actually henry letham @grnherbs - Tumblr Blog

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minors dni / eighteen plus only

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before you request

#navigation #meet the author #navi #grnherbs

freckles--and--flowers

I’m obsessed with Project Hail Mary and couldn’t stop thinking of Grace’s shoes. Those bad boys are held together with hopes and dreams 😅 and apparently wires.

I also love the idea that he now has a matching “Savior of the Universe” piece so him and Rocky can match hehe

jeghenn

stretching

nowritingonthewall

Coltland Twins + trembling lips 🥺

Ryan Gosling as Colt Seavers and Dr. Ryland Grace

stickdoodles

Names

gottabegreyhound

What do we think about reader comforting K after he has a nightmare? Dealer's choice if the content of said nightmare is discussed.

I just need my sweet boy taken care of ❤️

This is short, but he is #grateful. He's quiet in this... which is pretty in line with him. Hope this is good though!

prudejudee

scissoring w/ afab!driver ˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— afab!gn!reader

my right hand man in this idea my beloved @larsandthewritergirl <3

The room is dim, the only light—a warm yellow spill from the parking lot lamps through your curtains. Driver has you on the bed, your legs spread, his body angled over yours. He's shed his jacket, his scorpion-embroidered signature, down to a thin undershirt that clings to the subtle swell of his chest.

He settles between your thighs, his own pressing against yours, skin to skin. He's already worked up in his boxers, a damp spot darkening at the front. His breath hitches when your knee brushes against him.

"Easy.." he mutters, more to himself than you.

He pushes your legs wider, guides your calf over his hip, and then he's sliding against you—not completely smothering, not yet, just against. The wet heat of eachother meeting through the fabric causes a deep shudder, a sharp exhale through his teeth, and his forehead drops to your shoulder.

He's barely moved and he's already trembling. The tip of his clit, sensitive, swollen—catches on your own clit through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he makes a sound like you've punched the air out of him. High in his throat, almost a whine.

You slip your hand between you, push his boxers down his thighs and slip them off, and he groans, long and low, as his bare cunt slides against your slick folds. He's wet, too—soaking, actually, the head of him glistening in the dim light.

"Like that," he breathes. "Just—like that."

He rocks his hips, slow at first, experimental. The head of his tdick drags through your slit, catches on your clit, and he gasps. His hips stutter, and he has to stop, breathing hard, his whole body tense.

"Sensitive—" he grunts, almost apologetic.

You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, grinding up against him, and he moans—a raw, broken sound that's all split and needy. He buries his face in your neck and fucks against you, messy and desperate, he's sliding through your wetness, the lips of your cunts pressing together, his clit rubbing against yours with every thrust.

He's loud. So loud. Every slide of him against your cunt pulls a whimper from you both. Every grind of your hips makes him gasp and jolt. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and he fucks you with a frantic rhythm, his breath hot and ragged against your throat.

"Gonna!–" he chokes, and you feel his clit pulse against you, hot and wet, his squirt spilling onto your stomach, your thighs, as he cries out, a broken, shuddering moan that trails off into a whimper.

He doesn't stop. He keeps grinding, oversensitive, his body twitching and writhing. His whole body lurching with determination, and he whines, high and desperate, into your skin.

"Don't stop," he begs. "Please. Don't—fuck—"

He's a mess above you, trembling, whimpering, coming again in a hot rush, and he sobs, hiding his face, his hips still rocking against you, seeking more friction, more pressure, until he's spent and limp, collapsed on top of you, shaking.

He's quiet now, except for the ragged breaths. His hand is still tangled in yours.

After a long moment, he presses a kiss to your collarbone, soft, almost shy.

I REALLY HOPE THIS WASNT BUTT IM LEARNING THE ROPES OF WRITING MORE FOR AFAB RYGOS :D..

stealingpotatoes

I would give an arm and maybe a leg to see the PHM characters in your artstyle (no pressure)

PUT YOUR LIMBS BACK AND HOLD THIS INSTEAD

(links // tip jar!)

sleepyrogues

Pro hag, anti ai

tadpole-art

Landscaping

prudejudee

Ok walk with me. No crash AU where you and henry get set up by your roommate on a blind date with a friend of a friend, at first he wasn’t gonna go because he already is borderline obsessed with someone (you) in his class. To his surprise you’re sitting down waiting for him. You think you’ve never met before but he already knows a lot about you

SOBS THIS IS JUST FLUFF GUYS. "Sam" is just a random insert as a friend!

Henry almost didn’t go.

The invitation had been sitting on his phone for two days, unopened after the first read, as though ignoring it long enough would somehow make it disappear. Sam had been relentless, insisting that a friend of a friend had someone “perfectly normal” to set him up with. Bright, kind, occasionally shy—someone Henry would probably not entirely get along with.

He couldn’t think of anything he wanted less.

Not because he disliked the idea of dating, but because his heart had already wandered somewhere it had no business being.

To you.

It wasn’t "love" in the dramatic sense people wrote poems about. It hadn’t arrived all at once. Instead, it had crept into his life slowly, settling into the corners of his mind until thoughts of you became as natural as breathing.

You were in his arts class every Tuesday and Thursday, always arriving a few minutes early with a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a notebook already tucked beneath your arm.

You had a habit of smoothing your bag before class began, even if it wasn't wrinkled. When you concentrated, your brows pinched together just enough to make you look annoyed at whatever story the professor had assigned, only for your expression to soften the moment someone made you laugh.

Henry noticed everything.

He noticed the chipped nail polish you’d absentmindedly peel away during lectures.

The ring you twisted around your finger whenever you were thinking.

The way you always stopped outside the classroom afterward to answer anyone who had a question, even if you were clearly in a hurry yourself.

He knew you preferred tea over coffee some days because he’d seen you carrying the same colored bottle almost every morning. He knew you always checked out more books than you could realistically finish because he’d spotted the impossible stacks balanced against your hip in the library.

He’d overheard enough casual conversations to know your favorite author, your least favorite weather, and your irrational dislikes.

He hadn’t meant to learn those things.

They had simply accumulated over weeks of quietly existing in the same spaces.

Sometimes he hated himself for it.

He worried it made him strange, that if you ever realized how much he’d noticed, you’d be uncomfortable. So he kept his distance, convincing himself that admiring someone from afar was safer than risking ruining the small comfort of simply sharing a classroom with you.

You, meanwhile, barely knew he existed.

Or so he believed.

By the time Saturday evening arrived, Henry stood in front of his apartment mirror adjusting the collar of a sweater he’d only worn once before. He considered taking it off and changing back into the plain shirts he usually stuck to for comfortability.

He considered texting Sam to cancel. Instead, he grabbed his keys.

Mostly because saying no felt harder than enduring one awkward dinner.

The restaurant was small and warmly lit, tucked between a bookstore and a florist downtown. Candlelight reflected softly against the windows while quiet music drifted through the air. Couples laughed over shared desserts, friends lingered over coffee, and the entire place carried the comfortable feeling of somewhere people stayed longer than they planned.

Henry stepped inside.

The hostess greeted him, asking for his name before glancing toward a table near the windows.

He followed her gesture.

Then stopped walking.

Every coherent thought vanished.

You were already there.

You sat with one hand wrapped around a glass of water, absentmindedly tracing circles through the condensation while occasionally glancing toward the entrance. Soft evening light spilled across your face through the window, and for one impossible moment Henry wondered if he had imagined the entire thing.

Of all the people in the city, of all the strangers Sam’s friend could have known.

It was you.

The person he’d spent months trying not to think about.

The person who unknowingly occupied every spare corner of his mind.

His heart lurched so violently he was certain someone nearby could hear it; You looked up as the hostess approached your table.

You looked up as the hostess approached your table, recognition crossed your face almost immediately.

Not the startled delight of recognizing someone important, but the polite familiarity reserved for classmates seen outside their usual setting.

Your expression brightened with surprise, apparently, you knew his name after all. Relief and panic tangled together in his chest.

The evening unfolded nothing like either of you expected.

The awkwardness that usually accompanied blind dates softened quickly, replaced by the strange comfort of discovering you weren’t meeting a stranger at all. Instead, it felt as though someone had quietly skipped the introductions.

For the first time, Henry heard your voice without the distraction of professors or crowded hallways. It was warmer than he remembered, carrying an easy laugh that appeared often and lingered naturally. Away from campus, you seemed lighter somehow, less focused on assignments and deadlines, more willing to ramble about books you loved or stories from with friends.

He found himself listening the way he always had, only now, he was finally allowed to answer.

You spoke with your hands whenever you became excited about something, nearly knocking over your water twice before laughing at yourself each time. Every now and then, you’d pause to think, absentmindedly twisting the ring on your finger exactly as you did in class.

Seeing familiar habits up close made his chest ache in the gentlest way and eventually, little details slipped into conversation.

Not intentionally, no—without thinking—Henry mentioned your favorite author while recommending another novel.

You blinked.

A few minutes later he absentmindedly suggested ordering tea instead of coffee because he knew you weren’t much of a coffee drinker sometimes.

Again, you looked surprised; But then came an offhand comment about your obscure dislike while discussing desserts.

Your expression shifted—not fearful, not uncomfortable, but undeniably curious.

There was no accusation in your eyes, just confusion.

Henry realized, with growing horror, exactly what he had done; Weeks of quietly admiring someone had escaped in scattered pieces across a dinner table.

He wanted to disappear beneath it.

To him, every detail had become ordinary through repetition. He’d forgotten that most people weren’t expected to know those things about someone they’d barely spoken to.

Embarrassment colored every thought that followed.

He mumbled over explanations, trying desperately to clarify that none of it had been intentional. You’d simply existed in the same places he had for so long. He’d remembered conversations because hearing you speak had always seemed more interesting than whatever else was happening around him.

The confusion in your expression gave way to something softer, your lips curling into a smile that caught Henry completely off guard. There was no judgment in your eyes, only quiet affection for someone who had cared enough to notice the little things no one else ever seemed to. It wasn’t unsettling. It was sweet.

The heat rising to Henry’s face refused to fade, but it no longer came from embarrassment alone. Watching your smile linger was enough to quiet the panic that had been building in his chest. Somehow, despite everything he’d accidentally revealed, the evening hadn’t fallen apart. If anything, it had finally become honest.

this was sorta bad im so sorry if its a little ehh,,

larsandthewritergirl

Wasn't going to bring anything up but I am beyond disgusting and triggered by things I've been sent. Pedophilia isn't something to make light of, incest isn't something to make light of.

You all protect each other and hide behind each other. Gosverse must've deleted her original post bc there are screenshots of what she said about a minor!

lol yeah and here's more proof, not all bc I have a life and I'm not searching for all that.

But honestly as a victim of sexual abuse as a child I literally feel sick. This is disgusting and shouldn't be entertained?

Also creating a discord to talk shit about drama YOU started is wildly childish, grow up. Anytime you got an anon you didn't like you said it was me, you sat on your phone and went on the wildest rampage meanwhile I posted like 5 things. This is absolutely disgusting and because I'm a literal victim of both things you guys are romanticizing I'm going to step off tumblr for a bit for mental health.

gottabegreyhound

want another?

patching K up (you k fiend /lh)

-🪿

Oh I went actually insane with this… over 2K words. K, my beloved dead wife.

K has been injured quite a few times from being a Blade Runner, so it's no surprise when he ends up with yet another stab wound to the side and something burning on his neck. He thinks he may have been sliced by shrapnel, but he's not sure.

Lieutenant Joshi isn't going to pay to treat his injuries of course, so he doesn't bother telling her even though he has blood dripping down the back of his neck and back, as well as his torso.

He instead goes in for his baseline, completes it numbly, and walks out of the station with his side beginning to scream at him.

The walk back to his apartment building goes by fast, but maybe his memory is becoming hazy from blood loss.

The jacket is keeping the worst of the damage covered, so when he steps into his apartment building, he's greeted with his usual ensemble of angry people and disgusting words.

He ignores them as usual, and debates whether he goes up 80 flights of stairs to his own apartment or 20 flights of stairs to yours.

You have medical equipment on hand too, figured that it'd be easier to learn how to stitch and whatnot rather than go to someone who will may you pay an arm and a leg… literally, and K admired that about you.

Reluctantly, because god forbid he bothers you, he decides to make the smaller trek to your apartment instead of his own. He's also not use he's going to have the energy or time to make it up that many stairs before bleeding out entirely.

The walk goes by easily, he focuses on the sounds of his footfalls and not what people are saying to him or how they're trying to shove or get in his way.

Your door comes into view and he actually stands a little taller to stop people from trying to get in his way to get there faster.

He stands in front of the door for a solid minute, hand over his side through the coat on top of the wound, before he knocks hesitantly.

He expects you to take the time to figure out who it is, or not answer at all, but no, the door opens almost immediately.

He looks surprised to see you there, as if he isn't the one who knocked. Maybe it's because he's always surprised to see you standing in front of him, real and caring about him. It just feels unnatural. Taboo.

You don't speak to him, just grab his arm when you notice his paleness and blood decorated clothing and skin.

He's once again surprised by you. You just grabbed a Blade Runner without hesitation and he went along with it. Maybe he's more surprised at himself for allowing it. Who knows?

You drag him into your apartment, asking, "Where you hurt?" as you take him from room to room, and finally into the bathroom.

He's too busy trying to remember everything about your apartment to answer. It's bigger than his, far less bare, more lived in and screams you.

"What?" He asks dumbly after seeing the look on your face.

You sigh and repeat yourself. "Where are you hurt?"

"Side… and the back of my neck, I think." He replies, looking away embarrassed for not answering the first time.

"Take the jacket off and hop up onto the sink for me, please." You say easily and gather what you need.

'Please.' It's another thing that baffles and endears him to you. Your politeness. K is polite because he was made to be. You weren't. Every other person has treated him like shit and only used him. Never saying anything remotely kind or pleasant to him, but you? You constantly give him 'please's and 'thank you's and he never knows how to respond.

He still doesn't, so all he does is nod and take his jacket off before folding it neatly on the corner of the sink. He carefully raises himself onto the surface of the metal, waiting for you begin.

You slip on a pair of gloves and pull needle and thread together before turning to him with a little "okay." You look at his state of dress and say, "Your shirt has to go too."

He looks down at himself as if he's just realized he's wearing a shirt, and begins to pull at the edges of the fabric.

"Wait." You interrupt him. He looks up at you and you place down your needle and thread. "Let me help?"

You ask him. Another thing he just can't seem to understand about you. You ask for his permission first for everything. And like everything else, he never knows what to do.

So he nods again, and you carefully take his shirt and pull it cleanly over his head without causing his side to pull. You're very thoughtful in all what you do to him.

He looks down at his feet almost bashfully as you hand him his shirt. He takes and folds it before setting it on top of his jacket. Both will need to be washed.

"Gonna start, okay?" You check in with him before grabbing the needle and thread again. You wait until he nods to start, and when you do he doesn't move. He doesn't move when you pierce the skin, doesn't move when the thread tugs, doesn't move as it's being tied off. He's so used to just taking pain, that this kind, with you sewing him up, he's okay with it.

"Almost done." You whisper to him at his side, focused completely on your work. He only hums in response, but you know he's just trying to fill the air. He's never been one for a lot of words, but he never wants you to feel like he's not listening.

"Okay." You say as you tie off the last thread. It looks almost professional, your stitches. He thinks he'd rather go to you than any professional anyways, scarring or none.

You place gauze over the stitches and bandages on top of that afterwards. You do it all carefully, trying not to pull on any sensitive tissue or touch him more than he wants. Though selfishly, he'd like you to touch him more.

"Swing over the side of the side, I'll take a look at your neck." You speak quietly, you can tell he's had one of those days where he just needs time to decompress. Your quiet voice helps him relax, but he's never said that to you, but he has a feeling you know what effect you have on him.

He does as you said, pulling his hands into his lap and waits for you to do whatever you need to do.

"Hmm." You say. "Looks like something cut through you… can't see anything in it. So nothing embedded."

"Okay." He responds, glancing down at his boots, wondering if he's dragged any dirt into your apartment by accident in his haste.

"This will only need glue, so it'll be quick." You reassure him easily with a little tap on the shoulder.

Your gloved hands brush over his hairline, and he has to fight not to pull away or shiver.

"Sorry, shoulda warned you." You say as you take your hands away for a moment. You give him a second but continuing.

"It's okay…" he shrugs minutely to you, barely raising his voice above a mumble.

You hum halfheartedly in response, not really wanting to tell him he needs boundaries when he's never been allowed them… especially after a long day.

You trace your fingers along his hairline and the base of his neck, feeling for any pieces of shrapnel.

K almost shivers again and has to force himself to breathe out deeply. Your hands are gentle, and the gloves are the only thing stopping him from actually shivering.

"Okay… nothing bad here. Just some spots to glue and you're done." You say again after looking over his head and neck.

He's almost disappointed when you take your hands away for a moment, but they come back a minute later and pinch together different parts of his head and neck with the glue.

The glue sets fast so you don't have to hold for long; K almost misses the pinching when you're finished.

You retract your hands and he accidentally lets out a sad hum.

His eyes widen and his body goes stiff as he stares down at his books. He didn't mean to do that. Your hands are gentle… and he wanted more… and now you're gonna think he's insane.

"You okay?" You ask quietly. You know you have to be careful now. You pull off the gloves and put everything away as he sits there, still rigid and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Mhmm." He nods along with that half-verbal response. He feels like an idiot. How stupid of him to not control his reaction? You can retire Replicants but can't control how you react to a hand in your hair, really? K is beyond embarrassed by his actions, and honestly you kicking him out would be best case scenario.

"You sure?" You ask. "You're still tense." You know that something's up but he's not exactly open with his feelings. You're gonna have to dig for a response if this doesn't work.

"I'm good." He says but it sounds more like he's talking to himself. "Just… long day."

You don't believe that's the entire reason why he's tense like this. He was fine just before you stopped. Wait.

"Can I try something?" You ask after a moment of silence.

He half turns his head to look at you, watching your eyes and body language. He knows you won't hurt him, but he has to be sure. "Okay." He faces the other way again, looking down at the floor.

You bring up one hand to his hair and say, "tell me to stop," before placing your fingers on the hair on the back of his neck.

"Oh." He mumbles out. He's still tense, but he's almost leaning back against your hand now.

"This okay?" You ask him quietly, you don't want to hurt or set him off.

"Mhmm." He replies, and his eyes drop close as he leans back a little more against your hand.

You push your fingers into his hair and then brush gently up and down his scalp, the short hair is nice to feel.

K exhales slowly and his shoulders drop down suddenly.

"Better?" You ask with a little smile.

"Yes." He says back without missing a beat. "Thank you."

You keep playing with his hair, and then bring up your other hand to brush through the hair at the top of his head too.

He tilts his head with your movements, sighing as he feels your nails just scratch his scalp.

You almost laugh at his reaction, he looks like one of those electric cats, purring away as its owner's hand is on its chin.

He doesn't notice you're smiling or near laughing, he's too lost and content to feel anything other than your hands.

You drop one hand down and press into his neck muscle before going back up into his hair, and he nearly jumps.

"Sorry. Too hard?" You stick to just the top of his head now, scratching lightly at his scalp as you wait for him to reply.

"…felt good." He says timidly. "Just…" he trails off and shrugs, "Can…"

"Can…?" You prompt, going back and forth with massaging his neck and tracing his scalp and hairline.

"Can you keep doing this… for a little while?" He asks in a quiet rush. He sounds almost panicked. Like if you said no, he'd cry.

"Of course… why don't we leave the bathroom first though? It'll be more comfortable." You agree easily and K genuinely feels the most relieved he has ever felt in his life.

He nods and gingerly gets off the sink, taking the used supplies from you and going to get rid of them in your trash. It's the least he could do for coming into your home bleeding and begging for you to pet his hair… Jesus, he should be ashamed of himself.

You catch him starting to tense up again when you walk into your living room. He's just stood at the center of the room with his head down to the ground and his shoulders pulled back.

"Hey." You call out and stand next to him, "Come sit with me."

You move past him, brushing an arm against his as you pass and sit on the couch, looking relaxed and waiting.

He blinks a few times, looking from the bathroom, to you, to the door to your apartment. Your giving him an out right now too, if he wants to leave, he can, you'll stay on the couch. You know he's afraid, he has every right to be, so you'll be patient for him.

"Alright." He nods more to himself than you as he walks over to the couch and sits next to you. He's sat upright and glancing from object to object on your shelves.

You know he's won't move closer to you, he's too afraid to do that, so you shift over to his side, just brushing a thigh against his before bringing a hand up and into his hair.

His eyes widen as he stops looking around your apartment, instead almost pushing his head backwards into your hand.

Like a needy cat, you think. You like it.

You hum at his movements as he relaxes into the couch more, starting to lean more and more into you before finally…

His head hits the place between your neck and shoulder.

He startles himself by doing that, and goes to pull away with a quick "I'm sorry" but you aren't having any of it.

You grab the back of his head and just keep him there until he relaxes again. "You can stay."

You can feel his eyebrows twitching against your neck, he's confused once more by you. "…why?" He asks you after a lapse of silence.

"Why what?" You ask as you use both hands to trace lines into his hair, its soothing for you and the texture of his hair is softer than you expected.

"Why do this?" He asks, a bit more strength in his voice. "I'm a Replicant, you know that."

"So I can't care?" You ask him, confused. "I care because I care. I don't need a reason to with you."

"Care…?" He repeats to himself, honestly baffled. He wasn't expecting you to say that. "You… but- I don't understand."

"I know you can't. I'm sorry you were never given the opportunity to learn about being loved and how to live." You say with a hint of venom, not towards him, of course not, but towards everyone else. Anyone who isn't K who's treated him like he's worthless. "I care. Just please remember that for me, okay?"

He sits there, head pushed against your shoulder and neck with your fingers in his hair, long enough that you think he's fallen asleep from how steady his breathing has become before he replies, "I'll remember that, I promise."

cloudytimelapse

Ryland lays you down on the bed. He places a soft pillow under your lower back so you can rest comfortably on the mattress. The room smells like fresh sheets and his familiar cologne. Right away, his mouth finds yours, kissing you in a slow, deep rhythm. He is very gentle and careful, making sure you are comfortable with every move he makes. He sucks your lips and tongue. When you lose your breath, he pulls back to give you space, but he keeps pressing soft kisses to your face, jaw, and neck.

His hands slip under your hoodie. It is actually his hoodie, but you wear it every month when your period starts because it makes you feel cozy. His palms touch your bare skin, gently rubbing your stomach and sides. Your muscles tense up for a second from a cramp, but they quickly relax under his warm, soothing touch. It brings you quick relief and distracts you from the pain.

He whispers sweet things against your skin between kisses. "You feeling okay, baby?" he asks, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. You gasp as another sharp cramp hits, and your hips lift off the bed. Ryland gently holds your hips and guides you back down onto the pillow. "It's okay. Just relax f’me" he soothes. "It hurts so much today" you whisper, closing your eyes tightly. "I know, honey. Let me take care of you" he replies, kissing the corner of your mouth.

His fingers trail slowly across your stomach "Does this help? The pressure right here?". "Yes" you sigh, letting your body sink into the mattress. "So soft and perfect" he whispers, his fingers pressing for emphasis.

A sudden sharp cramp makes you pull tightly on his hair. Ryland groans softly, but the pull doesn't hurt him. Instead, it makes him want to comfort you even more. "I've got you" he murmurs, kissing you more deeply. He rubs your stomach gently, filling your senses with his love. Soon, the only thing you can focus on is his warm affection, and the pain of your cramps begins to fade away.