i l o v e my life.
indie rp blog for dr. samira mohan from hbo's the pitt heavily headcanon based loved by katie - she/her - 30+ - est - side-blog to @agntwells
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Mike Driver
YOU ARE THE REASON
Misplaced Lens Cap
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

tannertan36
Stranger Things

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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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almost home
One Nice Bug Per Day

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@slowmo-md
i l o v e my life.
indie rp blog for dr. samira mohan from hbo's the pitt heavily headcanon based loved by katie - she/her - 30+ - est - side-blog to @agntwells
rules | verses | memes | wishlist

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(princess)^2
Dr. Samira Mohan & Dr. Melissa King in THE PITT (2025- )
Silence settles for a moment while she talks, his gaze fixed out over the city instead of immediately looking at her. It keeps the moment from feeling cornered somehow. Less like interrogation, more like sitting beside somebody while they bleed a little without making them explain the wound before theyâre ready.
The worst day Iâve ever had.
Something in his expression shifts at that, subtle but immediate. Understanding, maybe. Recognition.
âYeah,â Jack says quietly after a moment, voice roughened by exhaustion and something older sitting underneath it. âThose happen.â His jaw tightens faintly before easing again as he glances over toward her properly this time. âAnd they make you think stupid shit.â The corner of his mouth twitches without humor. âLike one bad shift suddenly erased every good thing youâve ever done here.â
He leans back lightly against the ledge then, shoulders settling for the first time since he came upstairs. âYou know what I think?â Jack asks, calmer now, steadier. âI think if you didnât belong here, you wouldnât be wrecked over it.â His eyes hold on her a second longer. âThe people who scare me are the ones who have catastrophic days and sleep just fine afterward.â
A quieter breath leaves him before he looks back out toward the skyline again. âAnd for what itâs worth,â he adds, softer now, âIâve had shifts that made me sit in my car for an hour afterward trying to figure out if I should come back the next day.â His mouth pulls slightly at one corner. âStill here, unfortunately.â
Sheâs wallowing. Throwing herself a little pity-party, Samira knows itâs exactly what sheâs doing -- exactly what her mother would have hated. Even though sheâs cleaned up after her motherâs own fucking wallowing when men inevitably leave because sheâs impossible to please--
Eyes squeeze closed and another heavy sigh escapes as she listens to Dr. Abbot, shoving all thoughts of her mother aside -- because apparently she stopped thinking about me when she decided to go on a cruise around the world, the thought is bitter and angry and makes her feel guilty again. Twisting her stomach into knots before Abbot asks her you know what I think? Curiosity makes her look over at him even though she knows thereâs an annoying shine of tears in her eyes, ones that just will not go away no matter how much she wants them to.
If you didnât belong here, you wouldnât be wrecked over it, he says, and it hits her that this was what she had needed earlier, when she had said to Robby that maybe she didnât belong. A scoff escapes and she looks down at her hands again. âNo way am I going to be getting much sleep tonight.â She mutters quietly, picking at her thumbnail as a fresh wave of exhaustion and defeat sweeps over her, but it is still kind of reassuring to know that heâs had days like today and is still around.
âDid you ever have a panic attack on the clock in triage and think you were having a heart attack, only to get carted back in a wheelchair by a med student, and then be told by your attending that itâs your mommy issues and that youâre a liability?â She asks before a lump lodges in her throat and she shakes her head, glancing back out at the city, listening to the cars pass by, horns honking distantly somewhere. Samira tries not to think of her father, of how she thought earlier this is how Iâm gonna die, just like he did, how that had made her panic worse.Â
She presses her right thumb into her left palm. âSorry, I donât mean to word vomit or... or speak ill of Robby, I justâŚâ Samira sighs quietly. âHe called me a liability and then someone died because I missed a triple-a. Itâs like he fucking called it.â Her voice wobbles the last few words, teeth catching the inside of her cheek as she turns her head away from Abbot, knowing that her one bad day couldnât hold a candle to the shit heâs dealt with. And yeah, she knows sheâll pick herself up from this, but right now she canât help but feel everything.
. and i'm still a believer but i don't know w h y
indie & selective rp blog for dr. samira mohan from the pitt loved by katie | rules | side blog to @agntwells
@slowmo-md liked for a starter
Jack stands in the kitchen with flour dusted across the front of his black t-shirt and one forearm, focused intently on sliding the pizza peel beneath the margherita like the process requires surgical precision. The apartment smells like fresh basil, garlic, and blistering dough, warm enough now from the oven that the windows have started fogging faintly around the edges. Music hums quietly from his phone on the counter while he works, shoulders finally loose for what might be the first time all week.
âYou laugh at my technique and youâre not getting any,â he warns dryly the second he catches Samira watching him from the doorway. Thereâs no real threat behind it though, especially not when the corner of his mouth immediately twitches upward afterward. He glances over briefly, eyes softer than the teasing tone suggests. âAnd before you say itâyes, making the dough from scratch was necessary.â A beat passes. âStore bought dough tastes like disappointment.â
The smell of something delicious surrounds her the moment Samira steps into Jackâs apartment and closes the door behind her. âHi, Iâm here!â She says as she nudges her shoes off by the door, wine bottle in hand even though heâd said she didnât need to bring anything -- showing up empty handed still feels rude even though itâs Jack. If heâs going to cook for her, sheâs going to bring something. A soft hum leaves her lips as she follows the smells wafting from the kitchen.
It smells amazing.
Samiraâs gaze quickly falls on Jack as she steps into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway for a moment as she lets herself admire for a moment. That is, until sheâs caught staring, and she can feel the heat creep up her neck, skin warming. âI wouldnât dare laugh at your technique or your insistence on fresh dough. Iâve never made a pizza that wasnât frozen in a box -- donât judge me.â Samira quickly points the index finger of her free hand at him with a small smile. âMed school is expensive, and grants donât cover everything⌠frozen pizzas had to do. I brought wine, by the way. I know you said not to worry about anything, but it feels rude to show up empty handed when youâre going out of your way to cook for me.â

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If Samira put in an order, there was a reason. I trust her. Maybe you should too.
THE PITT 1.07 | 2.11
|| things katie needs to do (aka my 'girl get ur shit together' list -.-)
finish my promo
come up with verse tags
update my pinned post
add more headcanons
post an open starter
@pittresilience
headcanons no one asked for pt 2 - samira and speed
samira's dad died when she was 13 because of a racially biased misdiagnosis. this became a huge catalyst for her and the reason she decided to go into medicine.
it's also the reason why she takes so much time with her patients -- because the last thing she ever wants to do is miss something, for someone to die when she could have prevented it. rationally, she knows people will die and there won't be anything she can do, but that doesn't curb her fear. so when she misses austin's triple a, the guilt makes her sick. when orlando comes back, she questions what more she could have done, questions why she didn't try harder.
she might be called slow mo, but slow is methodical. it listens, it catches things others may not. deep down, the idea that she has to be fast to flourish in the ED never made sense to her -- yes, she understands expediency and she knows how to prioritize in chaos (pls refer to robby putting her in the red zone during the pitt fest shooting - he knows she knows how critical this is, he knows samira takes her time, but no way would he have put her there if he thought she would fail.)
samira takes her time because she knows what happens when doctors don't.
because it comes for us all...
indie & selective dr jack abbot from the pitt
oc & crossover friendly, rules
loved by may (30+, she/her)

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For a second after she kisses him, Jack forgets every speech he'd rehearsed. The cold rooftop, the anxiety, the dozens of reasons this was a bad ideaâall of it disappears beneath the simple fact that she kissed him back. His hand finds her waist almost instinctively, holding there as though he's grounding himself in something real. Around them, the city continues moving completely unaware of the life-altering conversation happening several stories above it. Headlights stream through the streets below in ribbons of white and red. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, followed by the faint echo of someone shouting back. The sounds feel strangely far away.
When she pulls back, Jack is smiling before he can stop himself, the expression rare enough to look almost surprised on him. Then Samira starts talking, and the smile softens into something warmer.
"Samira." A quiet laugh escapes him, shaking his head once. "You really went from kissing me to planning our hypothetical breakup in under thirty seconds." The teasing is gentle, taking some of the weight out of her fears without dismissing them. His thumb brushes lightly against her side through the flannel shirt. "That's got to be some kind of record."
His expression settles after that, becoming more serious. More honest. The city lights catch in his eyes when he looks down at her. "Look at me." He waits until her eyes find his again. "I can't promise you forever. Nobody can. I can't promise that life won't get messy or that we won't screw this up occasionally." A small shrug lifts one shoulder. "But I can promise that I'm not standing out here freezing to death because I think you're convenient."
The corner of his mouth twitches faintly. "And if we're being honest, I already know you leave socks everywhere. Half the department knows you leave socks everywhere." That earns a softer look, one that lingers. "What I know is that you're smart, you're stubborn, you're one of the best doctors I've ever worked with, and somewhere along the way you became the person I look for first when I walk into a room."
The admission hangs between them while the wind shifts around the rooftop, tugging lightly at his jacket. For months he'd found reasons not to say it. Professionalism. Timing. The risk of ruining something that already mattered too much. Standing here now, all of those reasons feel smaller than they used to.
His gaze stays fixed on hers, steady and certain. "So if we're throwing caution to the wind tonight, then let's actually do that. Stop trying to predict how it ends and let it start." His hand lifts from her waist to brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture gentler than anything else he's said all evening. "Because I don't want a version of this where I spend the next year wondering what would've happened if I'd just kissed you on this roof when I had the chance."
The way he laughs at her rambling, but doesnât outright dismiss her anxiety even though he teases her, makes her huff to try and hide her own smile as she rolls her eyes. Samira wants to tease him back, but thereâs a vulnerability to admitting her fears, she canât quite bring herself to joke right now.
Before she can open her mouth to retort, Jackâs gentle command pulls her focus back to the moment like heâs got some kind of magic touch. Heâs always able to do this somehow, pull her away from the edge as her thoughts spiral, or when she starts questioning herself, when she simply needs steady reassurance, even during a procedure. Looking up, she holds his gaze, catching the way the lights from the city make the hazel in his eyes dance -- different shades of green and brown, warm and comforting. Home, something echoes in her brain.
His words make the rest of the city fall away; all she can focus on his the way his hand rests on her waist, grounding and sure. The realism he provides, knowing the both of them are too stubborn to not come to a head from time to time. But he says he doesnât think sheâs convenient, he doesnât care about her socks and maybe he wonât care about how messy the rest of her is. Itâs not when he calls her one of the best doctors that makes her breath catch -- itâs when he admits that he looks for her in every room he walks into.
Her heartâs in her throat and she feels too stunned to speak for a moment, searching his eyes and finding nothing but steady honesty and softness. Certainty. The reassurance that theyâll leave this roof and this feeling will follow after. The optimism, the willingness to⌠to try. To let herself be with him. âOkay.â Samira finds her voice finally, quietly confident as she lets a smile pull at her lips, her fingers absently toying with the short hairs that curl at the nape of his neck, leaning into his touch when he tucks her hair back. âAnd while I appreciate you not making promises you canât keep? Can⌠just promise to be patient with me? Because Iâm⌠not good at letting someone take care of me, Jack.â Samira murmurs before sighing softly and leaning close enough to let her forehead touch his. âBut I want you and I'm tired of pretending like I donât.â Consequences be damned, she thinks.
Catching his gaze again, her heart does another skip and she wonders how sheâll ever get used to it. If she ever wants to get used to it. One hand slips to rest on his cheek and she canât help kissing him again -- softer. Slower, more like a promise than a confession. But she breaks it before she gets carried away, eyes shining as she smiles brighter this time. âWhy donât we get breakfast? Iâm starving, and I⌠I donât really want this conversation to end quite yet.â More like she doesnât want to be anywhere but with him right now, but sheâs too shy to let that admission slip.
â ¡ đ¤ ¡ â đđđđ đđđđ đđđđ đđ ¡¡¡ a collection of soup gone cold and blankets shared, the intimacy of being cared for when you are at your worst. genre: romance, hurt and comfort, soft angst, domestic.
You're burning up. Don't argue with me. Get back in bed.
I made soup. It's not great. Eat it anyway.
You should have called me the moment you started feeling like this.
Stop trying to get up. There is nothing on this earth that needs you upright right now.
I found three blankets and a hot water bottle. Pick your combination.
You look terrible. I mean that with so much love.
Let me take your temperature. Stop being difficult about the thermometer.
I cancelled everything. Don't apologize. I wanted to be here.
You fell asleep mid-sentence. I stayed anyway. I hope that's okay.
Drink the tea. Yes, all of it. I'll make more.
I've been checking on you every hour. You keep telling me to go home. I keep not going.
Your voice sounds awful. Rest it. We can talk tomorrow.
I'm not going anywhere. Stop thanking me for staying.
You hate being taken care of. I know. Do it for me anyway.
The fever broke. I don't think you know how relieved I am right now.
Sleep. I'll be right here. I'll wake you up if anything changes.
I brought your favourite thing from the place on the corner. Don't cry. Please don't cry.
You're a terrible patient and somehow I still want to be the one doing this.
I know you think you're being a burden. You are not a burden.
Let me sit with you. I don't need to talk. I just don't want you to be alone.
You tried to make your own tea and you could barely stand up. Sit down. I've got it.
I've seen you strong. This doesn't make you weak. It just makes you human.
You smell like fever and you still somehow look like everything to me.
Lay your head here. Right here. I've got nowhere I need to be.
I brought every movie you've ever mentioned. We have time.
You're mumbling in your sleep. I'm not going to tell you what you said.
I changed the sheets while you were in the shower. Don't make it weird.
You need to eat something real. I know you don't want to. Eat something real.
I've been sitting in this chair for four hours. I'd do it four more.
Stop apologizing for being sick. People get sick. Let me help you.
Your hands are cold. Give them here. I'll warm them up.
I found the medicine in the back of the cabinet. Take it. All of it. Don't negotiate.
You're not inconveniencing me. Taking care of you is exactly where I want to be.
I didn't know you got like this when you were sick. Softer. I like knowing this about you.
You asked for me. Out of everyone, you asked for me. I haven't stopped thinking about that.
The heating pad is on the lowest setting. Tell me if you need it warmer.
I'm not leaving until your temperature is normal. Make your peace with that.
You cried a little when the soup was too hot to eat yet. I pretended not to notice.
I've never seen you let anyone take care of you before. I'm honoured. I mean that.
Your hair is a mess. Can I? Is that okay? Let me just â there.
You keep saying you're fine every time I check and you are so obviously not fine.
This is the third night in a row. I'm not going anywhere. Stop looking at me like that.
You're delirious and still trying to be funny. It's working. Please stop, I'm worried about you.
I learned how to make your mother's recipe. It took three attempts. Don't tell her.
There's nowhere I'd rather be than right here, even like this. Especially like this.
You always take care of everyone else. Just this once, let someone take care of you.
I left the light on in the hall in case you woke up scared. I remember you mentioned that once.
I'm here. I've got you. Just rest. Everything else can wait.
Abbot's Hobbies (Questionably Therapist Approved)
THE PITTÂ 2x07 vs 2x07
Jack lets her guide him without resistance, which honestly says more about how exhausted he is than anything else could. Normally heâd already be brushing it off, insisting he can patch himself up alone, cracking some dry joke to redirect the attention away from himself. Tonight he just follows her into the kitchen, quiet except for the faint hitch in his breathing every few steps.
The second her fingers brush under the hem of his shirt, he tenses instinctively. Not pulling awayâjust reacting. His eyes close briefly as she exposes the bruising already blooming dark along his side beneath the blood smeared there. âCouple cracked ribs, probably,â he mutters, voice rough with fatigue. âMaybe more. Havenât exactly had imaging yet.â
At the question, he leans back lightly against the counter, head tipping toward the cabinet behind him for a second like heâs trying to gather enough energy to explain it. âSWAT call went sideways,â Jack says finally, quieter now. âShots fired. Lot of blood. Lot of bad decisions.â One corner of his mouth twitches faintly, humorless. âI got lucky.â
His gaze drifts back to her then, softer in the harsh kitchen light. Thereâs something unguarded there now that the adrenalineâs finally burning off.
âdidnât really wanna be alone after.â
âJesus, Jack.â Samira murmurs when she lifts his shirt enough to see the bruises as he tries to be snarky about imaging, about how it may be more than a couple cracked ribs, probably. Brows knit together and she canât help tracing over his side with a feather-light touch, stomach twisting into knots. âHowâs it feel to breathe? Because I do not have the tools here to fix a collapsed lung.â Stubborn old man, she thinks absently, biting the inside of her cheek as she very, very gently runs her fingers over the likely-broken ribs.
She wants to tear into him, to be angry that he came here instead of the goddamn hospital where he should be. Even if he went anywhere other than the Pitt, if he was trying to avoid people seeing him or something -- but then he starts explaining. SWAT gone sideways, bad decisions accompanied by gunshots and too much blood, and it makes her wonder if the blood on his hands is his own or someone elsesâ.
She doesnât ask.
Fingers still rest on his side, her palm warm against his skin as she finds his eyes, her breath catching in her lungs with how⌠open he looks. Vulnerable, unguarded, walls nonexistent. Her free hand comes up to rest on his cheek despite herself, stubble rough on her palm. âYou could have called me from the hospital, and I would have come.â Samira says simply, her heart rushing in her ears with her admission -- would it have been professional to come running to her attendingâs bedside? Probably not, and God knows the rumors that would have spread like wildfire. âI wouldnât have let you be alone.â Because he would have done the same for her, she knows it with a staggering certainty, one she doesnât know what to do with.
Clearing her throat quietly, she drops her hand away from his cheek before reaching past him to turn the sink on. âHere⌠letâs get the blood off your hands, and tell me if your breathing changes. Please⌠Iâm not looking to make a chest tube from a ballpoint pen. I will call an ambulance and drag your stubborn ass to the hospital.â She says, gentle but firm as she looks up at him. âWash your hands then you can sit.â
Someone on Twitter said reverse age gap and that just makes so much sense to me also taking drawing requests on Twitter if yall are interested
@pittresilience

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"Or ever."
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH & JACK ABBOT and CASSIE MCKAY & SAMIRA MOHAN in The Pitt 1x15 â "9:00 PM" // 2x01 â "7:00 AM"
(for @samiratology âĄ)
OPEN STARTER
The apartment door swings open and shuts behind Jack with a solid click. He drops his messenger bag by the entryway without much ceremony, a stack of mail still clutched in one hand as he starts toward the kitchen.
"It's official," he announces. "I have now gone two full weeks without being shot, stabbed, impaled by shrapnel, getting into a car accident, or any of the other crazy bullshit that you keep insisting follows me around." There's a note of triumph in his voice as he crosses into the kitchen, dumping most of the mail onto the counter in a messy pile. "At this point, I think we're all ready to admit I'm actually a very responsible adult."
One envelope remains in his hand. Still talking, Jack hooks a finger beneath the flap and tears it open. "In fact, I would argue that the last fourteen days have been a shining example of excellent decision maâ" He cuts off abruptly.
"Ow. Son of a bitch." His hand jerks back as he stares down at the thin slice across his finger. A tiny bead of blood immediately wells up along the paper cut. Jack just stands there for a moment, glaring at the envelope like it personally betrayed him. Then he points accusingly at it. "That doesn't count."
Samiraâs still getting used to⌠this. Being in Jackâs apartment while heâs at work and she has a rare night off -- though itâs so much more than that. Learning how to let someone take care of her isnât easy, but sheâs trying. Putting herself first is something she hasnât done in a very long time -- maybe ever, if sheâs really honest. But Jack is so fucking patient with her, easily making space in his life for her while she tries to continue figuring her shit out.
She still isnât talking to her mother -- though, maybe right now itâs for the best. She needs space and boundaries and --
The door opening snaps her attention and she canât help the small smile that starts pulling at her lips when she hears him from her spot on the sofa. Proudly announcing his âtwo weeks injury freeâ as he strolls into the kitchen, and her heart jumps into her throat. The casual domesticity, the warmth she feels upon hearing him come home is something she wasnât convinced sheâd get to experience, wasnât sure it was something people actually felt, now here she was.
Moon-eyed because her boyfriend was home -- boyfriend still feels a little juvenile, but at the moment she canât find it in her to care. Samira stands and finds him in the kitchen with his mail, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans against the wall, a soft snort escaping when he curses and points at the envelope. âSo much for two weeks injury free -- also, Iâve never accused trouble of following you⌠you just happen to find your way into it at every given opportunity.â She arches a brow like sheâs daring him to say otherwise.Â
âDoes it need a band-aid? Because if it does, it counts. But Iâll never tell a soul, you have my word.â