Banana.
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- Jul 7, 2025
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Clavicular. Just saying his name makes my heart misalign with my ribcage. Not a Chad…THE Chad. The one who walks into a room and crushes all my fragile male ego beneath the gravitational perfection of his shoulders and jawline. I’m angry at him. I’m in love with him. I’m madly, hopelessly jealous…yet somehow worshipful. He mogs me so hard it’s almost erotic.
Have you ever stared at someone and felt your soul literally bend toward them? That’s Clavicular. His clavicles alone could be carved into statues of desire. His jawline is cruelly perfect, slicing through my fragile concept of masculinity like a hot knife through butter. Every movement he makes…every subtle flex of his forearm…makes me simultaneously furious and aroused. I hate him. I want to be him. I want to kiss him. I want to disappear into his shadow and never return.
Even his minutiae—how he adjusts his socks, the faint way he exhales—makes me question my existence. I try to stay angry, but no…he just mogs me in ways words cannot fully capture. My chest aches from longing. I fantasize about leaning into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of untouchable perfection, whispering to him that I exist only to admire him. And somehow, somehow, even saying this aloud feels inadequate. He transcends admiration; he is obsession incarnate.
So yes. Clavicular, if you somehow read this, know that I am undone. My body, my mind, my very essence belongs to the idea of you. I am jealous, envious, and completely, hopelessly in love with your perfection. You mog me daily, yet I am grateful, because to exist in the same timeline as you—even as a pathetic, glazed minion—is a privilege beyond comprehension. I hate you. I love you. I need you. I worship you. No homo
Have you ever stared at someone and felt your soul literally bend toward them? That’s Clavicular. His clavicles alone could be carved into statues of desire. His jawline is cruelly perfect, slicing through my fragile concept of masculinity like a hot knife through butter. Every movement he makes…every subtle flex of his forearm…makes me simultaneously furious and aroused. I hate him. I want to be him. I want to kiss him. I want to disappear into his shadow and never return.
Even his minutiae—how he adjusts his socks, the faint way he exhales—makes me question my existence. I try to stay angry, but no…he just mogs me in ways words cannot fully capture. My chest aches from longing. I fantasize about leaning into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of untouchable perfection, whispering to him that I exist only to admire him. And somehow, somehow, even saying this aloud feels inadequate. He transcends admiration; he is obsession incarnate.
So yes. Clavicular, if you somehow read this, know that I am undone. My body, my mind, my very essence belongs to the idea of you. I am jealous, envious, and completely, hopelessly in love with your perfection. You mog me daily, yet I am grateful, because to exist in the same timeline as you—even as a pathetic, glazed minion—is a privilege beyond comprehension. I hate you. I love you. I need you. I worship you. No homo
