honeyedking

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS :@honeyedking

I WAS SO HAPPY TO BE WITH YOU. The hush before the music starts. The safety of silence in shared glances. Fingers tracing promises into skin. A glass of wine left half-finished on the windowsill. A name mouthed in sleep. The memory of laughter tucked between pages of old novels. Her favorite dress hung in his closet. Love notes scrawled on café napkins. A crown of clover she never dared to wear.

THEN • TWO HALVES TRYING TO CONVINCE THE WORLD THEY WERE WHOLE. He made the world quieter, somehow. The chaos softened around him, like even her worst thoughts knew to hush in his presence. She memorized the way he laughed with his whole body, the curve of his shoulder when he leaned into her secrets. They weren’t perfect—but they were theirs. Secret glances across crowded rooms. Shared rituals that belonged to no one else. Nights tangled in sheets and soft-spoken dreams. He made her feel chosen, and for a time, that was enough. Loving him felt like dancing barefoot in candlelight—warm, foolish, and so damn beautiful it made her cry.

NOW • SHE LOVES HIM STILL, BUT IT’S A BITTER KIND OF LOVE NOW—LIKE HONEY GONE SOUR. Loving him feels like rinsing blood from silk—slow, ruinous, and never quite clean. She tells herself it’s enough, still, just to have him near. To pretend. But the weight of pretending has begun to wear her thin. His silences speak louder than his promises, and every time he looks past her, she wonders if he ever really saw her at all. She resents the way he lingers in her bloodstream, like a ghost she invited in. Resents herself more for letting him stay. Because even as her heart folds smaller and smaller inside her chest, she clings to the fragments—of what was, what could’ve been, what she begged it to become. But the truth sits heavy in her lungs: it shouldn't hurt this much to be loved. And yet, she still waits for him in doorways. Still hopes. Still bleeds for the version of him that might love her back one day. Even as the part of her that believed it possible begins—slowly, painfully—to let go.

[honeyedking]

ᴀ ᴘᴀɢᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴀʟ:

Much can be said about a wolf in lambskin... more should be said about the lamb that was slaughtered. But what of the wolf that died hungry killing no lamb at all...

--

"Have you seen Thib?" Maz peeked into his mother's room, brows furrowed, irritated at the prospect of not knowing his brother's whereabouts.

"He's with that Vincent boy." She says airily. Maz' mood immediately sours. "You know him?" She asks.

"I don't care for him." He dismisses airily. His eyes flash green.

--

"Why can't you come with me?" Maz asked, struggling not to be petulant. "We always go. You've studied enough." He tries to tug the book away from Nicolai as the other shoots him an indulgent smile. "I have to study more." He replies.

Nicky always has to study.

"You're already the smartest in the room, Nicky. Give the rest a chance." He watches a shadow loom over the other's eyes.

"Vincent's transcript begs to differ." He mutters, annoyance clear in his voice. But Maz... Maz knew Nicolai better than he knew anyone.

He could spot the fondness in the slight curl of his lips. More green. He flops next to the other and rolls his eyes.

"I don't care for him." He says through a sigh, but his lips turn down into an ugly scowl.

--

Vincent is in the room when they announce the cards. He seems familiar with most.

Lachlan. Cass. He bares his teeth at the thought.

Mine, he wants to tell him. Ripping viciously at their limbs if only to keep them next to him.

Vincent didn't even spare him a glance.

Prick.

--

Vincent dies, because of course he does.

Vincent's death quickly becomes the center of things because of course it does.

Vincent, Vincent, Vincent.

Even in death, he haunted the narrative. Envy coursed through him as his lips curled downward into a snarl. Every fucking conversation, he now had to listen to them solve for a crime he couldn't care less about.

--

"What was your relationship with the deceased?" They asked him.

Maz looked back and crossed his leg over his knee, head tilted and eyes impassive... but was there a glimmer of emerald glee in them perhaps?

"I don't care for him." He answered easily.

--

There are two things true about Mazen Ashraf Verhoeven.

Envy was a dear friend he often took to bed.

He was a world class liar.

cc: @undecadent @clubgambit @honeyedking

[honeyedking]

𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦.

[honeyedking]

Nicolai Arlay-Sinclair (a polaroid of of him being hit with a snowball, a sample of green wool for colour testing, the back of a birthday card)

Nico's busy around Christmas this year so naturally, my mom is horrified I'm not bringing him home! Cruel and unfair, I think she prefers him to me sometimes.

Then? He liked your sweaters, all soft and warm. A remnant of your home and the warmth of a mother. You had one woven for him too. Let him scrawl on your letters and postcards, hazardous and twisting. Let your mother become far too invested in him. Why not? What harm could it do. Now? You stand beside of him, two figures shaking in the breeze. In the dark nights after misery and ruin, you find him out. A friend, a brother. You are kind, painfully so. And even when everyone points knives to each other, you insist upon kindness to as many as you can. Him included, regardless of any blood stains.

Cassiel Leclair-Park (a love note with lipstick marks, a heart plaid table cloth, heart themed washi tape, a polaroid with the faces masked by white flowers)

I think he'd rather explode than admit he loves me but he says it in his sleep sometimes and I think that's enough.

Then? They call you something soft and unshaken. They think you are simply delicate and yet, you do not tremble beneath their weight, you simply hold it. A talent different from the rest. Now? You will pry your hand ending from the universe if it comes to that. You will be happy—and you will ensure his happiness too. You have been buried inside of him for too long now to leave, curled up in the atrium's of his heart and leaving love notes in the ventricles. You will be happy, you will survive aside of him—no matter the cost, no matter the justifications you may have to make.

Lucia Arcari (a polaroid of them dancing in the kitchen with love hearts drawn on it, an arcade ticket, a national park postcard, a pressed flower love note)

I keep thinking of her whenever I see a solar eclipse, which isn't a lot but it's weird it happened twice!!

Then? They are sharp where you are too soft to cut, a smirk where you are a smile, a force where you are a whisper. Together, you are intoxicating. And if you two are poison, then in combination, you are the glass others will drink from willingly. Now? You cling to her like an anchor in a storm, fingers clasping her hand as you attempt to navigate these muddy waters. Lucia continues to be your strength, remains steady aside of you—joined in your shared attempt to protect another.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@lambentine

PINK. His first memorable encounter with her jeep wrangler. The taste of strawberry McFlurry, as they comforted each other under bright, neon arches. A sprig of pink flowers, redolent with a sweet scent. A second, warmer, Christmas celebration, a motherly presence when he desperately missed his. A warm, handmade knit that offered a quiet comfort.

THEN • Their first meeting always reminded him of a comedy movie - the screech of tires across the asphalt, the grill of her sunflower yellow jeep stopping mere inches from his face. (He would have sued, were it anyone else.) What followed was a friendship he never predicted, something quiet, soft, and gentle. And though they've only visited a handful of times - their standing holiday invitation to Clem's home in Wales was something all Sinclair siblings deeply cherished. NOW • This is the last place she should be, this den of wolves, with a heart as tender as hers. Their shared breakdown in the parking lot of a McDonalds only solidified the fact in his mind, and while he knows Clem has her many champions, he is - at heart - a protector, a martyr.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@undecadent

VIOLET. The velvet ropes that lead to delight and decadence. The cap of that shared vodka bottle, as they lay drunk in the open embrace of twilight. The tasteless pill he took from his fingers with his mouth. A lighter. The beguiling glow of neon signs - why not? The bright riot of tender violence, as blade accidentally meets flesh.

THEN • The rat pack - or so they were unofficially dubbed (by Cassiel himself, they would argue, though their recollections regarding the true origin of the name was doused in too much alcohol.) Sometimes, Nicolai would feel like an outsider - the one trailing behind the carousing trio, a man obsessed with structure in their delightful world of chaos. Of them all, it was Cassiel who once flustered him most - an inarguable force of nature. NOW • A terrifying moment of vulnerability between them under white fluorescent light, his complexion as pale as the white linoleum that surrounded them. He remembered Cassiel's panic, the press of his fingers against his abdomen. Unguarded, human. Those moments forged things, from beautifully imperfect, molten ore.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@cogitxre

BLUE. The dyed leather of illuminated, bound books, shelved in cavernous quiet of Blue Ivy's main library. The dark of the sky that settles around shared, late night scholarship. A pair of glasses. The old inkwell, the strokes of calligraphy. Plucked forget-me-nots. The drip of melted wax to seal secret letters. The blue flecks of familiar eyes, now grey. Gone.

THEN • Once, at the beginning, his presence may have offended him - an interloper in his sacred space with Vincent. But they've developed their own friendship, through insistent text messages on Nicolai's end and succinct replies from Milo. There is a quiet comfort there he cannot fully explain. NOW • There is kinship in their shared desperation to learn the truth of the friend that was taken from them. But each new discovery is a daunting revelation that their sentimental hearts refuse to consider. Vince's image is seared into their memories - but it's all beginning to burn at the edges.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@eternaladagio

GREEN. The vitriol that coats their tongues. The underbelly of a snake in the grass - one that mimics the colors of its venomous twin. More bark than bite. A bottle of 'poison' between...allies. The metaphorical ink signed on their pact, to protect her. The gavel she lets fall when she declares her edict. The evergreen boughs she left on his mother's grave.

THEN • Sarai looked at him and saw someone lacking, someone who faced her cherished friend with insincerity and false intentions (he is shamed to admit that before - she may have been right.) They've traded carefully crafted insults and vicious barbs, all the while presenting a refined, elegant mien to the public eye. The unshakable pillars, always on either side of Bella. Supportive, watchful. NOW • Trust was a fragile thing between them, but they were united by a common goal - to keep Bella safe, above all else. Since their silent pact, Sarai has seen him break, shatter, pulled by two separate lodestars. In a terrible, laughable sense - she is the one person who has seen him at his most vulnerable. And wasn't that a frightening thing.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@faantasm

GREY. The cold metal of the magnifying glass in their hands. Her tools - a length of sturdy rope, bump keys and lock pics. Their likeness, in monochrome, plastered over the ceiling. Sooty fingerprints. The unknown enemy's crosshairs. The metallic glint of a hidden camera, capturing your every move. The smoke rising from a fired gun.

THEN • Business, per usual. They'd first met across the oak table of a board room, the tension in the air failing to yield to the cut of a knife. Their father's imperfect heirs. Throughout the years, their paths had crossed - at galas, meetings, parties. Peripheral existences in each other's worlds - mere polite acknowledgements, practiced niceties. NOW • A series of impossible events has led to this unlikely partnership - two incidents of breaking and entering, daring feats of impossibility (when she fully scaled a sheer brick wall to climb through his bedroom window.) He wants to trust Archer, believe in her - and perhaps that was naive of him. That foolish naivety will kill you, his father had said. He wished he could afford to be naive.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@gossameria

GOLD. The wash of light over every feature at sunset. The tarnished, gilt frame of an old mirror (with the cracks beginning to show). The wings of a butterfly, alight, on her bare shoulder. A collection of old postcards and letters. A handful of bright, wild daffodils. Bottled scents they curated for the other. The glint of heirloom wedding bands weighing heavily in his pocket.

THEN • Picture perfect, they had said. There was that quiet understanding between them - the strategy, calculation behind their relationship. A tactical business move. A joint venture that inspired envy. Nicolai did not expect it would offer him the comfort, the joy that it did. How Bella had transformed his everyday. How easy it was to play pretend. NOW • He can no longer ignore the cracks spreading in the foundation of who they are to each other. Like a theater mask whose paint has chipped away, what truths exist underneath? He wants to protect her, to preserve this precious pocket of reality where their happiness could quietly blossom. Not another hopeless dream.

[honeyedking]

ARC III • CONNECTIONS

@serpcntiine

RED. Like the bloody gash of an old wound. The sheen of the electric guitar Nicolai bought him, that he would watch him play endlessly. The gift of his lacrosse helmet - with a startling stripe of red, so you would know him on the field, from afar. The shutter button of an old camera. Crushed, wilted petals. The lingering scent. The collar of a dog that loved them both.

THEN • Once, his existence meant the world to Nicolai. It still does. He was the chaos to his practiced calm. The honesty to his pretense. He could not put into the words the pain he felt when he pulled away, when Mazen had decided - unilaterally - that their friendship was simply over. Denied him any chance of reconciliation, of understanding, of confession and absolution. NOW • Nicolai thinks he's learned his lesson, he thinks he's had enough. Broken and bruised and tired of begging. He wants to face him with the practiced pretense Mazen hates, the public persona he always projected to the world. Let's see how long that lasts.

[honeyedking]

TASK 4.3 :: THE TIES (III/III).

milo foss / nicolai arlay-sinclair ( + @honeyedking )

THEN — Quiet friendship forged in study rooms at late hours of the night; you and the Prince are an unlikely match. To others, he may look like an easy replacement for your late friend—to you, he's an intellect you would be unwise to ignore.

NOW — One of the only close bonds that you trust implicitly outside of the Lamb—though is that really the smartest decision? The counterargument is staggering, and you would be a fool to turn a blind eye. Even so, you manage to ground each other, yanking the other from the clouds when they spiral too high to come down. What is he to you? And what has he done? Do you care?

[honeyedking]

Damian Hardung the perfect summer getaway wearing @gant so I can continue my annual tradition of not understanding fashion—while still looking like I do (at least publicly, ask anyone who’s met me on the streets) ||| Ad/Anzeige

[honeyedking]

ARC II • THE FAMILY TREE

Every family has its terrible secrets... Read the sins of the The Arlay-Sinclair Family.

[honeyedking]

ARC II • THE HAUNTING

Feat. @serpcntiine

The instant camera was a familiar weight in his hand. After all, he grew up with a sister destined for the spotlight, and had chosen a partner who's most natural, beguiling state seemed to be in front of a flashing lens. And while the higher arts of photography were beyond him, Nicolai was borne with taste beyond measure, an eye for composition.

Thus, presented with the scene before him, it was instinctive. The slant of light against bronzed skin, framed by the slightly parted doorway - a stolen glimpse. A painfully familiar face set into concentrated furrows, an unfocused image set to the sound of a plucked guitar, strings reverberating against long, nimble fingers. The sound of the shutter, the buzz of the printing photograph, broke him from his reverie. It made him turn and flee, unable to face the heat of implication that stained his cheeks, his gait swift but light-footed. No trace of his presence, his burning attention - save the captured photo clutched in his stiff fingers.

[honeyedking]

He finds it in a cupboard just under the window overlooking the grounds. Heavy, old… it smelled like mold and rust.

Maz’ face contorts into a grimace as he wipes his hands on his shirt before wandering around the villa with the camera lazily going back and forth between his hands, far too recklessly handling something so old (and more importantly not his).

He watches people file through the house before pausing just by the French doors that open into the garden. The pool.

There… he sees him. He presses his lips together into a thin line before lining up the shot and taking it. The Polaroid prints and he slips it into his pocket before carelessly propping the camera onto a forgettable shelf to be picked up by another.

[honeyedking]

ARC II • DROP-DEAD GORGEOUS

Feat. @gossameria

Once, Nicolai thought of a well-tailored suit as a piece of armor - donned to wade through the metaphorical bloodbath that was high society. Now, they were chess pieces on a far deadlier battlefield, and some rational part of him railed at the fact they were still expected required to dress to the nines. And yet, as he examined himself in front of the mirror with a critical eye, Nicolai couldn't help but preen for a moment, ever the connoisseur of fine stitching and craftsmanship. At least, if he ended up dying, he'd do it in style.