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"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious

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Howl's Flying Castle Cross Section (or, Califer's Relatives Pay a Visit) || [prints]

Can you find?: [ ] four star children [ ] the magic broom [ ] suliman's guitar [ ] howl's welsh rugby jersey

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My dad has bees. Today, I went to his house and he showed me all the honey he had gotten from the hives. He took the lid off a 5-gallon bucket full of honey and on top of the honey there were 3 little bees, struggling. They were covered in sticky honey and drowning. I asked him if we could help them and he said he was sure they wouldn't survive. Casualties of honey collection I suppose.

I asked him again if we could at least get them out and kill them quickly, after all he was the one who taught me to put a suffering animal (or bug) out of its misery. He finally conceded and scooped the bees out of the bucket. He put them in an empty Chobani yogurt container and put the plastic container outside.

Because he had disrupted the hive with the earlier honey collection, there were bees flying all over outside.

We put the 3 little bees in the container on a bench and left them to their fate. My dad called me out a little while later to show me what was happening. These three little bees were surrounded by all their sisters (all of the bees are females) and they were cleaning the sticky nearly dead bees, helping them to get all of the honey off of their bodies. We came back a short time later and there was only one little bee left in the container. She was still being tended to by her sisters.

When it was time for me to leave, we checked one last time and all three of the bees had been cleaned off enough to fly away and the container was empty.

Those three little bees lived because they were surrounded by family and friends who would not give up on them, family and friends who refused to let them drown in their own stickiness and resolved to help until the last little bee could be set free.

Bee Sisters. Bee Peers. Bee Teammates.

We could all learn a thing or two from these bees.

Bee kind always.

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Circle Rugs

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been trying to figure out why my niece just can't seem to read simple words like bug, led, kit, bit (three letter words with a vowel in the middle). i thought she hadn't mastered the alphabet so i rerouted my teaching to reading just letters but she's nailed it down to a t. went back to the words and she still has a hard time reading it on her own after multiple practices.

i think, i /think/, she lacks reading.

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i can't die cause then everyone will know and that will ruin my whole mysterious girl aesthetic

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It’s definitely not “do whatever you want bc nobody cares” it’s somewhere between “people don’t care as much as you think they do” and “if you want to truly do what you want you have to not care about how much other people care”

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*exhales smoke* oh, quotev. haven't heard that name in a while.

Please participate in my research (also, if you say other, please put it in the tags/comments !)

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me trying to be positive: it's ok! you may not understand it entirely but if you study, you'll get it eventually!

also me: you're fucking dumb is what you are

i bet positive thinking goes so hard when youre a normal person

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[forgetting I am mentally ill] why do I feel so Bad

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LEWIS PULLMAN ph. by Storm Santos (May 3, 2025)

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texts from my father continue

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this did not have to be so cute and fluffy but it is and i love it so much

The Little Things

Lewis Pullman x Reader

Lewis had always been good at hiding in plain sight.

Not the confident, electric performer on stage or on screen—no, that version of him was loud, bold, unmissable. But the Lewis sitting beside you on that quiet evening was quieter, smaller in some ways, vulnerable in ways he rarely allowed himself to admit.

They say love hits like a lightning bolt, but for him, it was nothing like that.

It was the way your laughter spilled—soft, uncertain, like a fragile secret shared too early in the morning light. It was the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you thought no one was watching. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, and how your voice faltered just a little when you talked about your dreams.

He noticed all these things because he was paying attention, really paying attention. Not the distracted kind, not the casual glance—he was absorbing you, piece by piece.

It was in the small moments, too: the brush of your hand against his, accidental yet electric; the quiet pauses between your words where his heart hammered loud enough to drown out everything else; the way his chest tightened when you looked at him with that honest, unguarded gaze.

He found himself replaying conversations, dissecting your jokes, memorizing the way your voice softened when you said his name. And every time, a slow, aching warmth spread through him.

There was no dramatic crescendo, no sudden epiphany. Just an understanding that grew heavier with each shared coffee, each tentative smile, each evening spent wrapped in the soft glow of your presence.

He realized he was falling in love not because of one moment, but because of countless tiny ones — moments that made him ache to be better, to be braver, to be worthy of you.

———

You’d first noticed Lewis on a rainy Friday night at a small café-bar. The band was setting up, and when Lewis stepped up as lead vocalist, the whole room seemed to shift. On stage, he was confident and magnetic, like a different person—bold and alive in the spotlight.

But when the music stopped, you had seen him tuck his head a little, cheeks flushed, his usual quiet, awkward self stepping back in.

You’d recognized him—Lewis, the actor from a couple of indie films and some TV you’d seen. You’d never imagined he’d be the lead singer in a band. Curious and a bit nervous yourself, you gathered your courage and walked up.

“Hey,” you had said softly, fidgeting with the strap of your bag. “I didn’t know you were in a band too.”

He blinked, clearly surprised, and his shy smile matched your own awkwardness. “You… you know me? I didn’t think anyone would.”

You had laughed nervously, glancing down. “Yeah, I’ve seen you act. But this? This is different. You’re… kind of amazing on stage.”

His cheeks deepened in color. “Thanks. I’m a different person up there, honestly.”

Over the next few weeks, you’d exchanged texts—filled with shy emojis, long pauses before replies, and little jokes that didn’t quite land but made you both smile.

One afternoon, after a casual coffee together, Lewis finally worked up the courage to ask you out properly. You were sitting side by side on a park bench, the world moving softly around you.

He shifted uncomfortably, looking at the ground. “So… um, this is probably super awkward, but would you want to go out with me? Like, an actual date? Not just coffee.”

Your heart had skipped, and you bit your lip. You’d nodded, cheeks warming. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

He’d grinned shyly. “Cool. I mean, if that’s okay. I’m kind of terrible at this.”

You giggled, your fingers fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve. “Me too. But maybe we can be terrible together.”

You and Lewis agreed to meet at a small, cozy café neither of you had been to before. The kind of place with mismatched chairs, warm lighting, and a shelf full of books along one wall.

He had arrived a few minutes early, standing just inside the door, cheeks pink and hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets.

“Hey,” he said softly when he saw you, voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” you replied, your own voice a little shaky.

You found a table near the window, and for a moment, neither of you knew quite what to say.

“So… do you come here often?” Lewis asked, scratching the back of his neck.

You had smiled, realizing how much you two were mirroring each other. “First time, actually. You?”

“Same. Figured a new place would be… less pressure?”

You laughed—a relieved sound. “Yeah. Less pressure to know all the good drinks.”

The conversation was slow, with pauses where both of you would glance away or fidget nervously. But little by little, stories began to flow—about your favorite books, Lewis’s experiences on set, the silly things that make you both laugh.

When he told you about the band, his eyes sparkled a little more, the confident stage persona slipping through for a moment. You asked if he ever got nervous performing.

“Always,” he admitted. “But once I’m up there, it feels like I can be someone else. It’s nice.”

You nodded, feeling a warmth spread inside you. “Yeah, I get that.”

The evening ended with an awkward, hopeful “See you soon?” from Lewis and a shy nod from you.

Over the next few weeks, you met for dinners, walks in the park, and occasional band gigs where you watched Lewis transform on stage—the same confident, electric performer you’d fallen for.

Each time, your conversations grew deeper, your silences more comfortable. You laughed at your shared awkwardness and found joy in small moments: a hand brushed against yours, a shy smile exchanged across a crowded room.

Lewis started texting you little things—songs that reminded him of you, random thoughts, goodnight messages that made your heart flutter.

One evening, while you sat together watching the sunset from a bench, he had caught your hand gently.

He’d shifted nervously, voice low and honest.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this…”

You’d held your breath, eyes locked on his.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Your heart had jumped. He looked away for a second, then back, vulnerability shining in his eyes.

“I didn’t expect it. It just… happened. I know my life’s kind of chaotic — filming, music, being gone more than I’d like. So, if this feels like too much, or you don’t feel the same… I’ll understand. I really will.”

He paused, searching your face for any reaction.

Without thinking, you closed the space between you and wrapped your arms around him—tight, sure, like you never wanted to let go.

Pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, you had whispered, “I’m all in. If you are.”

———

So yes, Lewis had fallen inexplicably in love with you. Hard. So what?

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my vocabulary is rapidly dwindling. "yay" is one of my default responses now

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oh this is super cute

Couch Cuddles

Lewis Pullman x Reader

Lewis had always been a creature of comfort. Sunday afternoons were sacred—feet up on the coffee table, the soft hum of a sports announcer in the background, a half-finished mug of tea going cold beside him. He had a habit of mumbling commentary at the game under his breath, like the players could hear him and would immediately make better choices.

You were used to it by now—his grumbles, his sighs, the dramatic little “Oh, come on”s he tossed at the TV like it personally offended him. You’d grown kind of fond of it, actually.

A couple of years into your relationship, and the two of you had fallen into an easy rhythm. The kind that made words optional. You knew what snack to bring him when he got that mid-afternoon slump look, and he knew how to wordlessly pass you the charger before you even realized your phone was dying. It was simple. Familiar. Soft in all the right ways.

Still… sometimes you wanted to stir the pot just a little.

You’d been in the bedroom for a while, doing absolutely nothing productive, when the low hum of Lewis’s voice floated in—something about a penalty, followed by a long, dramatic sigh. You smiled to yourself, climbed off the bed, and padded into the living room.

Lewis was sprawled across the couch in full weekend mode: hair slightly messy, wearing that faded black shirt you loved—soft as anything, stretched just right across his shoulders and chest. The remote rested on his stomach, forgotten, and his legs were long and inviting and obviously not expecting company.

Perfect.

You approached silently and knelt beside the couch. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, relaxed and curious.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hi,” you chirped, grinning just a little too much.

Then, with zero warning, you hooked your fingers under the hem of his shirt and started crawling underneath.

Lewis flinched, caught off guard. “Wait—what? What are you—?”

You shushed him like he was the one being ridiculous.

“Shh. Accept your fate.”

You wriggled up between his legs, pushing his shirt up with you until your head popped through the collar like a very determined kitten. Face now directly in front of his, nearly nose to nose, you blinked at him innocently.

“Hi again.”

He stared at you, deadpan. “You are inside my shirt.”

“I sure am,” you said brightly.

Lewis made a face somewhere between amused and exhausted. “You know there are other, less invasive ways to cuddle, right?”

“I’m maximizing surface area,” you argued, snuggling in deeper. “It’s scientifically optimal.”

He huffed a soft laugh, his arms hovering awkwardly before settling around your waist, like he couldn't not hold you even if he wanted to pretend this was entirely your problem.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he muttered.

“You love me,” you corrected with a dramatic little pout.

He tilted his head, pretending to consider. “Tolerate.”

You gasped. “Lewis!”

He grinned then, quietly pleased with himself. His fingers squeezed gently at your hips. The teasing melted into something warmer as you relaxed fully into his chest—pressed close, tucked under the fabric like you’d always belonged there.

He was solid and warm beneath you, skin meeting skin in a lazy sprawl of limbs and softness.

“You good?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded against his neck, cheeks smooshed affectionately into him. “Mhm. You’re cozy.”

Lewis chuckled, the sound low in his chest. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Your weirdo.”

“Unfortunately.”

You giggled and gave him a gentle kiss just below his jaw. He flushed a little at that—subtle but there, his arms tightening around you in a way that made it clear he was never going to complain about this level of ridiculous affection, not really.

The game continued to drone in the background, completely ignored now. You nestled closer, his hand absentmindedly tracing shapes along your back, both of you melted into one lazy tangle.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Lewis shifted just enough to murmur near your ear.

“You’re stretching the hell out of this shirt, by the way.”

You pulled back, mock-offended. “Wow. Body heat and judgment?”

He smiled, kissed your temple, and said softly:

“Still worth it.”

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I actually do feel like the "unemployed friend on a Tuesday" meme actually helps de-stigmatize unemployment because it frequently affirms that when you don't have a job you're more likely to be getting up to some weird shit rather than just lazing around. But I also feel like the unemployed friend is frequently up to some random shit because there's a whole pile of miscellaneous life tasks that full-time employment keeps people from. The unemployed friend is helping their cousin move, or babysitting, or checking in with a neighbor with mobility issues. The unemployed friend is a walking thesis on the inflexibility of our current labor landscape and just how much work exists outside of work.