eudio cuddlr / inbox (cw offensive language, toxic masculinity, edgelord deathy stuff)

[pillz]

INBOX

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feel free to put texts, audio, video, whatever IC communiques would go here.


CUDDLR

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JOSEPH KAVINSKY (18) want 2 see my dragon ;) cars (to race), dubstep, drinks, pussy, pyrotechnics. the cock may apply. dope is ok. go fast and leave no regrets. keep your sense of fucking humor. i like to entertain anything else u want i can get

JOSEPH KAVINSKY (19) who gives a fuck

JOSEPH KAVINSKY (20) dream thief, like the fingie tats say. single again. still a cunt. if u dont like how i talk, i can do other things. lovely singing voice. know my way around a gear shift & a sweet engine. fact of life: goin fast doesn't kill you, it's the sudden stop at the end & i do not fucking stop. this rate, im gonna live to be 100 yo fat balding, salads w beer 4 breakfast, covered in liverspotted wife. worse fuckin fates, baby

✓    ✕
YES
<span style="font-family: times; font-size:40px; color:#2EB82E;">✓</span>


NO
<span style="font-family: times; font-size:40px; color:#CC0000;">✕</span>

Comments

[pillz]

hmm
well if u mean i need 2 get shit on my dick thats a whole other conversation

wats up

[this reply comes a couple of hours later.]

[prettier]

Jesus, not deliberately.

Fuck or get fucked?

[pillz]

oh

ill fuck u
when
have you shat today is that something we need 2 talk about

[he's very good at this you have good taste]

[prettier]

[Unfortunately it's a bit of a particular situation this evening and Freddie's going to have to scroll on but. The brand of hideousness is almost appreciated.]

Hm, no. Not what I'm looking for tonight.

Call me on Wednesday, I won't eat.

[pillz]

aok

what the fuck were u looking for

[prettier]

[Something vicious and forgettable.]

Someone I can fuck through the bed. Maybe more than someone, haven't decided yet.

[pillz]

[it's a fractionally longer pause than it needs to be.]

might know a girl
not that you need help

[as amiable as kavinsky ever is.]

[prettier]

I don't do that with girls. It's fine, there's a club down the street.

[Sexist/chivalrous: slightly more complicated than that. And he really doesn't need the help.]

[pillz]

[there's an instant where kavinsky thinks about asking which club and what time. but it's only a thought, fleeting, skims off him without real impact.]

u want some x
u sound like u could use some x

[prettier]

...Actually, yeah. X, meph, poppers. Any of those. All, if you can get them.

[pillz]

can do the first 2
coke?

[prettier]

No, first two's fine. Where do I pick up?

[pillz]

you in one of those apartment complexes?
i can be in the parking lot in 20

[it doesn't take that long to get anywhere in eudio proper, but dream production takes a few minutes and he might need to pee.]

[prettier]

I've got a squat, near the beach. Do you know the pier?

[He lives in a massive fucking warehouse, Kavinkski, you might know the type. Except his isn't bought and paid for.]

[pillz]

[gross

but whatever pays.]

yeah ok
25

[prettier]

Fine by me.

[Not entirely fine, though. It's a wait he'd rather not endure: static rather than kinetic, while he's got energy to burn. In twenty five minutes he could be on his way back to his flat with a different kind of pick up for the night. That's still on the agenda, just delayed by however long it takes for Kavinsky to turn up with the finishing touches to what is, essentially, a process of dulling one feeling with an abundance of others, shallow but intense.

He makes the meeting point ten minutes early. By day the pier's not much more than a launching point for rich people to take watery day trips. By night it's a black gash in the landscape, the only strip of ocean where the light doesn't reflect. Freddie waits by the entryway, half caught in the pooled yellow haze of the last streetlight down this stretch of the sand. Dressed to court the unseasonal chill in nothing more substantial than jeans and a cotton tee, he lets his shivers drive into his heels, tapping up and down on them as he scans the streets for company.]

[pillz]

[headlights bounce off the sand and the gloom first, shocking over freddie's jeans. the car growls into view. big black mouth yawning in the front, bone-white otherwise. knife graffic spattered up on the side, vivid, racy contrast. he slides haphazardly across the median and then pulls up halfway onto the sand, spinning out a roostertail of off-white granules behind the tire. once the car lurches to a halt, the window buzzes down. kavinsky's inside, his dark hair hanging low over his eyes for once. he hadn't been planning on going out for another few hours himself; the cocaine break has completely thrown off his sleep schedule and he was bound for a nap.

but he's here. functional. t-shirt hanging loose off his shoulder, dark eyes squinting up at freddie in the dark.] Pay me later, [he says. his smile is sudden, bright, white. the inside of his car smells like cigarettes.] I'm not getting into shit if you blow a vein in your dick or your brain and fuckin' die.

[prettier]

[Kavinsky drives a car that looks like a shark, or the ghost of one still haunting the shore. It's strangely setting appropriate. Freddie stands stock still as the thing circles and slides - not as impassive as he'd like to be but that seems to be the theme of the night. It's a different kind of tension ticking in one corner of his jaw, not fear.

Only a real fucking moron runs someone over before they get paid.

Crossing to where the shark-car washed up, Freddie dips his knees and curls his fingers over the lowered glass of the dark eyehole Kavinsky's looking out of. There's no sign of where he's keeping his supply, and his proposal is frankly ridiculous ... but then so is Kavinsky, Freddie shouldn't expect more.]

I'm not dying. Tonight, anyway. And if I did, it would be entirely consensual.

[The way his voice lowers on the last two words make them sound indecent, and like a suggestion all at once.]

You haven't said what I'll owe you yet.

[pillz]

[kavinsky names a figure that is the eudian equivalent of thirty us dollars or so. it's a ridiculously small sum for the product, but kavinsky isn't used to needing money. the drugs themselves, kavinsky abruptly produces out of a hand, palm-down, reaching out into the chill autumn air.

it's a strange proposal. not one he would have made anywhere back home, but back home, law enforcement would have looked upon his various crimes— felony and misdemeanor— and would maybe take his car, try him as an adult, put some fugly tracker on his ankle for awhile, maybe, a minimal risk compared to the probability he could buy a lawyer good enough to win. in eudio, they could send him home.

the risk is also minimal. however tight the drug regulations are, consent is the reigning priority, and the government has demonstrated leniency. nonetheless: going home is a somewhat more serious prospect than all that. kavinsky takes it more seriously than one might expect. not enough to behave; enough to be marginally careful about liability and technicality, if not actual morality.

but there's no obvious anxiety in the gaunt face looking out at freddie. having named his figure, kavinsky leans his head on the back of his seat and smiles like a cat. the handful of merchandise hangs out the window.] Crack open the piggy bank by Wednesday, [he suggests.]

[prettier]

We'll see what's cracked open by Wednesday.

[A fuck's one thing - he may or may not go through with that little offer. This, he wants to be clearer on. Because the fee itself amounts to pennies, comparatively so that's not going to be an issue, though it makes Freddie suspicious of the exact make-up of the little bag he reaches up to tug from Kavinksy's fingers. His paranoia doesn't help matters. He is, in effect, a shitty salesman, and Freddie isn't desperate. There's always an elsewhere to go, especially here, where supply and demand isn't so much underground as simply looked away from.]

Look, I don't care if these are cut with talc, taking two to get the same hit's fine at that price. But if you're selling rat poison, everyone's going to know.

[Because he knows everyone. It's not so much a warning as a check, lips pressed together as he looks back at Kavinsky's sprawling smile, and down, wired muscle and the glinting curl of a chain round his neck. The trouble with dealers is you're never really looking for someone who screams trustworthy. Kavinsky's screaming something, though. At least he looks like he samples the product.]

[pillz]

[in reality, mephedrone isn't really kavinsky's thing, and ecstasy is so hit-or-miss it doesn't even fit squarely into that category for him. but he has perfect faith in his product, to the extent that he can't be bothered, really, at freddie questioning it.]

Don't take two, [he says.] Or fuck it. Do. Nobody ever died of a forty-eight-hour boner, and it makes no difference to me.

[apart from him getting into shit. his reputation is an interesting stake, as freddie lays out his threat, as such; but kavinsky has found himself caring about that less of late. he can only put on a good show, leaning his elbow on the window, the corners of his mouth rearing up in such-and-such a way that it looks like there ought to be a forked tongue tasting the air around freddie's escaping breath. his dismissal doesn't represent absolute indifference, however.

he'd like wednesday. and maybe that's why he adds, a form of generosity that might be less suspicious than the dubious monetary parameters set forth a moment ago,] I can take one with you or drive you to your queer club. Your pick. [option a and b aren't mutually exclusive; he just assumes freddie wouldn't want to be in a car operated by someone sinking (flying!) into x.]

[prettier]

[The stake is only Kavinsky's reputation so far as the Eudio management's concerned. Freddie's threat isn't to kill his credit on the street (who knows if he has any, there are licensed premises here for many things that would be illicit back home). It's just the fine detail on the point that, payment taken or not, this could be traceable. If he's selling rat poison under a different name.

If he's not, they're fine. And Freddie watches his face as he answers it makes no difference and takes the decision that, if anything's tweaking him, it's not quality.

He withdraws his hand, tucks the pills away for later. The palm still closed over the car's lowered window clasps white-knuckle tight as he leans forward enough to duck his head into the car, grazing a closemouthed kiss against Kavinsky's cheek.]

I'll take the ride.

[Why waste more time, tonight. He's straightening up the next minute, the stretch of his abdomen moving into Kavinsky's eyeline before he walks round to let himself in the opposite door.]

[pillz]

[EVERY TIME SOMEONE KIsses kavinsky on the cheek, he spirals closer toward true madness another two degrees, just so we're clear! his head wings three degrees to the left when freddie's mouth glances off him, an eye practically flinching shut, without comment, a little bit subtler than the darling children faced with their medicinal tonic, but not by much.

eeew ew.

but afterward, kavinsky looks, because— of course. he watches freddie's butt seesaw around the nose of his car, leaning his head slightly toward the window, not quite out of the window, his emptied fingers still hanging inert and white just outside the car, like a branch bowed under the cold vice of winter. he smiles again. before freddie reaches the other side, he hits the unlock button on his door, so it opens easily for the other boy to let himself in.

afterward, he pulls the car off the curb, the wheels dropping tangibly off the lip of the sidewalk as he turns. the headlights flash off the pale strip of beach sand.] Okay, [he says. his accent makes it sound like a mafia conspiracy when he asks:] Where to, boss?

[prettier]

[What a delicate fucking flower. The recoil response keeps a smile on Freddie's face as he skirts the car and folds himself into the passenger seat. He doesn't know a thing about cars, doesn't honestly care to (for reasons generally unstated but closer to home than a basic dislike for Jeremy Clarkson and his double denim). But this one feels fast.

The club he wants is literally just down the road.]

The marble fountain. [Instead he names a random landmark across town. Maybe there's time to waste after all, as long as it's spent moving somehow. Freddie can't tell a New Jersey accent from a Valley Girl variety (Kavinksy sounds different from Adam sounds different from the various others of their countryfolk scattered around but specifics would be pointless) but he'll take the mafioso chauffeur act.] I can give you directions from there.

[And in the meanwhile he can curl sideways in the passenger seat, eyes on the side of Kavinksy's face. He's quiet for a while (but never all that long).

Maybe he's just in the mood to poke bears tonight.]

So what is it, a straight-acting thing?

[pillz]

[the bear (who lacks the body hair for other definitions of the term) obligingly turns the car toward the far end of town. but not before he angles a sidelong look at freddie, his eyes narrowing in their thickly-lidded hollows, glittering with observation. he hadn't forgotten their initial series of texts; that the club wasn't far.]

You're a shitty liar, darling, [he says. but he also moves up a gear, and the mitsubishi takes off like a bullet into the darkness. there's something frantic about the feel of the engine through suspension, black leather, and the miracle of ghostly superstructure, like somebody outfitted its moving parts with the rhythm of a chainsaw and no thought to ergonomic comfort. the trees and lights snap past them. snap, snap, snap. whatever the speed limit is, kavinsky is ignoring it.

they cut a high-contrast pair, to whoever might glimpse them through the windows while they're walking their dogs at night. both fair, but freddie's light features soften that somewhat; kavinsky, in the meantime, is as stark as piano keys. and he has a single visible tattoo, peering out of his sleeve. you'd have to get closer than your average dog-walker to notice the vaguely adversarial tension feeding mutually across the front seats of the car.]

It's a fucking car. A racing car. [he defaults to his easiest assumption.] I guess you don't get a lot of queer racers, but I'm pretty sure we cut ourselves out of the gene pool other ways. [he punctuates this with a terrifyingly sharp turn, rubber screeching audibly through the doors; doesn't turn his head to check if freddie flinched, but he's watching.]