted letting her anger take over, regretted letting Samira get away without more of a fight. Despite every cell in her body being against it, she was still in love with Samira Mohan, and probably would be forever.
What they’d had was special, had been the first to make her feel so much all at once. Samira had made her soft, had brought out the lighter side of her that she hadn’t known even existed. They'd found comfort and safety and a home in each other, and now all of that was gone, just anger and resentment remaining.
So she was furious with herself for letting that slip away, and she was angry at Samira for standing in front of her looking confused and so fucking adorable that it takes all her strength to not surge forward and kiss her like she could before.
So she exhales sharply instead, an angry huff that manages to light all her senses on fire. Fine, if Samira wanted to play this game then so could she. She drops the necklaces back on her dresser and steps forward, slowly advancing until she’s standing right in front of Samira, practically toe-to-toe.
“What's your problem?”
Samira's eyes widen and she crosses her arms, using her extra three inches to her advantage and looking down at Emery. Her lips press together in the way she does when she’s especially angry, and Emery hates herself then for still being able to recognize every minuscule twitch of the woman in front of her.
“My problem?” Samira echoes. She laughs disbelievingly. “Fuck you, Emery.”
“You wish.” Emery cocks her head to inspect Samira's face, sweeping her gaze over wide brown eyes, tense jaw, teeth biting into bottom lip anxiously. She realizes something then, something that sends a burst of hope through her system.
“You’re not just here to grab your necklaces, are you?” She drops her voice an octave in the way she used to, effectively quieting the world to just the two of them.
“I - what, no, I -” Samira stammers, fingernails digging into her biceps through the fabric of her shirt. “Of course I am.”
Emery hums smugly, a pleased smile spreading across her face. “Go on, then. You were never a good liar, but forget that. Tell me you’re only here for your necklaces and nothing else.”
Samira's face drops at that, going from anger to resignation to sadness within seconds. She shakes her head, turning to leave. “Keep them,” she calls over her shoulder, fighting to keep her voice even despite the tears that prick at her eyes. Fuck Emery for being able to read her better than anyone else. Fuck Emery for still knowing her so well. “It’s the last you’ll have of me anyways.”
Quick and heavy footsteps follow her down the hall, a hand grabbing her wrist and spinning her around just as she reaches the door. “No,” Emery snaps, mouth twisting into a snarl. “Don't do that. You don’t get to keep running.”
“Running?” Samira laughs. “That’s rich coming from you. Last I checked, you’ve barely left the hospital for the past six months. I wonder why, Emery.”
“So that’s what this is about? You’re throwing a fit because I quite literally showed up to work?” She keeps her voice as flat and dry as possible, refusing to let Samira see how much the reminder stings. It was pathetic of her, but the only coping method she’d reached for after they’d broken up had been work, picking up shift after shift until they all blurred together. She’d deliberately reached for the repetitive comfort of surgery, knowing her only other source of comfort was permanently gone and it was half her fault.
“What about the fact that you took two weeks off after we broke up, Samira? What was that about?”
“No!” Samira groans frustratedly. “No, stop twisting my words, though you were always good at that, weren’t you? And fine, yeah, our breakup destroyed me. But at least I can admit it, unlike you.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know!” Samira exclaims. “Fucking hell, Emery, do I need to spell it out for you?”
“Well, apparently you do!”
“Just -” Samira exhales sharply, dropping her head for a moment before meeting Emery's eyes again. Fresh anger flashes through them but there’s sadness there too, oddly enough. “Just admit that it hurt you too, that I'm not the only one who was affected by it.”
Samira's voice has turned just barely pleading, and it catches Emery off guard enough to loosen her grip on Samira's wrist. It’s a foolish request, because of course it had hurt her. It had destroyed every last bit of warmth inside her that only Samira had the power to rekindle. Of course she still cares. Of course she regrets every fucking second of that day.
She had immediately wanted to take her words back and soothe the hurt and betrayal on Samira's face, but she’d been frozen in place, too prideful and stubborn to hold onto the one person she loved most. So she’d stood there and watched Samira walk away, watched her leave her key on the hook by the door, watched her step out the door for the last time. And it had wrecked her beyond what she thought possible, had her sobbing in bed most mornings at the realization that she was alone once again.
So she hadn’t moved on, and the proof was everywhere in her house, a constant reminder that haunted her every waking minute. It was her punishment, she figured, for fucking up the one good thing she had. She hadn’t moved on because she couldn’t. She’d given up on them – on Samira, the person that for eight months had made her the happiest she’d ever been. So now she had to atone, and that meant reliving the pain of her mistake every single day.
Fear rushes back, both at letting Samira slip away a second time and at baring her soul to someone who held it in their hands. “And what if it did?” she challenges instead. “Does that change things?”
“I -” Samira falters, the most unsteady she’s felt since she stepped foot inside. She'd always thought that what they had was gone and dead, that even if Emery got on her knees and begged there was no way she would say yes to getting back together. But now, she feels off-kilter, thrown off by the same unsureness in Emery's eyes as in her own.
“Did it?” she finally tosses back, voice just imperceptibly shaky despite the renewed tightness to her jaw. “But we both know the truth, Emery. I still exist all over your house. Just say you couldn’t bear to erase me. Or are you going to be a coward again?"
“Coward?” Emery repeats in a near-growl as she pushes forward, forcing Samira backwards until she’s pressed against the door. “It takes two to tango, Samira, or have you forgotten your part in what happened?”
She laughs mockingly at Samira's silence, its presence telling her everything she needs to know.
“Hmm? You gave up without a fight as much as I did, so don’t go playing the victim.”
“So you admit you gave up,” Samira says triumphantly, but her voice has lost its sharpness, so much quieter now. “You admit you didn’t bother to try.”
“Fuck you,” Emery hisses, leaning forward until their noses are practically brushing. “I’ll admit half of it was my fault, but you do not get to accuse me of not bothering to try. I tried, Samira. I tried until I had nothing left to give, and even then I still kept trying.”
“You still let me walk away, Emery,” Samira whispers, shoulders dropping in defeat. Her voice is quiet with hurt, sending pure guilt through Emery at the knowledge that she’s the reason for it. “You didn’t ask me to stay. We could’ve tried harder to make it work, but you gave up on us.”
“I didn’t -” Emery begins to argue, cutting herself off with a sigh. “Yeah. I did.”
“Why?” Samira pleads. “Why, Emery?”
Emery can feel herself softening again, and it’s exactly why she purposefully hardens her face, schooling it back into a mask of indifference and boredom, as if she’s tired of this conversation and would rather be anywhere else. Softness was a weakness, especially in front of the only person that brings it out of you.
“It doesn’t matter. We're done, Samira. Take your necklaces and go.”
She’s about to take a step back and walk away when Samira's fingers loosely wrap around her wrist, and she looks at Emery with that exact expression that always made her cave.
“Just tell me why and I’ll leave,” she begs, face entirely open and exposed in a way that Emery's is not. “Then we can go back to strangers, I promise.”
The pain in her voice wraps around Emery's heart and squeezes until it shatters. She wants to give in more than anything, but to give in would mean accepting just how wrong she’d been, how badly she’d fucked up. Except she wanted to; a world where she and Samira were strangers was a horrible world to live in, had been a horrible reality for every single morning she woke up without Samira next to her.
“You don’t know when to stop, do you?” Emery asks, shaking her head. “Just have to keep pushing it, because why wouldn’t you.”
Samira opens her mouth to argue, and every ounce of control in Emery finally snaps. She pushes up on tiptoes and leans forwards, pressing her open mouth to Samira’s and swallowing the resulting gasp. It takes a second where Emery's heart briefly stops, but then Samira's kissing her back, hands rising to dig into her waist and tug her closer, tongues meeting in a messy clash that’s full of all the anger and hurt rushing through their veins.
Emery cups Samira’s face tenderly with both hands, the action so familiar it nearly brings tears to her eyes. But she forces them back down and kisses harder instead, wet and rough, nipping lightly at Samira's bottom lip and eliciting a hungry moan that she uses to fuel herself even more.
They’re both gasping when they finally separate, faces barely an inch apart. Samira’s fingers briefly tighten on Emery's waist then loosen, finally dropping to hang at her sides again. She looks utterly wrecked, mouth red and swollen and wet with saliva, so stunned that it would be comical any other time but this time is only a mirror of the expression on Emery's own face.
“I -” she starts before falling silent. The door is cold against her back, a chilling reminder of what they’d just done. They were supposed to hate each other, or resent each other at the very least. They weren’t supposed to be pressed up against each other like this, kissing like there was no tomorrow.
Because Emery wasn’t supposed to be looking at her like she was now, all soft-eyed and awed and so fucking hungry. It’s too painful, too much like before that it nearly knocks the wind out of Samira. She sucks in a shaky inhale, trapped between Emery and the door with nowhere to go, heart racing as she tries to calibrate an exit plan.
“I should -” she tries again, just slightly more steady this time. Emery doesn’t move, still standing so close, making no sign of moving out of the way like she should if she really and truly abhorred Samira as much as she had been pretending.
But that was the scary thing: if Samira hadn’t imagined the longing she felt radiating from Emery during that kiss, then what was left between them? Surely Emery didn’t still have feelings for her, not six months after that horrible fight?
“I should go.”
Emery just continues to stand there and study her, arms crossed like she has no intention of ever moving. And she doesn’t; she’d let Samira get away once, and it had been the biggest mistake of her life. Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling her not to fuck it up a second time.
“Stay.” The word is barely audible, and probably not convincing enough. But it's an attempt to fix what she helped ruin, a half-step in the right direction. She clears her throat. “Don’t go yet.”
Samira's eyes widen, and she shifts where she’s still boxed in against the door. The position they’re in is all too familiar, frantic mornings of pushing each other up against the very same door in a rush to be close after hours apart. They’d been here countless times before, Emery looking up at her with all the gentleness she abandoned at work that returned the second she laid eyes on Samira, hands cradling her face like they had been just minutes ago.
“Why?”
“Because,” Emery says, like it really is that simple. Her gaze is steadily fixed on Samira, though she looks just the slightest bit unsure. “Because I - just stay. Please?”
The final word is what makes Samira reconsider the refusal that had been on the tip of her tongue. Emery Walsh didn’t beg; she asked for what she wanted and if the answer was no, then so be it. But this version of Emery, the one standing in front of her and so openly asking her to stay, was new. It meant that Emery still cared even if she tried not to, that Samira hadn’t been imagining the pictures of them that still remained on the walls or the longing that remained in Emery's eyes even while she was angry.
But despite all that, Samira can’t bring herself to agree. Staying would mean giving in to the pull that remained between them, would mean admitting that they could still work even after they’d fallen apart. As much as she wants to let herself fall back into Emery's arms and forget everything that had happened, she can’t. What’s to say they won’t fall apart again, that another period of distance won’t make history repeat itself.
She might still be in love with Emery, but to make the same mistake a second time would be stupid. She’s just barely begun to move on, and here Emery was, spinning back into her life like a tornado and asking her to stay, as if she had any right to it anymore.
“No.”
“No?” Emery echoes, squinting like she isn’t quite sure what she just heard. “The fuck you mean, no?”
“No,” Samira repeats, setting her hands on Emery's shoulders and lightly shoving her backwards so she has space to step away from the door. “I’m not staying. What, you really wanna do this and fuck it up again?”
“Yeah,” Emery says, eyes narrowing. She looks hurt and so incredibly surprised that Samira would even ask the question. “Yeah, Mira. I do. I'm not over you. Don’t think I ever will be, actually.”
The nickname is a low blow, and they both know it. It’s Emery's way of reminding Samira what they used to be and what they still could be, a reminder of how intimately they know each other even now.
Samira can only laugh at the underwhelmingness of that last sentence. As if Emery hadn't left up the photos of them, either because she wasn’t over Samira or simply because she had the futile hope they’d get back together.
And as if Samira was going to come crawling back after everything, as if she was going to let them fuck things up and fall apart over and over again. If something as simple as two months of barely seeing each other was enough to pit them against each other, what did that say about their capacity to withstand anything bigger?
There was too much risk involved, way more than she was willing to gamble. Yes, she loved Emery even after everything, but their breakup had proved everything she needed to know to make this decision. They’d be unhappy and hurt, but at least they wouldn’t be unhappy and hurt together.
“We don’t work, Emery.”
“We could.” Emery's the one who sounds pleading now, eyes wide with fear. “That was a one-off, Samira. We can work, I swear.”
Samira shakes her head, standing firm even though it pains her to see Emery like that, entreating and begging her to stay. It’s the most vulnerable Samira's ever seen her, terrified and so incredibly open.
It’s almost ironic, really, because the last time they’d been in a similar position Emery had been resolute, refusing to beg Samira to stay even though they’d both been in tears, hearts broken and shattered. She would’ve stayed if Emery had asked her to all those months ago, but she hadn’t. She’d let Samira walk away without a fight, and that was the worst part, that she hadn’t been willing to let go of her pride to hold onto them.
Because Samira wanted someone who would fight for her, knew what they had and weren’t willing to let go. And Emery, for all her constant murmurs of I’m so lucky to have you and I’m not going anywhere, hadn’t stepped up when it had come down to it. All her words had been empty; she’d forgotten how lucky she apparently was and let them end without trying to work it out, and she’d left after all.
She hadn’t stayed to pick up the pieces, and that was what had hurt the most, that after everything, Samira apparently wasn't worth fighting for. Emery had let the distance take what they’d had without a further word, just like that. Eight months of happiness gone in the blink of an eye. And just six months ago, it had been Samira begging and pleading in words similar to the ones coming out of Emery's mouth now.
So, no. They weren’t going to work because Emery didn’t know what she had until it was gone, and Samira wasn’t in the habit of making decisions she knew would end terribly, especially not a second time when she had the chance to decide differently.
“It’s over, Emery. You let me walk away, and I can’t forgive that.”
There’s tears in Emery's eyes now, and even though it drives a knife into Samira's heart to do it and not just give in, she forges forwards.
“I begged you to not do it, and you did. Sure, we could have worked, but you don't get to realize that six months later. You knew what you had and forgot when it really mattered.”
“I’m sorry, Samira, I -”
“Me too,” Samira interrupts gently. She steps closer and closes the space between them, lifting a hand to cup Emery’s cheek lightly. “Maybe someday we can be friends, or maybe we’ll get another chance. But right now I need to move on, and you do too.”
Emery sniffles, leaning into the touch for a second before swiping at her damp eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Okay,” Samira echoes, nodding and releasing Emery's face. “It was good while it lasted, Em. Let’s hold onto that.”
She turns away to slide her shoes on and unlock the door. But something pulls at her, and she turns around to look at Emery one final time, standing there with red eyes and looking so incredibly devastated.
“It’s haunted me every single day, Samira," Emery finally says, smiling sadly. “I shouldn't have let you go, and I haven't stopped regretting it.”
“Yeah,” is all Samira can manage, fighting her own tears now. “But you deserve to move on, Emery. Stop living with the ghost of us.”
With a final searching look, she yanks the door open and slips out, leaving Emery standing there to watch her retreating figure as she heads down the sidewalk and out of sight.
Sepideh, Supriya, and Isa in the same article??? Guys, this was actually done for me personally.
It's so sad how even the doctors who consulted on the show repeatedly spoke of the misogyny and racism they faced, but the show is just so unwilling to actually address that issue in any meaningful way.
Acting isn't practicing medicine, but for 'The Pitt's' Isa Briones, Supriya Ganesh and Sepideh Moafi, the challenges women of color face in
Also omfg Supriya pushed to make sure Samira was a Tamil speaker, because if she knew hindi, then she'd have been able to communicate with the Nepali victim!! Those fucking showrunners, really didn't understand what an incredible performer they had, fuck my stupid baka life.
season 3 opens. baran al-hashimi is in a coma from the car crash she was in on her way home after season 2. victoria javadi comes down alongside caleb jefferson for a psych consult. he asks her three question and she answers all of them wrong. trinity santos suspects all her patients are abuse victims and is proven wrong every single time. mel and trinity communicate perfectly without a single misunderstanding. dennis whitaker is a senior resident for some reason. perlah and princess, it's explained in one line by james ogilvie who's the new ed intern, both quit. jack abbot is in every single episode because they needed a second attending for the shift after baran fell into that pesky coma. in the last episode he changes into his streetwear. he's wearing a blue lives matter shirt. frank langdon accidentally shuts down pittsburgh's electrical grid because he was trying to turn down the lights for an autistic patient. cassie mckay's every line starts with, "my son." parker ellis spends the whole season looking directly into the camera and explaining what characters really meant when they said that thing and don't worry, they all love each other.
baran not being a perfect leader is what makes her so believable as a good leader, imo. two missteps in particular highlight this, because it makes it clear that baran is the type to constantly improve. if she fumbles one interaction she'll try to fix it in the next.
mel, baran telling her that she's never been sued and stressing her out, neglecting to mention the fact that at the VA she wasn't even able to be named in a lawsuit. however the next interaction with mel she comforts her and empathizes, and mel visibly relaxes.
getting onto trinity about charting and, even though I'm sure she didn't mean it to be a threat, mentioning that she could repeat her r2 year over it was a pretty awful start to a mentorship when it's the first time she even met trinity. however baran later in the same day comes over to trinity not to criticize, but to specifically praise her, a "good job on the trauma earlier" so she's introducing a dynamic of "not every time I talk to you will be criticism."
improvement is clearly important to baran. both improving the system and herself. and this showcased that well. it makes her character so much more believable than some purified mary sue. gah I love it
kicking off pride month RIGHT. sneak peak of an upcoming barantos fic! mdni! strap on, squirting, w/c: 1k
Baran is moaning so fucking deliciously, her face red, eyes closed, head thrown back into the pillow as Trinity fucks her into the bed. She’s fisting the sheets, tensing, when Trinity hears the front door open and keys being tossed down.
“Trinity? You home? Have you seen my book on calving?”
“Fuck,” she hisses, stilling.
Baran whines, so drunk on Trinity’s strap she has no idea why she stopped. As much as Trinity would love to drive Baran over the edge right now, she’s maddeningly incapable of being quiet when she cums — she knows this from experience trying to shut her up in inappropriate places — and that is not something Trinity wants to think about the next time she has to meet Huckleberry’s eyes.
So, she pulls out, probably too quickly, and Baran moans sharply. Panicked, Trinity clamps a hand over Baran’s mouth, which at least gets her to focus. But her eyes go sort of dark and hungry, and Trinity swallows.
“Fuckleberry’s home. Stay here,” she breathes, leaning forward on her hands to kiss Baran, who chases her and whines faintly when she pulls away and hops off the bed.
Baran’s trying to catch her breath, draping an arm over her eyes, knees fallen apart, thighs sticky, as Trinity throws on some boxers and the closest t-shirt. It’s Baran’s Stanford 2010 debate team shirt that practically lives at Trinity’s apartment. She opens the door and closes it quickly behind her, almost running right into Whittaker.
“Fuck. Jesus, hi,” she gasps, shoulders brushing back against the door.
“Hi…” he drawls, eyeing her weirdly.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, out of breath.
“I live here?” Trinity levels him with a glare.
“You’re supposed to be out playing house right now.”
“Yeah, and Amy called on the way asking for my calving book. She’s got like two cows that could give birth any day.”
“Ew, oh my god,” Trinity groans.
“I think we used it to level your dresser,” he starts, and Trinity’s eyes go wide, desperately hoping that isn’t the case.
“Nope, don’t think we did. I thought you were using it as a plant stand or something,” she offers, and he thinks for a second.
“Right, yeah.” He glides past her with a suspicious look, noticing how sweaty and disheveled she is. When he passes the second time with the book, she’s just standing in front of her closed door. His expression drops. “Oh my god, do you have Garcia in there?”
“No. No, I’m not, we’re not…anymore,” she says quickly, awkwardly, following Whittaker into the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, but Trinity can feel what he’s thinking. He’s oddly protective over her, and it never fails to make Trinity squirm.
“Why do you have a Stanford shirt?”
“Oh it’s, uh, not mine,” Trinity says thoughtlessly.
“So, you do have someone in there,” he grins, and she forces down a blush by grabbing his shoulders and spinning him around in the direction of the door. “Have fun. Be safe. I’ll text next time I need to enter my own apartment,” he says as she’s shoving him out the door.
“Good riddance, Huckleberry,” she calls after him, locking the door and securing the chain just to be safe.
Trinity takes a deep breath outside her room — trying to flush Whittaker from her mind — before entering. On the bed, Baran has her hand between her legs, slowly, quietly circling her clit. Her eyes are closed, one hand rolling a nipple between her fingers, soft gasps pushing past her lips.
“Fuck, Baran,” Trinity sighs, tearing off the shirt and boxers and sliding the strap back on. “Have you been touching yourself the whole time I was talking to Huckleberry?” Baran whines and nods, her eyes barely fluttering open. Oh, she’s fucking gone.
Trinity settles eagerly between her legs and just watches her. She’s so wet she’s dripping onto the bed, swollen and clenching around nothing. Trinity moans, her hands falling to Baran’s soft thighs.
“I need you inside me,” Baran mumbles, and Trinity can’t help but smile. She loves when Baran gets like this, so aching and desperate she’d do just about anything to cum.
“I can tell, baby.”
“Please. I was so close when you left,” she whines, her fingers clicking against her clit, and Trinity can see the stringy slickness on them.
“You’re still close,” Trinity teases but not for long, her own clit throbbing at the sight.
She shifts closer, aligning the strap and holding Baran’s hips. When she drives in hard and bottoms out, the most obscene sound Trinity’s ever heard punches past Baran’s lips. Her back arches, and her hand flies up to press low into Trinity’s belly.
“Fuck. fuck. Actually, I think you need to pull out. Oh, god.” Trinity can feel her clenching down, twitching and trying so hard to keep still. “I’m gonna cum.”
“Now you’re embarrassed?” Trinity laughs at the blush that rises to Baran’s cheeks. She pushes against Trinity, but Trinity doesn’t budge. “You worked yourself up while I was gone, and these are the consequences.”
Baran’s hips twitch.
“Oh, Trinity, fuck,” she moans, her head rolling back, fingers falling from Trinity’s belly to fist the sheets as she cums without Trinity having to do a goddam thing.
And then she fucks Baran through it, hard and deep, swiping at her clit until she cums again with a series of cries and moans that almost make Trinity fall apart. She can feel the spattering of liquid on her thighs as they slam together, hear it on the strap as it squelches in her. And when Baran can’t take it anymore, tears stinging at her eyes, Trinity slows and stops.
Baran keeps a vice grip on the strap as she comes down, so Trinity just runs her hands up and down her damp skin, soothing. They’re both gasping as Trinity finally pulls out. Baran’s eyes flutter open, hazy and tired, and she reaches her hand down to feel the soaking wet sheets between her legs.
“Your sheets,” she groans. “I’m sorry. I don’t normally do that. I would’ve laid a towel down.”
“I think that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” is all Trinity can manage knowing she’s dripping wet and throbbing. Baran’s eyes go dark, and she licks her lips.
“Come here,” she breathes, and Trinity’s scrambling up to kiss her, the strap pressing into Baran’s trembling thigh.
noah wyle saying in an interview that he doesn’t care about fan feedback because “we put a purity test to our heroes that nobody could pass and a pass to our villains that forgives unbelievable behaviour” noah wyle what they’re talking about is racism. racism and sexism. all people are asking is for your show to stop being racist and sexist. the only reason the show has a fan base at all is because people are willing to overlook robby’s abuse of the woc on his staff because he’s white and mentally ill
you’re SO close to getting it. replace heroes with any marginalised community and villains with cishet white men and you literally have the problem that everyone is complaining about.
i agree that pittfandom is crazy and that 9/10 we are not to be listened to in terms of crafting quality storylines that are actually in the show. but when the thing people have issues with are racism and sexism then maybe it’s time to get off your executive producer high horse and take a look at why people are upset.
funny little headcanon is that i believe if victoria ever came out to her mom that shamsi would be like 'okay, that's fine. but i still don't understand why you do not want to go into surgery. all the other gay women are in surgery; do you not want to be a gay surgeon like yolanda and emery? what about your lesbian friend trinity, doesn't she want to do surgery as well? you can do better victoria'
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