#Donna Tartt

[donnas-books-taste-a-lil-fruity]

serving that gender! mhf! get it!

Young Donna Tartt. You’re welcome.

[that-one-girls-blog-posts]

I don't see enough people talking about Judy poovy repeating exactly what the greek class just discussed in a simpler matter. It's the definition of men's deeply philosophical thoughts being just another Wednesday afternoon for teenage girls

[frail-and-hearty]

[luxielisbcn]

Richard and Henry’s relationship perfectly paralleled Julian and Henry’s dynamic.

Henry and Richard’s relationship perfectly mirrored Henry and Julian’s relationship. Richard entered Hampden as a completely fish out of water (He hated where he came from, never had any friends, had a destructive home life and had never felt seen or understood by anyone) Henry too, entered Hampden with a broken home life and a secluded nature, a soul stuck in time if you will. Julian saw right through that, and took that to his advantage as he began to craft Henry to whatever he wanted him to be.

Henry did the same with Richard. He could read Richard like a book, he instantly knew Richard was ashamed of where he came from and wasn’t very happy with his past. “You’re not very happy where you are either” because Henry was once in his position until he found the embrace of Julian.

Henry never saw himself in anyone else in the greek class due to his past failing to relate to any of theirs. despise all of them having many things in common such as their shared seclusion and feeling unseen and alone, Henry could never relate to Francis’s warm luxurious past with a loving grandma and a sister-like mother, or Bunny’s standard American childhood or Camilla and Charles being orphans yet having each other throughout their childhoods. However, Richard and Henry shared a common factor: Their father’s wrath and negligence. Julian became the father Henry never had, Henry became the protector Richard never knew he needed.

Henry also immediately saw through Richard’s infatuation with Camilla which perfectly resembled Henry’s own infatuation with her during his first year at Hampden as quoted by Francis that Henry was absolutely enamoured by her.

In turn Richard too became dependant on Henry not only for his survival but in every way possible. Henry was the only one he had; the rest of the greek class purposely left out Richard and made him feel like an outsider and barely giving him the time of the day they never viewed Richard as intelligent or anywhere near their level, they had no faith Richard would even figure out what they did to the framer but Henry knew he was smart enough (Henry said all this to Richard when he opened up to Richard about what they did to the framer and the bacchanal). The rest of the greek class did not care very much for the inexperienced boy, meanwhile Henry took him in, cooked him food and drove to his dorm late in the night where they both couldn’t sleep.

Henry chose to follow the footsteps of his mentor and continue the cycle with Richard. I believe Julian also had a mentor who shaped him into the way he is, and Henry in turn tried to prove his growth and his knowledge by following his footsteps and taking Richard (the poor boy who so clearly mirrored him and triggered all the emotional turmoil he once had and since tried to bury deep into the crate) Henry not only wanted to please his mentor, but wanted to blossom into another version of him. That was his greater goal.

We all know very well that Richard worshipped Henry and wanted to reach to his level in which he’d never succeed the same way Henry never reached to Julian’s level and i doubt Julian ever reached the level of his (possible) former mentor. Henry was Richard’s sole purpose in everything he did. Both Richard and Henry were eager to please and serve those higher than them.

And in turn, Henry left his subject (Richard) the same way his mentor left him. Julian left Henry and thus Henry saw it as a signal to do the very same. Fortunately for Richard, his relationship with Henry did not progress to the level of Julian and Henry’s relationship due to their lack of time together, but there is no doubt in my mind that if it had escalated, Richard too would’ve found himself with a gun to his head.

My very last point is Richard’s relationship with Henry’s mother who had never shown a big interest in Henry’s friends and only ever visited for Henry, but in the epilogue, she held Richard’s hand and embraced him the same way she once embraced her son, further proving that Richard had transformed into a reflection of Henry that was well hidden inside him but very much fostered.

Richard now owns Henry’s car that Henry loved was black and opulent and perfectly resembled his style and he used it for every occasion whether to drive away or to the murder spot of Bunny, or take his friends out to lunch, or to drive to Hampden or to his apartment. Richard in turn drives it around everywhere, never to replace it.

In Henry’s arms Richard was the frail little boy he was told to suppress by a father who never knew him. Under Julian’s wing, Henry was the person his real father never loved nor bothered to understand.

[anonymousbl0gger]

[thelostclassics]

Just found your blog - it’s so lovely! I love how you write soft!Henry and the reader. I like to imagine the reader as a bit of an antithesis to the ‘cold marble’ that is the Greek class; so a soft, gentle, affectionate, calming and soothing type of person bewilders Henry at first. Until he starts developing a need for it xD

Love the request! Thank you so much, lovely! xx

The softness in the cold marble.

Summary: Henry ends up finding comfort in Y/n kind and gentle affection.

Pairing: Henry x fem!reader

Warnings: use of Y/n, mentions of death and murder (Bunny’s), conflicted Henry, soft!Henry, comfort.

He hated her.

She didn’t fit. How could she? She was the light when everything he saw was dark.

He didn’t understand how someone could be so kind and calm, how someone could be so innocent about the cruelty of the world.

She didn’t fit and he didn’t liked that. He noticed it from the start, there was something about her that was out of tune with the rest of the group, not in knowledge or intelligence-for in that she equaled, if not surpassed them- but in the way she existed. While the others moved with the rigidity of ancient statues, with the aloof elegance of Greek gods sculpted in cold marble, Y/n was something else. Something softer, warmer.

It unsettled him. She was the messiness in his life.

It puzzled him how she looked at him, with a tenderness without judgment, with an infinite patience that no one had ever had with him. It confused him how her hand reached for Francis's in automatic gestures of affection, or how she arranged Richard's coat on his chair without even thinking about it, making sure it didn't get too wrinkled.

It stunned him, most of all, the way she touched him.

Henry was used to touch, yes, but always with a purpose. A handshake, a casual nudge, the pressure of a hand on his shoulder to get his attention. Nothing more. Nothing that couldn't be logically justified.

But she… she did it without an apparent reason.

Once, while he was reading in the library, she passed behind him and slid her fingers gently down his back in a distracted gesture, without even pausing. Another afternoon, while they were discussing Catullus in Latin, she took his wrist in her hands without warning and turned his watch to check the time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

She offered him contact without demanding it. She offered him gentleness without expecting anything in return.

At first, Henry didn't know how to respond.

He stood still, rigid, waiting for her to realize that this was pointless. But she didn't. She never did.

And then, without realizing exactly when it had happened, he found himself looking for it.

Looking for her. He hated that even more.

He found himself looking for -missing- her comfort and soft smile.

He would linger beside her more than necessary, allow her hand to brush his as he walked, pretend not to hear when her voice softened as she spoke to him. There were times when Y/n would look at him with her unwavering gentleness and Henry would feel something inside him break and rebuild at the same time.

He hated that he felt like that with her, and hated how he would think about her every day, every hour.

Then, everything went downhill.

There was something about the way the silence stretched through the trees that made everything seem denser, more unreal. As if the world had been suspended in an endless instant before shattering into a thousand pieces.

Bunny's body lay at the bottom of the ravine. A jumble of flesh and bone, almost unrecognizable amidst the blood-stained snow.

Henry watched him motionless.

He felt nothing at first. No horror, no relief, not even guilt. Just a strange stillness, as if time had stopped at the exact moment Bunny ceased to exist.

He turned around to look at the group, then he hated himself. She was standing there without moving, anyone would have thought that she was serene, that this didn’t affect her at all, but Henry, Henry had spent way too many days observing her, spending time with her. She was scared, he could see it in her eyes.

That day, she went to his house, something about borrowing a book. In any other circumstance he would have been somehow happy that she visited him, but not today, he didn’t want her to be involved in what they were going to do, didn’t want her to see what they were going to do.

He offered to drive her home, of course she said it was okay, and one thing lead to another and know she had just witnessed the death of Bunny.

Henry hated himself for that.

He didn't come home that night.

He couldn't.

The air inside the car had become stifling, and though the others were talking quietly, organizing alibis, rehearsing answers, he could only hear the dull echo of Bunny's fall echoing in his head.

When everyone returned to their homes, he parked his car in front of Y/n’s house. He wasn't sure what he expected to find there. He just knew he needed it.

He waited a bit inside the car and then walked towards the house.

When he knocked on the door, it took her a few seconds to open it. She was wearing a light robe and had her hair in a messy updo, as if she had just woken up. Her eyes met Henry's and her expression changed instantly.

“Henry...” she whispered.

He said nothing. He just stepped forward, crossing the threshold as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Y/n closed the door behind him and stood watching him, as if trying to figure out what to say to him, how to comfort him without breaking down herself in the process, how to make him see that she was there for him and always would be.

He didn't know how to start.

He had spent weeks planning every detail, every possibility, every consequence. And yet, at that moment, in front of her, everything seemed to fall apart.

Y/n took a step toward him.

She didn't ask any questions.

She didn't press him.

She just lifted a hand carefully and rested it on his cheek, a barely perceptible brush.

It was then that Henry felt something crack inside him.

An imperceptible tremor ran through his body, and before he knew it, Y/n was already embracing him. Her arms closed around him with unexpected firmness, her hands running up and down his back in an instinctive gesture of comfort.

Henry didn't move at first.

But then, almost without realizing it, he allowed himself to lean into her, to drop his weight into her warm body, into her familiar perfume, into the one thing in the world that didn't feel broken.

“I’m sorry” he finally said, in a low voice. He was sorry, sorry for what he did, sorry for how he did it, sorry because she was part of it too.

“I’m scared” she responded. Her voice was a murmur against his neck.

He wrapped his arms more tightly around her, as if to say that he knew she was scared and that he was even more scared.

For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the slow, heavy beat of Henry's heart, Y/n's warmth wrapping around him like a shield against the cold of the night.

“Do you want to stay?” she asked, after a while.

Henry closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

Y/n nodded and took him by the hand, leading him to his room as gently as one would lead a frightened child. In that moment, he was so grateful of her comforting and gentle presence.

That night, Henry slept for the first time in a long time.

———

A/n: hey angels! This took me more time to write because I wasn’t sure how to approach it, but I ended up really liking the result. I was going to continue writing how they started to date and etc but realized it was already pretty long, but if anyone wants to read that I will gladly do a second part.

Let me know if you want 2 part. Have a nice day, my loves!! 💙

[luciferslilith7]

..as autumn bleeds into winter...

...Goodbye November...

@luciferslilith7

[0bsessiv3s0ul]

I can't wait for Autumn 🍂🍁

[fishendless]

ur so on point here

Francis absolutely hates gardening. Hates dirt, hates bugs, hates the sun, hates the concept of manual labor in general. Henry, on the other hand, is disturbingly indifferent to it. He doesn’t enjoy it, necessarily, but he approaches it with the same patience and precision he applies to everything else. The plants need tending, so he tends to them. It’s that simple.

Francis, however, spends most of the time loudly complaining, which Henry ignores completely. The worst part is that Francis is right—he does burn easily, he does sweat like a sinner in church, and the whole thing is miserable. But Henry refuses to acknowledge this because, deep down, he thinks it’s funny. Not that Francis would ever catch him smiling about it, but there’s something deeply entertaining about watching him flail dramatically under the summer sun, sighing like he’s about to perish.

At first, Francis tries to be useful. He grabs a trowel, kneels down next to Henry, and stabs at the dirt half-heartedly before immediately recoiling in horror at the realization that it’s actual dirt. He spends the next five minutes inspecting his hands like he’s just been personally victimized. Henry doesn’t even look up.

Francis tries weeding next, only to accidentally grab a plant that wasn’t a weed, at which point Henry, without even glancing over, calmly says, “That was a flower.” Francis looks down at the now-ruined plant, back at Henry, and then tosses it aside with a huff, declaring that he never wanted to do this in the first place.

It gets worse when he realizes he’s sweating. Henry, of course, remains perfectly composed, looking like he belongs in some untouched century while Francis feels like he’s being cooked alive. His shirt sticks to his back, his skin starts turning red, and he keeps wiping at his forehead dramatically, waiting for Henry to acknowledge his suffering. Henry never does.

At some point, Francis just gives up. He slinks over to the porch, dramatically throwing himself onto a chair like a sickly Victorian child, and watches Henry work with the sharp, judgmental gaze of a man who is determined to be as unhelpful as possible. He occasionally tosses out commentary, just to be annoying—You’re doing that wrong. That’s ugly. I think you’re killing them. Henry doesn’t react, which only makes Francis more determined.

By the end of the afternoon, Francis is half-asleep in the shade, hair a mess, arms crossed as he sulks over the sheer injustice of it all. He’s vaguely aware of Henry approaching him, something being dropped onto his lap. He blinks down at it. A hat. One of those ridiculous wide-brimmed sun hats his aunt keeps around.

Henry doesn’t say anything. He just walks past him like he hasn't just personally declared war.

[mallgothed]

can we get donna tartt on hot ones

[athenascult]

all those layers of silence upon silence - donna tartt

[worm-generator]

man. the secret history has become so synonymous with dark academia that when u look through the tag its just knit sweaters and latte art. like please show me a text post about how fucking unhinged richard was for staying in a room with a Literal hole in the wall during the dead of winter and almost dying of hypothermia.

[ccuniculusmolestus]

This! Also even bunny’s homophobic repressed ass couldn’t NOT be enamored by Henry in some way. I think it’s obvious from how clingy and annoying he gets about Henry 😐 also how he maintains respect for Henry even after Rome, even when he’s going after the others with 0 mercy. That’ll always be interesting to me.

It is interesting how people tend to ignore that everyone in the Greek class loves Henry. Even Charles. They all are deeply enamored with Henry, they are charmed, attracted, in love with him, which is why they work this way, why they follow him.

Of course, Henry is the only one that proved himself capable of solving all the problems around, and that's why they trust deeply in him, but the thing is, that's not exactly why they follow his every command, why they give in his every wish.

They all try on their own to make him happy, to be in his favour, because they love him. In a way, the Greek class works as a strange harem-dynamic.

Another day I'll write how this is deeply related with the ending.

[whereshadowslive]

Source: Pinterest

[bleeding-daydream]