𝑳𝒆𝒆

find me in the stars and look for me in the sea

[swevenlyss]

welcome to lyssandra's multiverse

lyssandra. she/her. district 2. 16. slytherin. istp. cabin 3. virgo. martell.

shifts! the hunger games. fame. avatar. teen fame. the maze runner. game of thrones. outer banks. harry potter. marvel. descendants. singer. the 100. ect.

socials! pinterest. instagram. tiktok. letterboxd.

[swevenlyss]

someone threaten me to write, otherwise i’ll never finish this fanfic

[skeletomez]

[womanfile]

ㅤㅤ ㅤ

Pittsburgh

trauma medical centre 4PM [ day shift ]

The ER never truly slept. It only learned how to whisper.

Sally leaned against the counter outside Trauma Two, one shoulder pressed to cool linoleum, scrolling through the patient board without really seeing it. Her coffee sat untouched beside her, lid still on, the way it always did when she bought one out of habit rather than desire. Cold by now. She didn’t mind. Cold meant it hadn’t asked anything of her.

Her badge was crooked. She hadn’t noticed.

A nurse passed and nodded. Sally nodded back, half a second late. Close enough to normal that no one commented. Close enough that it passed.

She’d gotten good at that.

Inside Trauma Two, a middle-aged man slept under a thin blanket, monitors humming steadily. Stable. Boring. Sally watched the rise and fall of his chest longer than necessary, as if waiting for something to change just to justify the pause.

“You gonna finish that coffee or keep disrespecting it?”

She didn’t startle. She rarely did anymore.

Langdon stood nearby, chart in hand, scrubs wrinkled in the way that suggested she’d stopped caring around hour ten. She looked at her cup, then at her face.

“Is it that obvious?” she asked.

“Only to people who know you,” he said. “Which, tragically, includes me.”

She huffed not quite a laugh and nudged the cup with her finger.“I’ll drink it later.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

“And the day before,” she said. “I’m consistent.”

“That’s one word for it.”

They stood there a moment, the comfortable not-conversation of people who’d shared too many shifts and too little sleep. Frank flipped through his chart. Sally adjusted her badge, finally noticing it was crooked, and fixed it with more care than the task required.

“You still on nights?” he asked.

“Until they decide I’m a liability to society,” she said lightly.

He looked at her then. Really looked.

“You okay?”

There it was. Casual, but not really.

She shrugged. “Define okay.”

“Still breathing,” he offered.

“Crushing it.”

He didn’t push. Frank was good like that. He knew when to step back, when to let the silence say what neither of them had the energy to unpack.

A pager went off somewhere. Not hers. She exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction.

“You going out tonight?” he asked. “After shift.”

She shook her head immediately. “No.”

“Didn’t even let me finish.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she replied. “And the answer is still no.”

“I have plans.”

He waited.

She sighed. “I plan to go home. Eat cereal. Stare at the wall. Possibly fall asleep with the TV on.”

“Living the dream.”

“Someone has to.”

She meant it as a joke, but it landed oddly between them, too honest in the wrong way. Frank cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

“Figured.”

He walked off, leaving her with the hum of machines and the distant sound of laughter from the nurses’ station a brief burst, then gone. Sally watched it like an outsider might watch a party through a window.

She checked her phone.

No new messages.

There was a group chat she’d muted weeks ago. College friends. Birthdays. Engagements. A running joke she no longer understood. She didn’t open it. She rarely did. It felt like eavesdropping on a life she used to belong to.

Her phone buzzed again this time her pager.

Room Five. Non-urgent.

She pushed off the wall and headed down the hall, steps steady, expression neutral. Passing the nurses’ station, she caught Dana watching her. Not staring. Just… noticing.

Sally offered a quick, practiced smile.

Dana didn’t smile back. Not unkindly. Just thoughtfully.

In Room Five, a young woman sat on the bed, arms crossed over her chest, foot bouncing nervously. Anxiety. Probably chest pain that wasn’t cardiac but felt real all the same. Sally softened instinctively, voice gentler than she felt.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Dr. Del Amico.”

The woman looked up. “You look tired.”

Sally smiled again, this one more genuine.

“Yeah,” she said. “So do you.”

They talked. Sally listened. She always listened. That part of her still worked flawlessly, like muscle memory. When she left the room, the patient looked calmer. Grateful.

It should have felt like something.

Back at the desk, Robby stood reading labs, glasses perched low on his nose. He didn’t look up when Sally approached.

“You’re behind on your notes,” he said.

“I’ll catch up,” she replied.

“Tonight.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

He glanced at her then. His eyes lingered just a second too long.

“Don’t disappear on me,” he said quietly, then turned back to his work.

She nodded, though she wasn’t sure what he meant.

As the shift wore on, Sally moved through it the way she always did ;competent, contained, present enough. But every now and then, she felt it: the sense of standing half a step outside herself, watching her own life unfold like something already written.

When dawn finally crept in through the high windows, pale and indifferent, she washed her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Dark circles. Hair escaping its tie. A woman in her late twenties who looked older than she felt and younger than she acted.

She splashed water on her face and straightened.

Another shift near done. Another one coming.

A/N: can't wait to spill all the steaming hot stuff 🧘‍♀️I honestly felt a sudden motivation coincidentally right when I had to study for my finals :) so excited to share this mini series and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I do..! was listening to hard times by ethel cain while writing this so it’s a bit inspired by it or maybe I’m just delusional but the vibe IS there lol ( trusttt.) walk with meeeeee..!!

[swevenlyss]

she never fails to amaze me 🙂‍↕️

[womanfile]

a history of heroes, fools and liars.

❝ will love you, no matter the cost, Demi. If need be, I will raise the child as mine—on my honour, I swear it. Only stay with me… and love me as I am. I’m yours, Demitria. I always have been. ❞

— They met in the cold halls of the North, far from roses, far from songs . . . Demitria Tyrell was not what he expected. She was softer spoken than the stories had said, yet every word she spoke had the sharpness of someone who’d been made to defend herself too young, too often. She wore her grief not in weeping, but in silence and control—in the way she held her cup at feasts but never drank, the way her eyes never lingered too long on joy.

And still, when she laughed—truly laughed—it was like sunlight breaking through snow clouds.

Jon found himself watching her too often. Not openly, not foolishly, but in the quiet moments. When she spoke, he looked not only at her mouth but at her hands, how her fingers twisted her ring absentmindedly when she was nervous. When she stood to leave a hall, his eyes followed, not with desire alone, but something else—something gentler, more dangerous. A longing.

He listened more when she spoke. Even when others dismissed her suggestions with a polite nod, Jon remembered them. Sometimes, when no one else did, he answered her. Not with flowery praise or courtly flattery, but with respect, with truth.

And she noticed.

He never touched her. Never dared. But sometimes their eyes met in passing—briefly, as if by accident. And something unsaid would hang in the air, just long enough to burn.

She was a widow carrying another man’s child. He was a king with no name and no place for softness. Their love, if it could be called that yet, was not a fire—they had no luxury for flames.

But theirs was a love forged in war, shadowed by grief, and surrounded by ghosts.

She had a past she could not bury. He had a future he could not promise.

Still, when she looked at him, she did not see the bastard of Winterfell, the King in the North, the man the realm tried to shape. She saw Jon. And when he held her, he did not see the widow of a southern lord, nor the last rose of a fallen house. He saw Demitria— thorns and all.

And for a while... that was enough.

- A.N : i definitely did not listen to young and beautiful by Lana while writing this… duh i did lol and fun fact i decided to post it today cause it is is indeed mid of July.. don’t we love these little details??? I was heavily inspired by that song I tried to keep it very poetic lol, sorry if it’s too short ( and rushed at the end) i just couldn’t think of anything else to add…

[swevenlyss]

i am in love with her writing. she never fails to amaze me

[womanfile]

a history of heroes, fools and liars.

the beginning of it all . . .

HOUSE OF TYRELL. growing strong.

284AC - 307AC

what if it was a dream . . . and I have only now begun to wake? What if none of it ever came to pass—the war, the fire, the betrayals whispered behind silken veils? what if i am still she, the Lady Demitria of Highgarden, with sun-warmed stone beneath my bare feet and the scent of blooming roses clinging to my hair? What if the banners still fly golden and green, and my mother is in the solar laughing over some petty court tale, and Garlan is sharpening his sword in the yard, and I—

I am simply myself again.

Not bowed, not broken, not lost. Just Demitria. Whole. Clever. Alive. There are moments, just before waking, when I believe it. When I swear I hear the music of the summer birds, and feel the weight of my braid against my back, and I almost turn to call for Margeary or Loras or Father. And then the dream ends.

And I remember.

Gods, I remember.

what if it was a dream? . . . that question haunted her more than most things. she had been a girl born into luxury, yes, but not into stillness. even as a child, Demitria moved like wind through the gardens, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons. she had a way of looking at the world that made it feel like a game she was already winning. her tutors taught her numbers and heraldry, and how to curtsey just low enough to flatter and never to submit. but no one taught her how to carry grief.

no one taught her how to survive a world where beauty meant danger, and kindness meant weakness.

she had brothers who loved her in their own ways—Ser Garlan with his long silences and tired patience, Loras with his flashing smile and rare moments of honesty—but she was the youngest, and the most watched. there was always someone watching. her mother, her Septa, the ladies of the Reach. even her husband, once she was wed.

that marriage had not been her dream, but dreams did not matter. she smiled at the wedding feast. she said the right words. she played the perfect lady. and when he died—quietly, and without glory—she wore black and said little, just as was expected.

but inside, something shifted.

widowhood gave her a different sort of power. there were no more lessons. no more talk of matches. no more eyes on her belly or her posture or her embroidery. for the first time, she was left alone with her thoughts. and that was when Demitria Tyrell began to see things clearly.

the court was full of cowards. the roses were not always red. and not all brothers kept their oaths.

she was no fool. she saw what was happening in King’s Landing. she saw what was being whispered behind goblets of Arbor gold and gritted smiles. and when the raven came—when the seal of her house arrived scorched and broken—she knew before she opened it. her house was gone. Her family, scattered or dead.

the golden girl of Highgarden became a ghost overnight.

some said she fled. some said she was taken. others swore she died in the chaos. but none of it was true.

she lived.

in shame, in shadow, in silence—she lived.

and sometimes, late at night, when the wind rustled through whatever forgotten place she now called home, she would close her eyes and pretend.

pretend the bells were ringing for her name day.pretend her father was still alive, stroking his beard and telling her to speak less boldly in court.pretend her sisters were laughing in the halls.pretend the roses still bloomed.

pretend she was still Demitria Tyrell, Lady of Highgarden.

and not the ghost the world forgot.

because the world had taken everything from her—her name, her family, her place, her peace. everything… except one thing.

she had not fled alone.

beneath the folds of black silk and silence, she carried a secret: the child of her late husband, growing quietly within her. unseen. unknown. the last small piece of a life lost to fire and betrayal.

and for that reason alone, Demitria endured.

A.N : finally done with this sort of intro lol i tried to keep it short but somehow failed so be aware that initially it was longer than this, anyway I am so excited to share more lore for this dr. This post is sorta a summary of many eras i went through but I’ll definitely post more detailed versions of each, kiss kiss.

[swevenlyss]

my gf postedd