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[lowteirmolecule]

Clav x Cookie King part 5 READ PREV ON MY BLOG

This chapter goes Cookie, then Clav

“Yo Clav, you hear me good bro?”

"Yeah, Cookie, I hear you. How's Cali? They treating you right out there?"

"Uh-huh, yes sir. My mom says hi by the way. I think she's got a little crush on you!"

"Ha, really? Pass on my regards."

"Tsk man why you smilin'? I hear you smilin' bro, ew!"

"Yeah, well....."

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Nah, my bad, my bad."

"Been a minu-—"

"What's that, Cookie?"

"I said it's been a minute."

"Yeah."

"You holding Miami down out there without me?"

"As well as I can."

"Ooooo, Clav, you modest now? Have I been gone so long you decided to develop a conscience?"

"Shut up, you retard."

"Ha ha, I thought as much."

"How is everyone anyways, how's your old man?"

"Yeah, you know, he's good bro, he is who he is."

"Something wrong?"

"Yeah, nah, nah, I'm good, I'm just like – I don't know, I'm like – I've just been kinda depressed recently. Like, I've not been sleeping that great and shit."

"Why? What about?"

"I dunno man, just stuff, like, nothing particularly."

"Right."

"Anyways, how are you dude? I've been keeping on top of the peptides and supplements like you wanted, you know. It's been, like, mega hard to go to the gym without someone keeping me on track, my form is probably so crappy now."

"Really?"

"Getting up in the morning is difficult if I'm honest, I wake up at, like, 3pm most days. Funny how that's like, what, 6pm for you? I dunno though, I feel like I work better with someone standing over me. Like, I was sayin' to my dad that you'd be all like 'you can sleep when you're dead' and shit, and he was like 'well this Clav guy shouldn't be the reason you're getting up or not.'"

"Heh heh."

"Nah, but like, how are you?"

"Yeah, I'm doing good. What ever happened to that girl? What was her name?"

"Who?"

"That girl from the club a few weeks back, when you were here? You two tongued each other like fuckin' animals, don't act like you don't know who I'm talking about, Demir."

"Oh, Josie?"

"Yeah, yeah, Josie. Whatever happened to that?"

"Yeah, no, she actually got a boyfriend, like, midway through our talking stage. Posted up on her story with some 6 '2 chadlite."

"Ah, okay. You didn't tell me that. Weird bitch. Perfect for you though. Yeah, you gotta learn how to keep them sweet, Cookie, or they'll trade you in for the higher specs model."

"Your girl is loyal until Clav walks in, huh?"

"That was your girl bro!? My bad, my bad G."

"Tsk, shut up."

"You're not actually upset about her."

"Well, yeah, kinda."

"Demir, man, stand up."

"Yeah ok, I know. It's just like, I'm not like you, man. I feel things more than I'd like to. I wanna have a girl, bro. I'm not tryin' to pump and dump eternally the way you do. I want to have an actual girlfriend who I could care abou—"

"---who says I don't care?"

"I just mean it's like nothing affects you."

"I don't announce everything I feel and think."

"Yeah, nah, I mean that's a good thing though, right? You're just really, like, analytical or something. Like, your head is clearer."

"Analytical."

"Yeah. I didn't mean anything by it."

"I know."

'Are you mad?"

"Don't ask another man if he's mad, Cookie. So what if he's mad? If he wants you to know, you'll know. I'm fine, Cookie, I'm not mad at you."

"Bet."

"So you're depressed again."

"Um, yeah, I think. It got kinda bad when I got home. I think it's my diet. I've sort of slipped slightly and I think the crap is getting to my head, like the food dyes and shit? I ate two packets of ramen for dinner yesterday and then, when I read the back of the packet, I was kinda freaking out cuz of all the added shit. Like, I really shouldn't be eating this."

"All that diet shit is cope, Cookie. You're depressed because you have neurotransmitter imbalances and your dad was never hard on you as a child, ok?"

"The food stuff doesn't help though! I was up till, like, 3am the other night reading about how some food dyes are linked to behavioral issues and can damage your DNA. That shit is real man, it's all from studies. I saw it on PubMed. "

"Look, suit yourself, but I'm telling you, a packet of ramen now and then, or a monster at the gym, is so far from your issue, Demir. I assure you, they're not responsible."

"It was two packets. They're, like, 400 calories each. Plus sodium phosphate, palm oil, 4 grams of salt. You can't tell me it doesn't contribute."

"Then don't eat it. Did you have a chance to talk with your doctor yet?"

"Yeah... He was asking me where all this was coming from, about getting off the SSRIs and shit."

"And what did you say?"

"Like you had said, just that I feel as though they are interfering with my hormones... he thought I should stay on them."

"Well of course he does, Cookie. That's his job. These guys are salesmen, ok? They sell you pills that make you sicker, to sell you pills to fix that sickness, only to sell you more pills cuz those ones made you sicker again."

"I mean, he had his reasons to put me on them."

"How old were you when you were prescribed?"

"About 17 or 18 I think."

"Ok, so think of who you were back then. Completely lost, bipolar as fuck and about 50 pounds heavier than you are now. That's the version of Demir that he saw when he gave you those, but that's not who you are anymore, is it?"

"I mean, I guess not, no. I don't know that I'm happier now though, Clav."

"What have they done for you, Cookie, because if they've not made you happier, then why are you still taking them?"

"Cuz they, like, I mean I don't get as worked up as I used to. But they can sort of make me feel disconnected, like a supporting character in my own life or something."

"The over-prescription of Americans was the worst thing to ever happen to our society. Reliance on artificial stability. Come a certain point, you need to rely on your own regulation. Of course, they'll sell you on the superiority of the drugs that only they sell, right? That's the real tragedy. Demir, you still there?"

"Yeah, man, I'm here."

"Chemical straight jackets, Demir, neurological warfare."

"Mhm"

"They want you docile, stagnant, all of it. That's why they push this fuckin' soy based, libtard, mega-cucked bullshit agenda. 'Course there's a place for medical enhancement. I'm not anti-science, obviously. But they don't want you to hack the system. Amphetamines, steroids and shit? They don't change you fundamentally, they amplify what you already have. The next generation of humanity will be constructed, democratised. No more genetic lottery. Designer babies, purged of disabilities, only the smartest, strongest. Transhumanist, hyperreal. There's a gold rush, Cookie. We are the pioneers. That crap that they peddle? Its sole purpose is to smooth your edges, flatten you. I don't want to tell you what to do. I'm just letting you know how I see it."

"Yeah, I know. I just, like...."

"Like what?"

"I dunno man, it's just, I've been on them for so long now, it's like I'm afraid of who I am without them."

"Do you not hear how that sounds?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's bad, I know."

"Well if you know it's bad, why are you hesitant? You know I don't tell people to do things, Cookie. Why should anyone be afraid of their nature? You think I'd have got anywhere if that had been me? Yeah sure, I moped as a teen. That's what you do when you're a teenager. But when you're a man, Cookie, when you're a man, you stop moping, you stop living in fear, letting your mom and big pharma and fuckin' Reddit tell you how to feel about yourself. Ok? You there?"

"Mhm"

"So then say something, I can't see what you're thinking over the fuckin' phone."

"Ok, Jesus..."

"Stop it Demir. I didn't mean it like that."

"Ok."

"Right."

"I don't even know how to get off them, cuz from the conversation I had with him, I don't think my doctor is gonna, like, help me or anything."

"You can ask me, Demir."

"Tsk, don't be a dick."

"Always ask for what you want plainly. Don't beat around the bush.  Attitude is everything. Now, I'm gonna have to take a few days to do some research, but I'll text you a rough outline on how we're gonna taper when I've worked it out, and we can adjust it if needed when you come out to Miami, ok?"

"I don't want to put that burden on you though."

"Who would I be without weight on my back."

"I'm so tired man, I think I gotta call it a night."

"Yeah sure. Night, Cookie."

"See you, bro."

[lowteirmolecule]

CLAVICULAR (Braden) x COOKIE KING (Demir) part 4 see my page for previous

“Mami you remind me of something, but I don’t know what it is —”

“Mami you remind me of something, but I don’t know what it is —”

Braden squinted his eyes and pouted his lips at the camera, flirting with himself through the screen of his iPhone 17. Hitting stop on the TikTok record button, he exhaled heavily through his nostrils and his face resumed its previous agitated expression. Something was off. He rewatched what he’d recorded.

“Mami you remind me of something, but I don’t know what it is —”

Good neutral lighting, suntanned skin, hair coiffed precisely, teeth freshly bleached. Maybe he’d gone a little hard with the eyebrow pencil? No, that wasn’t it, he needed that for angularity. Maybe the wall was a bad colour, did the white wash him out? No, high contrast makes the skin look tanner.

“Mami you remind me of something, but I don’t know what it is —”

He looked closer. Was the chain tacky? Of course. But it was tongue-in-cheek, it was ironic, it’s meta. That definitely wasn’t it.

“Mami you remind me —”

The shirt was too tight. Tearing his eyes away from the phone, he looked at his outstretched wrist. The sleeve cuff sat too high on his forearm. Shifting attention, he flipped the bottom of the shirt to read the tag. Hollister, Men’s Small. This was Demir's shirt. A fist banged on the door, punctuating the moment before he had the chance to form an internal reaction.

“Clav, I need to piss, let’s GO! You shit yourself or what?”

Fuck, he forgot Demir was here. How long had he been recording? With one quick stride he clicked back the lock and opened the door. Demir stood in the door frame, face to face.

“Jesus, I thought you fell in,” he cast his gaze downwards to the cheap cloth that clad Braden’s chest, “Is that my shirt?”

“Is it?”

Braden would never have admitted it, but his first summation of Demir had been that he needed to lower his expectations for ascension. Cruel, he knew it. That’s why he hadn’t said it. Weight loss, new wardrobe, maybe a few pointers on body language and a different haircut would all be an improvement. There was structure underneath the flab, he could tell. But the way Demir had spoken about what he dreamed was possible, what Braden could do for him? Frankly, he had dictated internally that Demir needed to be realistic about his maximum potential. Honestly, the promise of making content with a low tier normie, that had been the real draw. Braden was pitiless, the cruelty had never stopped him from relaying stabbing honesty before. But Braden had fallen victim to Demir, someone he could recognise himself in without confronting what that revealed, who he could feel close to without ever surrendering his distance, and Demir had made the unwise decision to let Braden impress him.

Looming behind Demir, he watched them both in the large bathroom mirror. Demir stood tentatively. He placed two fingers between Demir’s shoulder blades, pressing lightly until his posture straightened. He then placed his hands on Demir’s shoulders, pulling them back to align him. Demir moved accordingly. The gratification was instant, correcting someone and watching them fall into place. Braden found Demir’s responsiveness difficult not to appreciate, a quiet order that soothed his busy mind. Moving now to face his protégé, he tucked Demir’s floppy bangs out of his face. He traced his fingers over his jaw, measuring his mandible and gonial angle with his hands. He abruptly pinched Demir’s cheek and watched him wince. Demir’s skin lacked firmness, the tautness that Braden chased. The last gatherings of fat in his cheeks persisted, clinging unwaveringly to Demir’s face. Braden looked down at his jutting collarbones, then back to his face, today lacking the same definition. Water retention. The puffy appearance irked him. He rubbed Demir’s skin till it stung red, trying to mold his flesh into compliance.

“You’re bloated. What have you been eating?”

“Just what you told me to.”

“Well, your weight has plateaued for 3 weeks.”

Braden placed one hand on Demir’s sternum and the other on his back. He felt his body fill with breath, then exhale with a shallow sigh. He seemed nervous.

“You can lose 7 more pounds,” he concluded, “show me your teeth.”

Demir opened his mouth and exposed his teeth. Clenched and jagged, they had a natural structure, stained yellow, devaluing his face. Was he not using the cream he’d given him? Braden poked at his gums. A small pearl of blood dripped from the tissue. Braden swept it away with his finger. He deduced observationally the consequences of Demir’s urgency.

Now Demir began to take the shape of something people noticed. They were out on the town, streaming. Miami’s bustling streets hummed with Latin music and drunken conversation. Braden gulped down liquid assurance while Demir spoke buoyantly to the digital audience about driving Braden’s new car and the club they were about to dive into. They shimmied their way past bystanders and ushered themselves inside. For a moment Braden saw nothing, darkness blinding him. Then slowly shapes and colour pierced through as his eyes began to adjust. The crowd rolled in ceaseless convolutions, flashing red, blue and purple as the strobes flitted through colours that shone on their skin. Demir had disappeared, but adrenaline fuelled and restless, Braden heard him yelling out lyrics to XO Tour Llif3 along with the masses, and he snorted at the childish sincerity, knowing now that he was close by. When Demir re-entered his vision, a young woman with blonde blow out hair and perky tits had materialised beside him. Demir engaged her, and Breden watched her laugh and make eyes at him while Demir danced in a caricature manner. Braden directed the cameraman towards this sight, and stood behind to watch through the screen without commentary the two bob in and out of frame. She squeezed Demir’s arm to steady herself as the crowd swayed, bumping the two closer. Desire gripped them both at once, and could be felt washing through the camera. She leaned forward and held the nape of his neck to kiss him, and Demir’s hesitance melted away to meet her there.

When the two had first met, Demir disclosed prematurely to Braden his tribulations with the female sex. Tipsy and unthinking, he had lamented to Braden about his chronic virginity and the stubborn indifference women expressed towards him. Braden had lent an empathetic ear, and Demir had seemed relieved to discover his overbearing honesty had not scared him off. Braden set Demir up with a young lady whose loyalties lay more with himself than any desire for the man she was meeting. Demir had called Braden up that night and relayed to him the events of his maiden encounter. Demir had charmed her, wooed her, fucked her according to Braden’s precise advice. Of course he had, Braden had manufactured a home run. He had heard Demir’s anticipatory pauses over the phone, waiting for parts of the story to land. His voice had been a raspy whisper, hushed as to not disturb his sleeping company. Repeating her praises and whimpers, Demir had described the act as if it were foreign to Braden. For a moment Braden had become aware of his own body. Demir had wanted him to know more than he had wanted it. Braden saw Demir as a product of his design, somewhat an appendage by way of intellectual property, and so had included Demir’s budding sexuality as an extension of his own. He had been frigid and celibate, sexually frustrated, but through Braden’s authorship, Demir had ripened into an object of carnal ardour. Once they hung up, Braden had rolled over in his bed. Could Demir tell it was Braden she wanted? He had pondered the effect that may have had on Demir’s experience. He dismissed the thought immediately. Perhaps he should have felt shame.

Now at the club, Braden watched the way the light danced on the gleaming skin of the two faces in front of him, flickering in and out of vision as the horde stirred and churned. Demir slid his hand down to the small of her back and she caressed his chest, mouths open and voracious. When he broke away, Demir spoke inaudibly into her ear, then pulled back a little to read her reaction. His face had formed that imploring look. She giggled coyly. As per Demir’s responsive nature, his cheeks flushed and in seeking her approval, mirrored her expression of yearning. Braden noticed how he’d gripped her hips like he’d told him to.

So this was it, the point where people reacted to the transformation like they had discovered it, like they’d been there at the beginning. Archaeologists posturing alongside their spoils like they’d forged the lot themselves. Braden absorbed the sight, Demir rousing the intrigue previously exclusive to himself. Something he’d actualised, nurtured, sharpened, now moving through the world like it washed up on shore fully formed. Demir, naive and frivolous, acted now through the intrepidness her eyes were providing him, as though he were actually something impressive. Most people never examined their world or themselves long enough to come to any insightful conclusions. Demir, as dynamic and disarming as he was, was plagued by half efforts, and frustratingly, seemed to be unaware of the full extent of this quality. Demir’s vision would wander to things that were lenient, he lived for convenience, he detested challenges. Now his eyes were all over her, eager to satisfy and she responded reciprocatorily. That obliging look written on his agreeable little face, a trace replicate of his willing, dutiful advance the night when Braden misjudged his dosage. Demir had looked at him, and examined him, and had stirred in Braden his poppy bruise; that a curtain had torn that night that may never be repaired. The blonde pulled Demir by the belt out of Braden’s view, stroking his cheek. In a breathy voice, she surely gushed over him. He was entranced. She was easy. You let someone impress you, they'll have you believe anything. Braden patiently awaited Demir to lock eyes with him. Demir didn’t look back.

Braden revved the engine of this rented BMW X7 down the quiet suburban roads of the palm-lined cul-de-sac where Demir was staying. He was flying home to California tomorrow evening. Braden hadn’t asked him how long he’d be gone. He knew that distance had a way of loosening habits, and time made it difficult to return to sources of discomfort. Braden was hard on him, yes. But he never asked him to do anything he wouldn’t do himself. He imagined Demir’s parents. Mr. Basceri, passive and domesticated, would have his new girlfriend tell Demir vaguely that his father was proud of him and concerned for him, and Demir would be none the wiser on which was true and why. Demir’s delicate mother would cry at the sight of him, remind him that he’d nothing to prove and try to reconcile this visitor she saw before her with her son that had left her 4 months ago. Demir, stricken by the comfort of familiarity and Braden’s contrast highlighted by their separation, would let the bliss swallow him like the sheets on his old childhood bed, warm and painless. But still, Braden had learned Demir wouldn’t dare look at himself without a clear voice in his head to ease his worries and help him to compartmentalise them. No one had ever believed in Demir the way Braden had, no one had ever truly invested in him, it was completely reasonable to expect he would do him the fucking decency of develivering on consistancy.

As they pulled up to the rented condo, Braden turned off the engine and the pair sat motionless for a moment. Demir smiled at his phone, texting her. He ran his hand through his own dark hair. Braden studied him for a moment longer. Demir’s face now registered stillness. He looked at Braden. His eyes were clear, he’d always look right at you. Braden didn’t ruminate on it any longer. Demir would always feel the draw back to the place that had first shown him what he was worth. Braden reached out and gave Demir’s back one firm pat, then unbunched the back of his collar, which was about as fond as his emotionally stunted attributes would allow for at this moment. Demir laughed dotingly, smiled back reverently and returned the gesture. Braden heard that little rasp in Demir’s voice. He left the car wordlessly, uncharacteristically, perhaps to content him. They both accepted there was nothing that needed to be said.

Braden’s apartment was chilled, drafty. His refrigerator buzzed its mechanical rhythm. A pipe in the ceiling chittered above him. The lamp he’d left on mistakenly expelled its yellow glow. He felt the clammy sensation of sweat on his back. The urge to chemically release itched. Moving to his bedroom, he leaned on his desk to root through its drawers, when his eye was caught. Black cotton acrylic blend draped over his desk chair. He flattened the creased collar, re-buttoned the left cuff. Hollister, Men’s Small.

[lowteirmolecule]

PART 3 Cookie King x Clavicular (Demir/Braden)

See my page for the other parts

Demir’s calloused hands trembled. Arms extended, he held his body upright over the sink. His inky hair hung damp, glued to his forehead. His heart beat rapidly. His breath hitched. A thick white bar of light above him made the stone countertop gleam brighter than his eyes could tolerate. The door to the Men’s room swung open, jolting Demir to attention, and whipping his head to meet who entered, he straightened his spine. An older man sauntered in carefree, and when faced with a flushed Demir standing alert, looked at him puzzled.

“You alright, son?”

Demir’s voice came out unintentionally muted, that film of mucus wrapped around his larynx dulled the tenor. He cleared the rasp in his throat.

“Uh, yeah – rough workout,” he half laughed.

The man chuckled and continued to the changing room door behind Demir.

“Good man.”

Embarrassed, Demir scuttled out of the toilets, trying to fight his body to regain composure. Down the corridor, through the small glass window in the door, Demir caught fleeting glimpses of Braden in the mirrored wall. He’d move in and out of frame, his lips annunciating instructions. No words were legible on this side of the partition, just an angular jaw moving with the suave assertions of the mouth. His frame was a strong shape against bare walls. The camera orbited his movements while he curled dumbbells and handled machinery. His chin fixed high in triumph, like he was the first to do this, and the only who ever could.

Demir felt his head rush. Disoriented, he meandered his way through the back door, around the side and into the parking lot. The retreating sun smeared the sky with shades of orange. He steadied himself against the wall beside the bins. Lowering his body to the concrete, he adjusted his position. There was less margin between bone and pavement now. Insects murmured in the hedges across from where he rested. His shorts were plastered to his thighs with sweat, his t-shirt humid under his armpits. His shadow stretched long, dragged by the dying summer's day.

He was starting to look like someone who belonged in Braden’s world. Demir delighted at the full control he was gaining over his body, the war he was winning with it. The empty feeling in his stomach served as a reminder of its cost. Compliments came with a flicker of pride so strong it was almost mortifying. Part of that satisfaction came from the uphill battle, the pain and effort it took to achieve and maintain. He wasn’t meant to feel comfortable. Had that been meant for him, he’d have been born harder, disciplined, devoid of hesitance; a handsome face foreign to the need to grapple with your own reflection, to fight it or to make your peace with it.

Ugly is ontological, it is innate. Ugly is being looked at and becoming conscious of your twiddling chubby fingers and the pocket of fat deposited under your chin. Ugly is candy stuck in your teeth, door dash, chocolate for your birthday because they wouldn’t know what else to get you. Ugly is wanting to change then continuing anyways, lowering your gaze as you pass by reflections on store window fronts, it’s the rash between your thighs as your jeans chaff your skin. Ugly is unglamorous. It’s the gap between who you thought you were and who everyone else reacts to. It’s the look on your face when it dawns on you you might not welcome, when you realise they might be laughing at you. Ugly is driving home alone, knowing you shouldn’t have said that, wishing you had said that, it’s always texting first. It's the weight of their words, knowing nothing you’ve ever said has ever meant this much, knowing you couldn’t hurt them back if you tried, if you wanted to. It's wanting in a room of people who don’t need. It’s yearning to feel seen, while doing everything in your power to hide. 

He knew the number was low. He checked the BMI calculator twice before he closed the tab, before it had the chance to infiltrate his thoughts. His body was stubbornly clinging to the last accumulations of fat that softened his stomach. He imagined clipping off little pieces. It looked lethargic, emasculating. But his face had hollowed to allow something mature and striking. Now he worked to unravel and build back anew the person he’d been convinced he was. That sorry inversion of himself that still tried to shrink whilst taking up space was dying. Yet a sadness burdened him watching back archived Instagram stories, a capsule of a time when the air felt lighter and his face was full and curved with laughter. Giggles combusting into uncontrollable howling at incoherent jokes told at the back of a high school calculus class, pandemic all nighters, playing games and making crappy videos, knowing tomorrow was fresh faced and free from the responsibilities that were inevitable. Youth was when the insecurity hadn’t learned its language yet, hadn’t morphed to fill his shape or consume his nights. Back when it was a quiet conviction that only appeared when he was alone long enough to listen. His chest would tighten, knowing that the door to those salad days was shut, that those untroubled moments were infrequent now, and that if he were to go back, he’d no longer slot neatly into those carefree afternoons that lived now in memory, that he’d out-grown them.

Demir poked his head around the corner of the wall. Whether Braden had noticed his absence or not, he hadn’t come looking for him yet. Demir’s pace was evening out, and he sighed with relief as he snuck a hit of his cherry vape, away from Braden’s disfavour. With clarity in his mind, his thoughts resumed raking over the events of last night that had plagued him since they occurred. On stream, Braden had reiterated his mantra to chat, that most people retreat when uncomfortable. He had signed off, then chatted to Demir informally about meeting up to resume training. Braden teased Demir’s uncoordinated lifts and Demir mocked Braden’s stiff treadmill jog. Demir heard aloud the conversation of the two men they were now, making fun of ordinary things, not the brooding of the men they were trying to project to the world. Braden, talking brazenly all the while, had sifted through the contents of his desk drawer and produced a bag of substance unfamiliar to Demir and a packaged syringe. The sight had made Demir’s stomach twist before he pushed the reaction down before it had a chance to register on his face. It looked wrong in Braden’s hands, too clinical for the casual way he handled it. Instead he had laughed at the absurdity. Braden had laughed too. 

Under the lamp, his face had been lit dimly. Braden, dauntless as always, had measured out the contents systematically. He jabbed the needle into a tense vein of his forearm and looked up to make sure Demir was watching. Demir never protested, never stopped him out of sheer curiosity. Novelty had compelled him as it would Braden’s audience to delight in his hedonistic car-crash antics before looking away in shame when faced with his complacency in this sybaritic madness. Demir, like any young man, was not immune to the virility and opulence of the life that Braden sold, the rhetoric he embodied; that there is a virtue in self-destruction in the chase of perfection, that there’s martyrdom in sacrificing longevity in exchange for man-made, undeserved beauty. That the anger and resentment for what God refused to gift you should be channeled, that all any nihilistic 20-something should be expected to do is dedicate his mind and body to the pursuit of a spiritual accelerationist ideal, where you must destroy everything previous to transcend your limitations. Braden lived to dominate. Braden wanted to ruin someone. He’d started with himself. 

Within the hour, Braden’s eyes had rolled round in his head like he was physically looking for what to say. His jaw slacked, his face had been eerily relaxed. He didn’t speak. The tension that kept his eyes intense had dissolved. Soft hazel curls had wafted over his forehead, framing his face. Demir saw who he was. Braden was power. To be in his proximity was to be pulled to attention, to satellite. He had watched his eyes look up at him. Braden’s performance and curation absent, had left in its place a vacancy. His certainty had liquified all at once, that power that seemed to hold the room together slipped out like breath. Pupils dilated wide, black, helpless. Demir had seen in them his own sallow reflection, disquieting, like a mirror returning a gesture you hadn’t made. Deception had roused within Demir. Here was that defenseless little boy that fought for others not to look too closely. He witnessed Braden’s marble ego unfold to reveal the same sensitive instinct that nourished his own desire to shrink. Demir had always worked to model his movements after Braden. His imitation was futile, but the borrowed valor still looked and felt like a skin of self-assurance. Now he had felt uneasy, like he was trying to react to something his brain refused to recognise, but his body instinctively understood. Braden had turned his hand upward to expose his palm. He had uncurled his fingers, extended them to Demir. Demir had tilted his head, tending to his expression, looking for direction in this young face. The slightest hike in his eyebrows could shoot Demir back into his body, bringing to the front of his mind his own shallow breaths and anxious posture. Braden’s chest rose and fell with breath. His face was still, his eyes said please.

Then he pulled them away. Braden, aware now of how much had been revealed, retracted his fingers and darted his eyes away, as if the moment could be erased by simply refusing to meet it. He groaned and slurred.

“Don’t.”

Demir was snapped back into the present at the bang of the exit door slammed shut followed by a familiar pace. Braden ambled over to where he thought he’d find Demir, hunched by the bins, huffing vapour.

“Why the fuck are you out here? I had to hold it down myself back there.”

“Yo I thought you were trying to kill me! I figured if I fainted on stream it would probably ruin the whole ‘strength and durability’ thing.”

“Nah. Would’ve been good content.”

They still hadn’t addressed it. Demir had slunk out silently that night at Braden’s request after watching himself puke himself back into sobriety. Demir had frozen when he saw it. He had watched Braden’s hand quiver wiping residue from his lips. His face had drained of colour. Braden had faltered too, looking at Demir as if, had he not been looking at this very moment, perhaps he could cover this up. A little more lucid, he had swatted at Demir’s obliging advance, and repeated forcefully, “I’m fine. I’m fine.” He had been angry. Why was he always fucking angry.

The evening had grown cooler now. The soft haze of cloud that had hung peeled away to a dark sky. Heat still permeated in the tar beneath. Demir didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to name it aloud. The silence killed him. He masked his fret with an off-handed delivery.

“Are we good?”

He looked up at Braden’s secure profile, outlined by hazy evening glow. Inherited features marked a lineage in the valleys and pores on an earned, chemically altered face, of which would never map out that descendancy the way its mother’s and father’s had. Faces bend and wither, reflecting the still and tumultuous with an impartial sufferance. Braden’s face was one of a vigorous adolescent, cast over with a beautiful, solid gauze. It would stay beautiful forever. It was permanence. He’d remember that, he knew that, he saw that now. He wouldn’t betray him again. Demir saw that cautious face constructing a measured response. 

“Concrete.”

They both watched distant traffic.

“Bet, bet.”

[lowteirmolecule]

Clavicular x Cookie King (Braden/Demir)

Part 2.5 see my page for part 1 + 2 - same user on Wattpad

"No, no I'm serious! Ok sure, your eye distance ratio is less than ideal, but your canthal tilt is lethal and you've got great volume in your orbital eyelid fat. Itachi lines are an issue. But dark eyebrows, thick eyelashes — it's a great look. More than compensates."

He had tipped his glass towards Demir, and gestured to his soft body with his free fingers.

"This is sub-optimal, but you know that. And more importantly —," Braden had took a long swig from his drink, swallowed hard, then clicked his tongue, "you know it's got to fuckin' change. What's your name again?"

Eye caught, Braden had mouthed out a greeting to a hidden face across a deck jolted to life by young bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. The chatter had been loud enough to drown out thoughts. He had shifted attention back, he had continued.

"Demir? Yeah, okay Demir, I'm an opportunist, find anyone who'll disagree. You can't. I don't refute that. But I'm a strategic investor. You think I'd be over here entertaining this if I thought you were some kind of sub-human? No hope."

His free hand had rooted around in the pockets of his chinos, fished out his Newports.

"You don't smoke, do you? It's filthy. I'm trying to quit. Bad breath, makes your teeth yellow. Speeds up your metabolism, sure, but it's a classless habit."

He had pushed his glass into Demir's clutch. A cigarette hung limp between his lips. Sheltered by Braden's broad hands, it had jumped to life with the lighter at the end, an ashy smoke plume inhaled deep into his lungs.

"Look, you're not 'stuck'. That's self pity bullshit. I don't deal in that, I've no tolerance for it. You're undisciplined, but that's fixable. You were right to come to me, you know. I've spent more time on this shit than anyone else here has. I'm not guessing, okay? But you've got to try, no half-assing this. I've no time for weak effort. I'll expect results, alright?"

He had leaned in a little and lowered his voice.

"Yeah okay, I'd be making content out of it, but think of the exposure you'd be getting. The increase in value. People would take you seriously. This whole thing wouldn't be exploitative."

A heavy drag. A cloud of sour fumes had exhaled from his nostrils. A benevolent smile flaunted symmetrical teeth.

"It's symbiotic."

[geekengine]

[lowteirmolecule]

Cookie King (Demir) x Clavicular (Braden) part 2

See my page for part 1

Music still thumped in head and the sticky residue of the glazed floors coated his shoe soles. The smell of cigarettes, cologne and body odor clung to his clothes and stuck to his skin. His hands vibrated from the exhilaration, the adrenaline still seeping through him. Christ, what had he taken? MDMA, PCP? His eyes and tongue were dry. BPZ? Was he going to heave? His stomach was vacant of food, instead a cocktail of Redbull, Hennessy and whatever pills he’d ingested sloshed around in its place. How long had he been driving? He left the club at 2.20. Or maybe 2.45. Oh, who gives a fuck, he thought, bed at 6.30, up at 10, cold brew 0 calories, shower, shave, 40mg Ritalin. Besides, the alcohol had induced a sickly sweet buzz that soothed any lingering worries.

He’d spent his earlier hours at a humid Miami club, off stream, with a few companions from the looksmaxing scene. Braden had eagerly snatched up the invitation when he learned that they’d be using the night as an opportunity to connect with a lucrative supplement brand. Braden, who’d been making waves in both the online world and connections in Miami’s thriving business sector, was a shoe-in for sponsorship. Cookie and himself had been using one of their peptides to aid fat loss. A table was booked at an exclusive downtown club that was infamous for turning less than attractive individuals away at the door. Cookie had arrived late that night after a tiff with the bouncer about his name not being on the table reservation. Meanwhile, Braden laughed vacuously at group banter, completely disengaged from it, arm under the table with phone in his hand, iMessage.

Braden: where the fuck are you??

Once Cookie bartered his way inside, Braden caught a glimpse of his vexed expression scanning the crowd for his usual group. He wore low-grade cotton-blend jeans and a tacky polyester hoodie. Braden had bought him a Ralph Lauren polo shirt a week ago, absent tonight. Cookie’s face brightened with recognition at the sight of familiar faces. He bounded over, masking his novelty with a nonchalant guise, and the group playfully applauded his fashionably late arrival. Grinning now, Cookie joined their table. He threw Diet Coke and Smirnoff down his throat and lamented about his trials at the door. It had been Braden’s fault. He’d forgotten that “Cookie’s” driver’s license said “Demir”.

Damn it. Was that light red or green? The intersection was quiet enough to storm through either way. LED lamps stood alert, lining each side of the street he’d turned onto. Now in the depths of the city, the reflection of Braden’s car flickered on the parallel windows. His phone alerted. He craned his head to read the messages.

Cookie: ate yiu pisssed offd at me

***you

**offf

Braden tipped his phone off the dashboard with one quick sweep. It tumbled down to his feet, screen down. His forehead creased and lips tightened with temper.

Cookie was company, good company to Braden. He was lighthearted, sincerely funny. He spoke without the filtration that Braden relied on, and formed attachments in a way Braden couldn’t replicate. Cookie’s way of making himself familiar to strangers is what had made Braden notice him, what had introduced them both. Within his volatility, he could clock momentarily in Cookie of something familiar to himself. There were parts of the turmoil Cookie carried that Braden knew as something he’d long since compressed. But on occasion, a wave of contempt would wash over Braden in Cookie’s presence. His delay grated him. His lack of intuition. He wanted a strength that chooses him, not a weakness that relies on.

Other times, Braden revelled in Cookie’s sycophantic tendencies. He would watch Cookie watch him eating. Cookie’s face had leaned out lately, revealing strong masculine features, almost handsome. His chin would speckle with stubble above a tall albeit bony, under developed frame. Body recomposition, he thought, weight training would do him good. Cookie was older and lacked the inhibition that often compelled Braden to retreat into silence. He had a social attitude and a wiring that made him candid and unrefined.

Braden didn’t believe in coercion. Cookie came to him for a remedy and if he followed through on Braden’s advice, it was because the logic held. He complied thoroughly. Why? Braden pondered, he mustn’t trust himself. He’d crafted Cookie a meticulous diet and exercise plan, detailing precisely down to the hour what he would eat and when. He reckoned Cookie would slip. Truthfully, he had no faith in his discipline. Then he monitored his 50 pound weight loss in four weeks. Calorie restriction, protein intake, hunger suppressants. Now he didn’t have to beat it into his head anymore, he just did it. Despite being enthralled by this obedience, it both unsettled him and left the faintest taste of anger at how a man could move through the world without an internal anchor. Still, Braden liked being watched. He liked being watched by Cookie. All Cookie could see was him.

Without regard, Cookie had nursed a bottle of rum and relaxed into the couch cushions. Braden, wound tight, tapped the floor with his foot under the table. The rep was late. Braden had stopped looking at the door. He’d learned early that anticipation read poorly on his face. Cookie chattered cathartically with a friend of Braden’s.

“Imagine if they don’t show,” Cookie chortled, “Brutal.”

This had landed with more weight than Cookie may have anticipated. The friend huffed a half laugh.

“They confirmed,” Braden assured the group. He spoke too sharply. His eyes fixed on Cookie.

“Right,” Cookie nodded, grinning slightly. “Just don’t freak out before they even get here.”

Someone snorted. Braden felt a sharp heat rise on the back of his neck.

“Ease up,” he mumbled, quietly, just to Cookie. He smoothed a crease on his own shirt that wasn’t there.

The group had resumed their trivial conversation on sexual conquests and crypto ETF trading. Cookie now seemed to grow aware of the thin atmosphere that had formed between Braden and himself. He shifted his weight in the soft chair, subtly closer to Braden, as if this small alignment might steady the air. Braden let him. But he wouldn’t look at him.

“What the fuck was that?,” Braden hissed as Cookie, in tow, followed him to the Men’s room. “Did you think that was charming?”

“It’s just, like — I was just messing” he contested, then quieter when he read the gravity on Braden’s face, “I don’t think it was a big deal,” Cookie reasoned.

“You are going to make us look like retards,” Braden snarled back, looking past him, scouring their environment.

The bathroom was empty. The club bumped and brimmed outside, muffled by brick and plaster. The music hit in pulses, the bass more pressure than sound. Braden’s temples twinged acutely. He lingered. Braden knew that one day, he’d look in Demir’s dark opalite eyes and see that something cavernous and intangible had solidified. Stony-faced, he licked his own two fingers and clinically attempted to straighten Cookie’s eyebrows. He gave up instantly. With a frustrated exhale, he tugged at Cookie’s hoodie with a balled fist and disapproval splashed across his face involuntarily. He paused. Then composing himself within an instant, he strode out of the icy silence, through the main floor and back to the table.

Braden knew something inside him reeked. Foul, repulsive, it tainted his veins and settled heavy in his stomach. He measured himself against the world’s perception of him; vain, ignorant, riddled with an all consuming, calculating hubris. Even alone, he’d imagine the framing of a 16:9 aspect ratio. He boiled his brain with steroids and meth. The stench stuck to his veneers. Deeper still, something putrid refused to wash away with L’Occitane shower gel and laser skin peels. Everyone could smell it, syrupy, rotten and synthetic. Truly, desperately ugly. Demir never leaned back from that.

Now all of Miami laid out in front of him on the wide open road. Braden brought the clutch to biting point, accelerated. Clutch, gear, accelerate. Artificial bliss engulfed his senses. This city could swallow any young upstart whole in a moment, thrash him around, and spit him back out. Braden waded through its muddy waters, marching ever forward, fighting the current. Everyone needs an anchor.

[lowteirmolecule]

Clavicular x Cookie King (Braden/Demir)

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.

*******

See page for ch2