#the secret history

[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.

[bambiiaangel]

credit: @ evf1lms on tiktok ‧₊ . ✮

[betryl]

Charles doodles

[swearbythem00n]

I just know the TikTok ban would have crushed bunny

[bunnys-tragedy]

They were legit best friends.

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?

[moxrglory]

here’s a video since tiktok has been banned

[i-dont-trust-butterflies]

Nothing lasts forever

But you get to decide whether it brings you fear or comfort.

[k0damn]

ILY FOR SAYING THIS. A lot of people don’t talk about how self destructive he is throughout the book even though that’s one of the main causes of nearly every situation he ends up in. Richard at one point in his life might’ve started out as a victim of circumstance, but he’s largely a victim of himself. I think about how he could’ve had a good happy life at Hampden with friends who actually cared about him(in a healthy way anyways) if he didn’t willingly place himself in a group that didn’t care about him all too much.

why is Richard sickly for like 95% of the book he's always complaining about being exhausted and faint and nauseous and riddled with headaches and his solution is LETS HAVE MORE PILLS AND ALCOHOL??

LIKE SIR PLEASE JUST EAT A VEGETABLE IM BEGGING U

[karnaca78]

Unreliable Narrator

[okdaydreams]

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

[queenieverity]

Okay imagine this. Henry Winter lives til his sixties, he’s a professor, and try to imagine him doing administrative nonsense. Like. Just the idea of him updating grades on canvas or coming up with an AI use policy. Or him even having a iPhone?? Literally an insane idea. A good thing he killed himself

[anthropologistfromentropy]

This made me imagine Henry's and Bunny’s trip to Italy. Bunny thoughtlessly making them go see all the sights and walking way too much. Making Henry leave the umbrella at the hotel because of the sunny weather, not realizing that he's using it as a cane. Henry is in severe pain and angry, but of course he cannot communicate and show weakness. No wonder they end up fighting.

So.. can we talk about the fact that Henry Winter is disabled? Because I don't see anyone talking about it and you all seem to be collectively ignoring this fact (in ff, hc, fanarts, ecc) The man literally fixes his hair so that the scar on his face is not too visible, he is almost blind in one eye and walks in a very stiff way because otherwise he would limp (my haedcanon is that's why he always carries around an umbrella, uses it instead of a cane) and also his horrible migraines that can last for days.

I think the charm of his character lies in being able to read him both as a mastermind manipulator with sociopathic tendencies, and as an introverted autistic man who hangs on his teacher's every word (or everything that can be between these two extremes). but for the love of God, can we not completely erase at least his physical disability, which is canon and not up for debate? Thank you.

[cigarettesandbacchanals]

the character called Richard in every book read

[carolaetroses]

I find it amusing how Henry's name (which means home-ruler, or the king of the home) has this play where you could find yourself reading "Home" (from haima) and "Rīk" (ruler), since that's the etymology.

Literally Henry is home-rik (Homeric)

[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