#Donna Tartt

[tinderheartpaperbody]

Frankenstein - Mary Shelly

The Secret History - Donna Tartt

The Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater

Et j'en passe.

What's a book written by a woman that changed your life or that you consider a classic? Any genre, any language.

[karnaca78]

Unreliable Narrator

[swearbythem00n]

I just know the TikTok ban would have crushed bunny

[dreamspiritsblog]

“I am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.”

— Donna Tartt, the secret history

[lisardactually]

judy is actually the best character in the book. fuck u richard for thinking she's just dump and loud. where would u be without her?

Okay sex is fun but have you ever done coke in a Burger King parking lot with the girl you swore up and down wasn’t your best friend?

[okdaydreams]

started reading the goldfinch by donna tartt on the plane and i started bawling???? like 70 pages in???? so what's that about

[cigarettesandbacchanals]

the character called Richard in every book read

[charishcherish]

The Secret History art [digital, because Henry would be aesthetically opposed to it] based on one of Richard’s dreams. 2nd version without the text and pages that describe the dream (where I got text from) under the cut. 🍀 lucky four leaf clover so tumblr doesn’t chew up and spit out image quality.

^ stuff boxed in the green, specifically.

And a song that I listened to while drawing this.

[anonymouswr1ter]

 “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it…And what could be more terrifying and beautiful, to souls like the Greeks or our own, than to lose control completely?...To sing, to scream, to dance barefoot in the woods in the dead of night...let God consume us, devour us, unstring our bones. Then spit us out reborn.” 

-Donna Tartt, The Secret History (1992)

[charliedaltonswife]

Deny It

Henry Winter x reader (The Secret History)

Summary: Richard, having taken a liking to reader, realises something he has been denying for a while now.

Warnings: ig a bit of angst, allusion to smut if you squint really hard, oh and richard's pov

master list found here

Richard P. POV

I should have known, really. The signs were all there; hidden in plain sight, like so many things are with Henry. But then, I suppose it’s easier to see the truth in retrospect, when everything has been laid out for you, the final, painful, picture taking shape long after the moment has passed.

It was early autumn when you arrived, a time when the leaves began to curl and brown, and the air turned crisp enough to sting your lungs. Shame, you always reminded me of autumn - this was a curse really, an entire season every year I was reminded of you. Julian had let you into the Greek class not long after I had joined, and you fit into our group almost too easily, easier than me truthfully. There was something effortless about it, the way you slid into conversations with a quiet confidence. Everyone was surprised when you challenged Henry on the finer points of Greek translation. I liked you almost immediately. The way your wine stained lips quirked up when Francis made a joke, the way your heels made subtle clicking sounds as we walked to class together. Yes, I suppose I liked you a bit too much that I became blinded. 

Henry, of course, was the first to notice you. He always had a knack for identifying those who would matter, who would alter the delicate balance of our little circle. It wasn’t long before you were spending long afternoons with him in the library, your heads bent over ancient texts, a kind of fierce concentration radiating between the two of you that none of us dared interrupt.

“Henry’s really taken with her,” Charles said one evening, swirling the last of his drink in the glass. “Haven’t seen him like this since- well, since ever.”

“Hm?” I echoed, frowning. “He’s finally found a friend who can keep up with him.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a smirk. “Right, yes.”

There were moments, of course, that should have given it away. One evening, after a long night and too many drinks, you laughed at something Charles had said and stumbled slightly on an uneven bit of the rug. Henry was at your side in an instant, his hand gripping your arm a little tighter than necessary.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“I’m fine, Henry,” you assured him with a laugh, but he didn’t let go until you were safely sitting down on an armchair.

It was a small thing, really. An overprotective gesture from someone who cared. Henry being Henry; precise, cautious, unwilling to leave anything to chance. It didn’t seem unusual. After all, we were all protective of each other in our own ways, weren’t we? A tight knit group. 

There was another time, late one night, when I was passing by the sitting room and overheard your voice, soft but insistent. I paused, lingering in the shadows, curious.

“Henry, sit down,” you were saying calmly but with demand in your voice. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, though his voice was strained.

“Don’t argue with me. You’re not fine.” There was a rustle of movement, the sound of a chair being dragged closer. “Here, take this.”

A pause. Then Henry’s voice, quieter. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Sure I do,” you said firmly. “Close your eyes and try to relax.”

I stood there for a moment longer, listening to the soft hum of your voice, saying something in Latin to distract him from the pain, the way you spoke to him with a calm assurance that I’d rarely heard anyone use with Henry. It was oddly intimate, but again, I brushed it off. Henry had migraines sometimes; we all knew that. And you, well, you were kind. That’s what I liked about you most. Of course, you’d help him. Anyone would.

It was nothing. Just a friend being there for another friend. It wasn’t unusual. Not really.

The country house was always supposed to be a place where the outside world couldn’t touch us. It was where we could let loose, indulge in the illusion of timelessness. But that illusion has its cracks, and in those cracks, truths have a way of seeping in. Truths that were right in front of me before. But I was too ashamed to admit it to myself. Too stupid. 

It was during one of those languid weekends that I found myself on the second floor, wandering aimlessly as the others napped or lounged downstairs. The door to Henry’s room was slightly ajar, and though I knew it was a breach of privacy, I couldn’t help but glance in.

You were there, seated on a chair that had been obviously moved to be right next to the bed, a book spread open between the two of you. Henry leaned against the headboard, his gaze fixed on the text, though every so often, his eyes flicked up to you. There was a kind of quiet intensity to the scene, an intimacy that was all the more palpable for its lack of overt gestures.

I should have left then. I should have turned away and pretended I hadn’t seen. But I didn’t. I stayed rooted to the spot, watching as Henry reached out, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face before he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. It was such a simple, tender thing, and yet it felt like a declaration, a quiet confirmation of something I hadn’t been ready to see.

I decided to turn away as you mindlessly went to run your fingers through his hair, being careful not to move his glasses, both of you keeping focused on the texts in front of you. It felt practiced. It looked natural. 

I didn’t say anything that evening despite a question from Francis and a nudge from Bunny. I couldn’t.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when I saw you emerge from his room that the reality of it hit me. You stepped out first, wearing one of Henry’s dress shirts, the fabric hanging loosely off your frame, the hem brushing just above your knees. Your hair was slightly tousled, and there was a sleepy, contented look on your face. Henry followed shortly after, equally disheveled, his sleeves rolled up, his collar undone.

There was an ease between you. It was undeniable yet I managed to deny it for so long. I stood frozen at the end of the corridor, watching as you disappeared around the corner, my mind racing to reconcile what I had seen with what I had tried so hard to ignore.

Francis was the one to put it into words, as he always does. He caught my eye over breakfast before everybody had gathered, a sly grin playing on his lips. “So, you finally figured it out?” he asked, not unkindly. “About Henry and her?”

“I-” I began, but the words failed me.

He chuckled, setting down his cup. “We all saw it, Richard. You just didn’t want to.”

I nodded. It wasn’t jealousy that I felt, exactly. It was something more complicated; a mix of disappointment and resignation, perhaps. But there was also a strange sort of relief in the truth being out in the open, even if it was just for me.

Later, I found myself on the porch, watching as you and Henry walked across the field, your heads bent close in conversation. There was a lightness to your step, a kind of ease that spoke of familiarity and trust. It was beautiful, in its way.

Maybe, on some level, I had known all along.

Requested by the wonderful @timetravellingovercaffeinatedkoi who got me out of my writing slump

[navyblueone0w]

wonderful thing to just read books all day but writing is even more wonderful —Donna Tartt

[kingsaardine]

Oh Donna my Donna, when will you drop another banger?

[charmantroses]

[theotherwoman69]

boreo headcanon boris always speaks brainrot and theo tells him to shut the fuck up

"you're so skibidi sigma"

"shut the fuck up boris I just shot a man"

[reading-n3rd]

Boris wouldn't mind loving a boy if it didn't mean loving Theo

Theo wouldn't mind loving Boris if it didn't mean loving a boy