#clav

For context, Violet is that girl he was fighting with on stream and then broke up with. They’re like toxic but in the best way possible.

Them in particular are so endgame to me. Like I keep seeing this tweet on my TL and I love it.

Genuine smile for a “chopped” hoe. I love his taste.

Also apparently according to Clav they’re having a kid, I don’t know if that’s true or not but like their toxic love never dies. I LOVE THEM!

A Thousand Unseen Cuts // Clavookie

TW: self harm

Braden stared down at the double edged razor sitting on his bedside table, a blank expression on his face. There were a lot of thoughts running through his mind, a complete whirlwind of emotions. It didn’t matter how much looksmaxxing he did, he was still the same insecure boy that spent his days scrolling on .org.

There were a few scars on his thighs, nothing really noticeable, the women he slept with never mentioned them because he always made sure to turn the lights down low. But the worst of it was on his upper arm. He used to film gym content, but now he made sure to always have sleeves covering that small portion near his shoulder, rather than showing off his physique half naked in a mirror.

He never took his shirt off during sex anymore. Half of him regretted what he’d done, spending time every time he took a shower staring at them in the mirror. They itched quite a lot, it was rough when he and his friends would be doing a stream and he’d suddenly start scratching at his arm like a lunatic.

The decision was made. Braden picked up the razor, it was a new one, his older one had gotten too dull which was really a nuisance. He thought back to his childhood, before he’d learned about the blackpill, before he’d discovered that stupid looksmaxxing forum that changed his life. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, as he dragged the blade from his wrist, all the way to the end of his forearm, in a quick motion.

The layers of his skin peeled back, blood beginning to trickle out the insicion he’d just made. It wasn’t deep enough. Biting down on his lip, he multi-swiped, his layer of fat now visible. Braden cursed to himself underneath his breath upon realizing that he had hit a vein, blood quickly pooled in the cut and trickled down his arm, dripping messily over his bed.

Strong feelings of paranoia washed over him when it hit him that a bandaid wouldn’t fix this mess. His heart rate anxiously sped up.

What if somebody came in?

I don’t know how to handle a cut this big.

Braden held his hand over it as best as he could, putting pressure on it, blood staining the palm of his hand and his legs. He then tried to hold the pieces of skin back together, but it didn’t do much at all.

Inside his pocket, his phone began to vibrate, indicating that someone was calling him. Braden wiped his hand on his bed and pulled it out, trembling. It was Cookie.

He stared at the caller ID for a moment as it continued to ring, the cut continuing to make a mess everywhere. He answered.

“Cookie?” Braden’s voice unintentionally sounded all shaky.

“Clav, do you wanna go walk around Miami tonight? Holy Dexter reference. But me and Kay are in the city, he just has some shit to do tonight.”

Braden felt awful saying no, but what was he supposed to do? That fear was evident, because if he didn’t get medical attention he could very well pass out, or worse. He didn’t even want to think about the giant, noticeable scar it would leave.

There was silence for a few moments.

“Clav?”

He couldn’t stay silent forever. Braden loved Cookie, and he trusted him, but he had never opened up about the cutting, and he didn’t want to have to make it his problem.

“Cookie, I kind of fucked up and I don’t know what to do right now.”

“Well, what happened?”

Braden paused again before he finally responded,

“I cut myself. Like… deep. I don’t know what to do, I think I hit a vein.”

“Oh, God, Braden, where are you right now?”

Concern filled his tone, and Braden explained that he was just at his house. Cookie began to insist that he was going to come over and take him to a hospital. Braden didn’t exactly want to go to a hospital, but he didn’t have much of a choice here.

——————————

“Braden, are you okay? I’m here now, just hang on for a sec, I’ll clean you up a little bit.” Cookie was kneeling in front of his sitting boyfriend, in between his legs as he started to unravel some gauze.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done this, I’m so cooked.” Braden sighed as Cookie began to wrap up his forearm with the gauze tightly. The blood immediately began to soak through, it wasn’t much of a difference, but he was just trying to help soak up some of the blood before they left.

“I love you, don’t apologize to me, I’m here for you.” Cookie looked up into the other man’s eyes, his gaze full of compassion. He finished bandaging Clav up and then kissed his forearm gently, standing up, towering over him. Braden looked up at Cookie, who placed a hand on his cheek, rubbing his thumb on it, lovingly looking down at his teary-eyed boyfriend. Kissing his forehead, he helped him up to his feet. Braden definitely felt a bit woozy but he could walk.

Braden hated his scars, and he hated the fact that he’d just done this to himself. As if Cookie could read his mind, he said, “I love every part of you, Braden; so much.” As they drove to the hospital, barely hanging onto consciousness, memories of Cookie flashed in his mind, it was peaceful, calmed him down in the midst of this storm.

To say Cookie was relieved as they stitched Braden up would be an understatement, the nurse had informed him that the cut could have done a lot more damage if he hadn’t been brought here in time.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Cookie gently stroked Braden’s hair in the hospital room, the two of them alone in the room as they gazed into each other’s eyes. “Can I just ask… why did you do it?”

Braden didn’t want to cry again, he already felt vulnerable enough tonight. “Um…. It just…. It takes the pain away… y’know?” His voice cracked a bit, he couldn’t stop thinking about his childhood and wondering how he ended up like this; the drugs, the paranoia, the self harm… Nobody would ever really understand him. But there was somebody that even if they didn’t understand, they didn’t judge, and that person was sitting next to him.

“I love you, Demir.” He spoke, smiling a bit.

Small nsfw

Perched to Clav’s left, about a meter behind him, Demir played with his hands and observed whilst his friend lamented about clip farmers and bot accounts to his captivated audience. He knew Clav to be fickle. Provocative. Hungry to indulge his own ego. His every move, every word calculated to satisfy this appetite. Demir had watched many times as the younger would scour a room for well-endowed women, for broad boned moggers, for iPhone cameras; whichever was bound to satisfy his lust for attention faster. Clav’s histrionic desire for perfection is what had led him to create his .org account as a young teenager, lead him to steroids and experimental peptides, lead him to streaming, lead him to this night, live on Kick, with his dark haired company.

Demir felt that Clav liked the way they looked together. He was aware of Clav’s narcissistic urge to look good at any expense. When they first met, he too felt the allure of this muscular 6 '2 young man with a gift for garnering controversy and a habit of shooting off at the mouth. His strong willed, yet distinctive resigned nature contrasted completely with Demir’s own attitudes. Clav, aloof at times, was mostly apathetic, abrasive and self serious.

Demir, ever fragile, was tender to the words of others and insecure in both his physicality and his persona. He was rejection sensitive in a way Clav wasn’t, and attention seeking in a different way Clav had never been. Loud and animated, he recognized his own moody nature that often transformed him to sullen and irritable. He knew that infamy got him down, but only fueled Clav.

A more cynical, more doubtful part of himself, packaged and well buried at the back of Demir’s mind, acknowledged the optics. He knew how the internet saw him. Loud mouthed, petulant, unintelligent, immature. Unattractive. Part of Demir wondered if that’s what drew Clav towards him. Sculpted with a classic look, Clav dominated any room the pair found themselves in, an attractive presence with a certain bluntness that only seemed to endear him further. Online, Clav defended Demir. He’d shoot back to incessant “chopped” comments directed at his friend. Yet on occasion, Demir would watch as Clav’s lip curled at the comparisons made between the two, at the influx of “sub 3” in the chat; Clav enthralled by the thrilling recognition that they wouldn’t say such things about himself. Of course Clav wasn’t immune to criticism, but he was treated with an importance by his online movement that was not granted to Demir, who served as entertainment to jeer at, and he’d sulk at any perceived confirmation that this was the case.

Demir was becoming Clav’s creation. This had become a major part of Clav’s content recently. The two had stood in the attached bathroom an hour before streaming, as Clav prepared them both. Demir had fidgeted and had cast his gaze adrift as Clav had stood facing him, systematically combing through his tousled brown hair repeatedly. He primed Demir’s skin with BB cream and traced his fingers over his eyelids as he tried to tame his eyebrows with some sort of gel. The moment flet juvenile, yet indulgently intimate. Demir enjoyed the preening. Clav handled him with certainty, he never hesitated over him the way Demir did alone in mirrors.

Demir was divisive amongst Clavicular’s audience. Pragmatically, on some small level, he knew Clav’s attempts to ascend him and the exposure he gave him through features was self-serving. Demir had grown used to the consequences. His divisive nature amongst this little community must have been something Clav depended on, something he could rely on to farm engagement. For this, perhaps he should have felt resentment towards him. Their association with each other was a blemish on Demir’s image separate to Clav. The Clav influenced pivot in his content had cost him followers. Furthermore, the ridicule towards Demir that Clav condemned yet did not inforce upset him greatly.

Clav had mildly cupped Demir’s face while his other hand had poked methodically at his eyelashes. Demir had avoided his studious gaze. Hands clasped together, he had felt a shift in the width of his wrists in recent weeks. Clav’s advice about Demir’s looks had been genuine. He’d lost some weight under his guidance. His face was slimmer, and his skin radiated with a tanned complexion. His words had been sincere too. He’d promised Demir that once he was finished, the elder's looks would be restored, even improved upon. Demir’s confidence had increased. Clav no longer had to drag him out from his bed in order to club or film videos at the mall. He’d delight in the invitation and would comply enthusiastically. They’d constantly over FaceTime and Discord, even though Demir knew himself to occasionally test Clav’s patience. Despite this, Demir savoured their time together and relished in Clav’s tolerance.

Was it conditional? Clav’s presence permeated the same dopamine infused confidence of the man himself, which inturn emboldened Demir. He found himself falling into bravado and a boldness uncharacteristic of himself, before crashing back into his typical foolish and subdued, self-conscious nature in his absence. What would Clav do when Demir was complete?

Would he find another young man he deemed less fortunate than himself? Would he tell him what to wear, what to say, what to eat, what to post, how to do his hair, his eyes, his eyebrows, which girls to fuck, who to collaborate with? Would that young man stand in Clav’s bathroom with his coarse hands touching his smooth face? Would he groom that young hopeless case in his own image to stroke his own ego? And what of Demir? He imagined they’d drift apart, separated by state lines and algorithms. Maybe he’d hear of Clav’s latest antics second hand through mutuals, if they still ran in the same circles. He’d feign disinterest. He’d ignore him. Would Clav turn on him, too? Maybe he’d slander him on a stream, humiliate him in a tell-all podcast. Clavicular, Braden, symptomatic of a closed chapter in Demir’s life, would be preserved in time by his profile picture on a list of blocked numbers in Demir’s phone. Maybe, in a moment of weakness, drunk and alone, he’d slide his hand down between his hips under his belt and touch himself to that old iMessage contact photo.

“Ouch”

“Sorry,” Clav had said with a sly smirk. He’d plucked a hair out of Demir’s eyebrow, “you need to stop squirming.”

Now here they were in this moment, Clav still streaming, Demir sitting idle. Clav, boastful and triumphant, bragged about looks, money and staceys with a signature condescending swagger. Demir would chime in to reiterate. When a user commented on Demir’s weight loss, Clav grinned as though the progress was his own.

“Yeah, well,” chuckled Clav, “he’s been following my protocol like gospel”

A warmth beamed within Demir. He had taken this opportunity to credit his own abilities, yet meeting gazes briefly, something in Clav’s eyes read as proud. His clunky mannerisms and deadpan delivery made it so that his true sentiments were usually difficult to decode, but for a transient moment, unmistakably so, Demir felt Clav look upon him with a rare vulnerability, perhaps a softness.

Demir looked at Clav for reassurance, for validation. He smiled coyly, head tilted sheepishly, raking Clav for any line forming on his face that would betray his feelings, that might have read as acknowledgement. Typically heedless, the moment ended instantly as Clav whipped his head away. His vacant, enigmatic eyes watched the monitor. Demir stared at his phone’s home screen. The chat whirled on.

*******