Order Of The Skin

Rating: NC-17, Dead Dove

Fandom: EDM

Ships: Joelingtons

Warnings: animal death, mental health problems (by that i mean joel going completely and totally insane), violence, necro/zoo, bad ending. i'm telling you the dove is super fucking dead and rotting and festering with maggots.

Joel runs his hands over Meowingtons’ fur as he enters his taxidermy room, carrying the new acquisition of an old friend. 

He has a cat tree already set up to display him on. Everything is in its place; he’d asked the taxidermist to give Meowingtons a soft mount so he’d remain as cuddly and lovable as when he was alive, and she had treated the good professor with all the care and tact he demanded. The result was an incredibly lifelike replica of Joel’s beloved pet, still pliable and able to be posed. That was the intention, of course. Joel had wanted to let Meowingtons do many things in his preserved afterlife; he could lay him in his cat tree, or let him watch birds in the window, or let him take his eternal nap inside the studio as his owner worked. Meowingtons was different, after all, from his other taxidermy items. Meowingtons was so much more to him than a curiosity like his two-headed calf, or a crude joke like his pornographically-mounted rats. Meowingtons was his best friend, his dearest confidant, his muse. He would never restrict his dear pet to stay in only one position forever. 

But for now, he perches his darling kitten atop the cat tree, curling him into a restful ball. Joel observes him like that, for a moment, so peaceful and aloof. He scratches the fur just behind Meowingtons’ ear, then smooths it down, then parts from his departed pet with a gentle kiss on his forehead. He has other things to attend to, but for now, it comforts him to have his dearest companion back in his home. 

Not quite a week passes before the first screw begins to loosen. 

It’s another sleepless night for him- a dime a dozen. These bouts of insomnia aren’t unusual for the musician. They’re almost always the result of some internal torture imposed upon himself- a pit of worry in his stomach after a Tweet gone too viral; a mental berating for some social blunder; a deep-nestled and inescapable feeling that he is, in the core of his soul, inherently and irreparably broken, forever cursed to be a deviant hiding his true colors from even those who would follow him, for some reason imperceivable, to the ends of the earth. 

Tonight, his torment is loneliness, his torturer the empty spot on his bed where there would otherwise be a black, furry weight keeping Joel bolted to his own sanity. He’s had many nights like this lately, but now, he has his own solution, stuffed with love and care. He gets out of bed, still wearing little more than his boxers and not quite caring enough to cover himself in the privacy of his own home, and retrieves Meowingtons from the studio. He had last left him sitting on a synthesizer while he worked. Meowingtons’ head rests atop Joel’s shoulder as he carries him to the bedroom. He’s silent, peaceful. The cat makes no protest when Joel lays down still holding it in his arms, fur pressed to bare skin. He certainly would have complained about it were he still alive.

Joel closes his eyes and pulls the cat to his chest, feeling alright now that Meowingtons is with him. The densely-stuffed weight in his arms holds him to himself just one night longer, but somewhere deep down inside himself, something stirs, and Joel knows that- much like Meowingtons- this peacefulness will not last forever. 

Over the next month, Joel’s attachment to his dead cat becomes a new normal. Most nights, he can’t sleep until Meowingtons is in his arms, and many other nights, he takes the feline to bed anyway. His old friend’s body seems to have a miraculous ability to put Joel’s restless mind at ease, and the monster of his love grows, never satisfied. He carries Meowingtons with him around the house; holds him in his lap as he works in the studio, takes him into the kitchen and sits him by his long-empty food bowl at lunchtime. It quickly becomes compulsive in nature. While Joel is still present enough in his own mind not to cart a dead animal around in public, he doesn’t think on it long before packing Meowingtons into his bag when it’s time to get over his grief and start touring again. Thankfully, TSA doesn’t ask too many questions when he tells them that it’s a stuffed animal. He isn’t really lying.

Joel doesn’t so much cross the line as he meanders ever-so-vaguely toward it, at first. It’s not a conscious action. He just… doesn’t think about it, really, about the implications. 

It’s a cool night in late September when Joel gets lonely in his hotel room. He’s watching some trashy reality show he doesn’t care about but stars some decently hot chicks wearing bikinis, and Meowingtons is curled up to his side. Joel doesn’t think about moving him when he decides he’s gonna crank one out before he goes to sleep, let off all the tension and stress of being in a new city every night. He reaches over the cat and touches himself, head falling back against the pillow as he fantasizes about the girls on the TV, lip filler and big, bouncing fake tits. It doesn’t take much for him. When he’s done self-pleasuring, he cleans himself up with a tissue and pulls Meowingtons into his arms, sleepy and spent and ready to nod off.

Joel’s old stagefright comes back to haunt him throughout the tour- he’s not sure when or where it started, but it builds and builds over the course of a month, until the drop, and he finally caves. The mouse head is helpful for when he feels overcrowded, but this is a different kind of anxiety. In a room with thousands of people, he feels crushingly alone. Even when he takes off the head, thousands of eyes searing into his flesh, this primordial sense of isolation takes over; it pulls him under and drowns him, and there’s no land in sight, no ship to climb aboard- just a single dinky life preserver, bobbing with the waves. 

Fan reception isn’t bad when the first screw pops out of place. He brings Meowingtons onstage, and he plays the alternative mix of When The Summer Dies while his cat sits on his table next to his mixer. A big cheer goes up in the crowd. Later that night, when Joel lays in bed with Meowingtons held tightly to his chest, mindlessly scrolling his phone, he sees a few people on his Subreddit celebrating the return of his furry companion. Pursuant to fan enthusiasm, he lets Meowingtons come along to his subsequent shows, and slowly, his anxiety washes away.

Joel’s taken to wearing glasses lately, because he’s somewhat farsighted and they help him see his equipment up close. Maybe this recent development of hyperopia is why, the closer he edges to the line, the more blind he becomes to it. 

Joel is in another hotel room somewhere else, most likely, but not for certain. Every Holiday Inn Express looks exactly the same as the last. He couldn’t tell you what city he’s in tonight- it’s somewhere in Anywhere, USA. It doesn’t matter where he is, though, because the nightly routine is the same across state lines and international borders. A travel-sized bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, his laptop opened to PornHub, and Meowingtons’ fur fisted tightly in one hand. He’s barely paying attention to the models by this point. There’s a girl in chains with her shorts pulled down to her ankles, the sound of a whip cracking and obscene moans. It does little for Joel. His mind keeps drifting into the past, into the posters he’d commissioned for his 2011 tour. The ones where Meowingtons has him tied up. He can’t remember anymore, 12 years later, why he’d asked the artist to draw such a scene, but he can’t stop thinking about it. The way his dick practically jumped in his pants when he got the final result back. 

Grief is a funny thing like that, bringing up old memories. Joel cums with his porn half-forgotten, and shuts his laptop once he’s done cleaning himself up. He lays down and curls up with his cat, ready to doze off, when belatedly, he notices a cold, wet spot on Meowingtons’ fur, just above his hip. He pokes his finger into it and feels the consistency long enough to confirm what he already knows. Some of his ejaculate must have spurted onto the cat.

He gets up and washes it off in the bathroom, and the line grows ever blurrier. 

Joel’s not alone when he tours, unfortunately. There are a lot of logistics involved- he’s the real talent, sure, but his tour manager still has to come along with him, make sure everything and everyone is accounted for. Thankfully, the flights are just the two of them and Meowingtons. 

Joel sits at the gate, arms around his furry companion. Airports make him nervous. Noise and movement. So many people. Fans coming up to him asking for autographs. It’s always been this way, but at least now, he has his cat to help calm his nerves. By this point, he’s already stopped caring who sees him carry Meowingtons around. He doesn’t smell or even particularly look like a dead cat anyway. There’s no rule against having taxidermy items in public, and even if TSA keeps pulling him aside, the most they can do is run Meowingtons through their X-ray machines to make sure he’s not a bomb. Joel has never cared what anyone thinks of him, and the fans love Meowingtons. A couple times he’s run into fans at airports who have asked to pet him. Joel always says no, but he gets why they’d want to. Somewhat jealously, he pulls Meowingtons closer to his chest when he thinks about it.

Ashley comes back with two coffees from the airport’s Starbucks, hands one to Joel, and checks her watch while he sips it.

“If they don’t start boarding soon we’re gonna be behind schedule,” she announces, frustration in her voice. Joel hides behind his coffee and holds Meowingtons a little tighter. Ashley gives him a look, the judgemental kind.

“You really need to keep that cat in your bag when we’re out, Joel. I know the fans like him, but…” She shudders a little. “Ugh, the eyes just give me the heebie-jeebies. It’s like they know something I don’t. And the joints are starting to wear out.”

Joel doesn’t listen to her. He finishes his coffee before boarding even starts.

r/deadmau5

u/colorblond12 • 2h

[image]

Is it just me or is Meowingtons looking a little rough lately? Here’s a pic from the first time Joel brought him onstage next to one from my show last night. You can literally see the stuffing poking out from the knees and higher up on the legs. Am I crazy or what?

u/bigbaconhotdog • 1h

op did you take this picture on a potato? i can’t see shit.

EDIT: looked up recent pics that actually look good and you sort of have a point. bad taxidermy job?

u/necrotizerizer • 54m 

taxidermist here: this looks like a lot of wear and tear on a soft mount… which is weird as fuck cause 1. we don’t soft mount cats 2. seriously no taxidermist on gods green earth would soft mount a PET CAT especially not a brand mascot like meowingtons and 3. meowingtons has only been dead like 2 months. assuming joel got him soft mounted for some ungodly reason it seriously looks like he either poses him a LOT or sleeps with him. that’s how accelerated the wear is. 

u/definitelyahumanbeing • 47m

o_O looks like the mau5 is having trouble letting go.

r/deadmau5

[deleted] • 2h

[removed]

This post has been removed by community moderators.

For traveling the world, being on tour gets quite monotonous. It’s another quiet night for Joel and his cat in another hotel room in another city, and the only difference is the number on the TV channels. Seriously, why hasn’t that been standardized yet? Whatever. As he channel surfs, his free hand fiddles loosely with Meowingtons’ tail. It’s a thoughtless action, subconscious and without intent, but somewhere in the motion, his middle finger brushes over the underside of Meowingtons’ tail, finding a hole just underneath the base of the appendage. He doesn’t think about it before his finger slips inside. He doesn’t think about it once it’s in. When he lands on A&E and catches the middle of an episode of Hoarders , he sets down the remote and lays back against the pillows, pulling Meowingtons onto his chest, still playing with his tail. 

Joel zips his pants and washes his hands, staring awkwardly at himself in the mirror of the venue bathroom. Maybe it’s tour getting to him, but he isn’t sure he recognizes the man in the mirror, can recall the day that Meowski was tattooed on his neck but sees it as foreign, obtrusive. He rubs at the inked skin, and watches entranced as the mark remains where it is, as natural and integrated as a birthmark. His neck is wet now. Usually a little water can pull him back to the real world, but today, he still can’t tell what he’s looking at. In his head, of course, he knows that man in the mirror must be himself, but something feels so wrong about it. Like he shouldn’t be seeing any reflection, or something, even though all logic dictates that he should have a reflection, of course. Joel lets his hand fall from his neck and stares at it, front and back. Same tattoos he remembers getting. It still doesn’t feel real. Is it just him, or were his hands always this freakishly large and meaty? He turns them this way and that, trembling almost imperceptibly. He reads out the letters tattooed on his fingers: S, T, F, U. He knows that it stands for Shut The Fuck Up, in his head, but he can’t help but mull over the letters, the different ways they could be arranged, the way they’d fall off his tongue.

He stops when he realizes one of the roadies has come in and is approaching the sink next to him. How long he’s been in here Joel has no idea, but he doesn’t care to make small talk and find out. He quickly grabs a paper towel, only realizing after he grabs it that he’s been staring at his hands so long they’ve air-dried on their own. He pretends to dry his hands anyway and throws it out, heading out of the bathroom. 

He’s left his backpack by the door, because his spine is already painfully curved like a shepherd’s hook, and he doesn’t need to agonize himself with the extra weight while he’s pissing, but the moment he picks it up something feels wrong. It’s just a fraction lighter than it should be. He sets it back down and opens the back pocket, and seeing Meowingtons missing is like firing a gun. 

And there he finds him, curled up among the trash bags in the dumpster. Joel picks him up, rage simmering below the surface of his skin. There’s only one person who would do this to him, one person who doesn’t care what Meowingtons means to him, who’s been trying to get Joel to get rid of his best friend for almost a month now, and how dare she? How fucking dare she?

Joel bursts into the backstage dressing room. Ashley is fixing her hair in the mirror while she talks on the phone with someone, probably about some important official business, but Joel knows damn well there’s nothing more important right now than making her pay. He smacks the phone out of her hand and shoves her to the mirror, refusing to pay mind to the phone as it slams the table and cracks. He presses his weight against her back, eyes locking with her reflection. 

“What are you- What the fuck are you doing?!” Ashley squeals, incredulous. Pinned beneath his, Joel feels her hands tremble. They’re small, somewhat dainty- lithe and adept at typing out business emails, but ill suited to fending off an assailant any larger than herself. The temptation to fucking break them picks at the back of his mind, and almost subconsciously, his grip tightens.

“Do you think I’m stupid, Ashley?” Joel growls low in his throat, breath hot against his tour manager’s ear. “Did you fucking think I wouldn’t notice my best friend was missing?”

“Jo- Joel, get off of me-” She pleads, voice high and tight with panic. He sees, in her eyes, the flickering flames of terror. He can’t help the grin it pulls from him.

“Answer the damn question, bitch.”

“Get off me,” she repeats, voice firmer, an attempt at sounding authoritative but plagued with a wavy undercurrent of fear. She appends, “I’ll fucking scream. I’ll call security. You know what this looks like, right? Do you really need more bad PR?”

The threat pulls Joel halfway out of his blind rage, wipes the grin right off his face, but he’s still seething. He pushed Ashley into the mirror as he separates himself from her, backing away and holding his backpack by the straps to stop himself from fucking smacking her the moment she turns around. She faces him and crosses her arms to hide the way they shake. 

“I’ve told you so many times, you need to get rid of that dead thing. It’s disgusting. You know what people are saying about you, right? I shouldn’t be doing Dean’s job and keeping you out of hot water.” 

Joel falls silent. Her words are like a knife to the heart- how dare she? How dare she fucking insinuate he needs to get rid of Meowingtons? 

Ashley gives a reluctant little sigh, almost apologetic. “I know he’s part of your branding, but…”

“ Branding?” Joel scoffs, because it’s such a ridiculous olive branch to extend. Fuck branding, Meowingtons is his best fucking friend. His muse. His everything. 

“Yeah, sure, fucking branding.” He grabs her backstage lanyard and yanks it from around her neck. “You want to talk business right now, Ashley? How’s this for business: You’re fired, effective immediately. Do not contact me, do not follow me, you’re finding your own way home, and if I catch you stealing from me ever again, I’m going to rain legal hellfire on you.” 

He smirks and turns to leave the room, satisfied with the look of miffed disbelief on her face. As he pulls the door open, he adds, “Good luck finding a new job, bitch.”

Joel doesn’t let go of Meowingtons the whole way to the hotel after that. Usually, he keeps him in his backpack if it’s convenient, but after confronting Ashley, a thick film of paranoia has come to envelop his mind- an irrational fear that any time he turns his back, looks away for a second, someone will try to take his world away from him. The hotel receptionist definitely gives him something of a bug-eyed stare, but Joel is used to it from TSA agents. He just makes his way to the room in silence, cradling the cat in his arms as he walks.

The room feels impossibly hot and stuffy, for some reason, once Joel is settled in for the night. He opens a window to combat it, but it’s little help, even though it’s well into November and it’s nearly freezing in Vegas. The heat seems to be coming from under his skin, pulsating, dragging him downward. He teeters on the edge of delirium as he backs away from the window, arms still wrapped around Meowingtons, settled into the misshapen crevices where the cat is so used to being held. The city lights along the horizon almost call to Joel, they blink and distort into patterns and shapes, twisting and turning before him. Lost in feverish haze, Joel loses track of how long he stares out at the night sky, until a far-off sound in the hallway jolts him back to life. He turns quickly to the door, but- nobody’s there. Nobody’s coming for Meowingtons.

Legs shaking, he makes his way back to the bed, Meowingtons’ fur pressed to his skin. He’s already taken the liberty of stripping to his underwear, but there’s still a fire burning inside him, something he doesn’t know how to tame. His own skin feels hot to the touch- Meowingtons is warm as well. Joel brushes his hand along the cat’s chest. He swears he can feel the thrum of a heartbeat underneath, life within as if his muse had never left him to begin with. He looks into Meowingtons’ glassy eyes, the color of spring. He knows, in the back of his mind, Meowingtons is dead, has been dead for months. But he isn’t. He’s alive, he’s so alive, he’s warm and he’s breathing and he’s right here in Joel’s hands and he’s everything Joel needs, no, the only thing Joel has ever needed, and suddenly the flames are burning down the house and the last screw flies out of place and Joel needs this. He can’t help himself. He squeezes Meowingtons to his chest as he strips from himself the last vestige of modesty. His heartbeat is so impossibly loud in his ears, a kick-drum that overpowers his conscious thoughts as he manipulates Meowingtons’ body, paws pressing against his chest as Joel lifts his tail. He’s pretty sure he’s going to hell for this, and the worst part is that he doesn’t care. 

He sinks himself inside. Meowingtons is soft and plush, and his stuffing tickles Joel’s length deliciously, pulls him in and makes him crave more. The sensation is so intense it’s actually blinding- Meowingtons, enveloping him, truly and finally one, reciprocating the years of love Joel has given to him, making his owner feel so fucking good. He lays back on the bed, shoving Meowingtons further down on his cock, sheathing himself inside the cat fully. Fuck. This can’t be wrong if it feels so right, Joel thinks subconsciously, hidden underneath thick cotton-wool layers of bliss and lust, as if whispering to not be caught. And like that, every ounce of doubt he had in himself, any reservation he has about desecrating his pet’s corpse, it washes away with the waves of pleasure that overcome him. 

Joel’s in the airport, cradling Meowingtons as he picks at an admittedly mediocre lunch, when Dean texts him. 

Joel, we need to talk. When you touch down in NYC we’re having a serious meeting. 5 o’clock, hotel conference room.

Joel’s heart drops in his chest when he reads it, but he keeps his cool. He has a reason he fired Ashley; she stole something from him. The venue probably has security tapes that show it. He’s fine. Still, Dean’s taking this pretty fucking seriously if he wants to have a meeting in-person instead of just calling him.

‘kay.

When Joel enters the hotel conference room, Dean sits at the farthest seat of the table, facing the entrance. To his left, her hair partly obscuring her eyes, sits Ashley. She flinches when Joel enters, like she’s scared.

Good. She should be scared of him. 

Joel sits at the opposite end of the table from the two. He’s brought Meowingtons along with him. He cradles the cat in his arms and holds him to his chest, eyes sullen and uninterested as he gazes at Dean, waiting for his manager to address him. 

“Oh my god, that cat fucking stinks.” Ashley’s the one who breaks the silence. She gets up from the table and starts toward the door. “I can’t, I can’t put up with that thing, it keeps staring at me.”

“No, Ashley, sit down-” Dean protests.

“I’m sorry, I can’t . I’ll send you my resignation, just- I can’t stand being around that cat anymore, it’s disgusting.”

Joel feels his eye twitch and his fingers burrow into Meowingtons’ fur, into the tangled mats that have started to form. “I don’t need a resignation, you don’t work for me.”

“Joel.”

“No, I told her that already.” Joel looks back to Dean, scowling. “Why is she here? I fired her. You can’t veto that shit, she stole from me.”

“Jesus christ, you needed it!” Ashley snaps. “I’m sick of it, I’m sick of that dead cat, it’s fucking disgusting and it’s falling apart and you need to get rid of it!”

Joel pushes out his chair and stands, tucking Meowingtons under one arm so he can grab Ashley with the other by her hair, tugging her back and slamming her head into the table. She screams out at the impact, then collapses to the floor, unstable in her heels. He stands over her, unthinking, unfeeling, as she reaches up to touch the side of her head and pulls her hand away stained with blood.

“What the fuck?!” She almost shrieks, gazing up at him. 

He lifts his foot, ready to kick her all the way to the ground when Dean pulls him back by his arms. Even as his elbows are pulled behind him, Joel refuses to let go of Meowingtons, hand fisting into the animal.

“Get your fucking hands off me, Dean,” Joel growls, writhing as Ashley backs away from him as best she can from her position on the ground. 

“You’ve crossed a line, Joel-”

“Let me go or I’ll fucking kill you!”

Dean’s grip tightens. “Ash, call the cops, I can’t hold him forever.”

The rest is kind of a hazy blur to Joel. His hands are cuffed and Meowingtons is taken away from him and he’s taken to the cop car and the ride is far, far too quiet. The cops tell him they’re taking him to be psychiatrically evaluated.

When he gets to the hospital, it’s a lot of paperwork before he finally talks to the psychiatrist. The walls are blank and white, sterile. The lights buzz louder than cicadas. She asks a lot of questions about what happened. Joel answers them. 

She was trying to take Meowingtons, so I hit her. It’s self defense.

She has to ask what Meowingtons is, which bothers Joel just a little more.

Meowingtons is my cat.

She narrows her eyes a little, and writes something down on her clipboard.

A few hours later, he’s restrained again and taken somewhere else.

They make him change into scrubs this time, blue-tinted and paper-thin, and put all his belongings in a box. And then he’s taken to a small, empty room with a single window, sort of tiny and lifted far above the hospital bed. He’s told to sleep, but he can’t, not without Meowingtons. The mattress is hard and uncomfortable, and the pillow hardly lifts his head.

In the morning, another doctor asks more questions, like he’s drilling into Joel’s head. If he’s ever been depressed, if he’s ever attempted suicide, if he’s ever experienced psychosis, delusions, or hallucinations. Joel can’t think about the answers to any of them. 

When can I have Meowingtons back?

There’s little to do in the dingy little room. There’s a desk and a chair, but Joel isn’t allowed a pen or pencil. No matter how many times he asks, the staff won’t let him have his laptop back. The other people in the hospital are awful to be around, and the staff have told Joel he won’t be allowed to leave. They say he can make a phone call using the hospital’s phone, but he doesn’t remember any phone numbers except his own and the house number from when he was growing up, which has since changed. He’d probably call his mom if he knew the number, but he doesn’t know if he’d be allowed to call international.

So most days, he just sits and stares. The wall is painted an off-white cream, but sometimes Joel sees shapes and movement in the blankness. Sometimes it’s simple, sometimes it’s complex. Sometimes they talk to him. Sometimes he hears music. 

Today, he hears a meow. And when he blinks and turns around, he sees Meowingtons on the bed, just like he had never left him.