Oh, Love Me Dead

Rating: NC-17, Dead Dove

Fandom: Professional Griefers

Ships: G3rard/Deadmau5

Warnings: Snuff, gore, self-hatred, gross porn with feelings

Even as you’re sharpening your knife, you can’t help but ask for the billionth time, “You’re sure about this?”

A prolonged sigh escapes him, like he’s getting annoyed with you just for asking. You know he expects you to make his last moments perfect- maybe minus the agonizing pain, which he seems to enjoy anyway- but God, it can’t hurt to make sure he’s absolutely positive about it, right? It’s not like he can change his mind at the last second. It’s almost like he engineered it that way. Like he just can’t stand the thought of being alive.

You’ll be sad to see him go. It’s not like it’s love, what you have. It’s just fucking. It’s fucking and hurting each other and rubbing salt in the wounds because you both like it too rough for your own good… which is what leads you here. 

A clattering of chains alerts you to your plaything’s mounting frustration. At least he insists you call him that. You’re not really sure who’s playing with who these days.

“What the fuck is taking you so long, Mau5?”

You scoff. He never stopped calling you by your snuff-fetish-forum username. He conveniently omits the part that specifies that the mau5 is dead. Dramatic irony or something, whatever. Really, you always should have seen this coming- you met on a fucking snuff forum of all places, but… you never really wanted to kill anyone. You just wanted to fantasize about it when you jack off. And then you met this pretty thing with the exact same fantasies as you, who hit all the right buttons and flipped the right switches and wormed his way into your fucking heart. And he just kept asking for more, and more, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say no because it was him , and-

“I know that knife is sharp enough by now.”

You know it as well as he does. You just want to put off the inevitable. You take a moment to compose yourself, put the sadistic, uncaring mask back on, before pulling the knife away from the sharpener fully.

“You never stop whining, Gee-three-rard,” you sass back, using his forum username as well since he does it to you. There’s a little more venom in it coming off your tongue, but he likes the taste, if the way he squirms in his binds is any indication. He’s almost itching for it.

He’s presented beautifully for you, arms suspended above his head with chains, nice and tight, supported underneath only by his perpetually-scraped knees. He’s naked save for his stupid boxers with these pixel hearts all over them- and you know you have the exact same thing tattooed, but does he really want to die in those?- and his skin is already littered with bruises and cigarette burns left from previous sessions. The thin, raised cuts on his thighs and wrists never escape your notice, because a good chunk of them are yours, but there are more every time you see him no matter how long it’s been. They look worse today. Deeper. Some of them are still wide open even though the bleeding has stopped. 

You take in the sight, and it’s just- it’s too fucking much. You need a smoke already. He’s so fucking crazy. You put down your knife in favor of reaching for the omnipresent pack of fags in your back pocket, perching one between your lips and commenting, “You can wait a few minutes to die. Most people prefer it that way, actually.”

He tugs at the chains and grunts, although your words are obviously getting him excited. Freak. You guess you don’t have room to talk, though. You’re the one who caved to all his begging. 

You light your cig and take the tobacco into your lungs. You’re not super concerned about indoor smoking- it already smells like cancer down here in his basement, which is fucking ironic given he won’t have time to die from that. But whatever. 

You pick the knife up and, after a moment’s hesitation, approach him with it. You kneel in front of him, flicking your ash as you drop to one knee. You’re not quite sure where to start, and- you’re not quite sure about this, either. Okay, you really fucking aren’t. You don’t want to lose him, as counterintuitive as it is, but… this is what you signed up for. This is why you were both on that fucking forum, right?

You ask again. And he looks fucking broken, but not quite defeated. He looks up at you with those pretty brown eyes you’ve never, ever been able to deny anything, half-lidded like being alive is the most draining thing in the world, and says, “Just let me die. Stop being a fucking pansy, Mau5.”
You sigh, nod, and press the knife to his chest. His breath hitches just the littlest bit, like for a second he’s afraid, and- you hesitate again. He presses his skin closer to the blade.

“C’mon, do it. I want this. I already have the note written.”

The last thing you want to think about right now is the look on Mikey’s face when he finds what’s practically a suicide note. You know Gerard and his brother have a bit of a rocky relationship for reasons he never told you, but shit, you don’t have anything against Mikey. And it’ll probably be Mikey finding the note- Gerard doesn’t seem to have any friends, and he talks about his parents like they disowned him on the rare occasion they come up- maybe they actually did and it factors into the whole-

“Mau5.”

Would it kill him to use your real name once in a while? It’s like- well, he does want you to stab him. So nevermind.

You take another long drag of your cigarette, holding it in your mouth while you grab his bony hips- God, he’s frail- to keep him still as you trace a long, shallow line down his sternum, just barely enough to draw blood. You stop and pull the knife away just an inch shy of his navel, and you hear him struggle against the chains again. He’s antsy, you can tell by the tent in his dumb pixel-heart boxers. You let go of his hip just long enough to pull the cigarette from your lips and flick some of the ash off, letting it land on his thigh.

He’s looking at you with wide eyes- they really look more hazel than brown when you can see them properly, they’re fucking gorgeous. Your favorite color. And then an idea strikes you- one you’ve bounced around a few times, even teased but never went all the way. And it seems like a much better way to ease into things, because then you won’t have him fucking looking at you like a wounded puppy the whole time and making it hard to actually want to hurt him. 

Your eyes meet his. You can imagine you look tired, but he sees something in you nobody else has ever seemed to- God, you don’t want to lose him. But you agreed to this. You can’t just go back on your word. And maybe you hate yourself half as much as he does, too. 

You’re tempted to go in for a kiss. You don’t really kiss, even when you fuck, it just isn’t what you do. But you want to. And he’s helpless.

But you don’t. You can feel the moment slip through your fingers, and you just have to play it off and suck on your cigarette like it’s a lifeline. (Ha, get it?) You put down the knife and reach up to cup his face in your hands, position your thumbs just right, and-

His eyes are wet. He’s about to cry.

He leans into the touch, like your hands have ever been a source of tenderness and not pain, like you’ve had a great track record with aftercare, and- you can’t help it.

“Gee,” you say softly, “You don’t- We don’t have to do this. We can back out.”
It’s half a plea. He looks at you like you’re crazy.

“What? No. I- please. I’ve wanted this so fucking long, just kill me. Please kill me.”

He sounds so sad when he says it, so genuine. It fucking hurts just to listen to him. He really wants it. So you nod and take solace in the fact that you’re apparently the last thing he wants to see, for reasons unknown. Your thumbs press in a little harder. He smiles just the littlest bit, softly encouraging you, and it’s enough to push yourself past the doubt. You dig your fingers in fully. He gasps, shuddery and pained, and it doesn’t stop you, pushing in until you can feel them just pop. 

You find yourself with your thumbs bloodied, and those gorgeous hazel eyes of his are dangling by little more than a nerve. You wonder if he can still see through them. Your hands are shaking just a little as you run them down his cheeks, spreading the blood that’s beginning to drip from the empty sockets you’ve left. You take one of his eyes in your hand and he hiccups weakly.

You turn it over a few times. He doesn’t say anything, you have no idea if he can even feel this- he probably can, but the silence is unsettling. The blood smears over his sclera and the palm of your hand. Curiosity overtakes you. 

You tug- the thin thread holds fast, so you tug again, harder, and this time it snaps. You lift his eye to your lips. A small puff of smoke escapes you as you pull the cigarette away and lick. It tastes a little bit salty along with the copper taste of blood, and the texture- it’s a little like jello, but firmer. You don’t hate it. You want to bite down, but he’s already shaking with anticipation. So you set the eyeball aside, into the metal tray where you keep your usual torture implements. 

It’s an incredibly erotic sight- at least to someone as fucked in the head as you are- his small frame trembling, blood dripping slowly down his cheeks from the sockets where his eyes sat just minutes before- the single eyeball dangling, sightless and glassy. He looks just as excited about it as you are, at least below the waist.

You don’t need the cigarette anymore, spurred on by your growing arousal. You let your dick think for you, because there’s no going back now, and you know you’re going to hate yourself when you get back to thinking with your brain.

You grip his bloodied cheek with your free hand, not caring that you’re smearing the blood, because there’s more where that came from. He gives you this dopey blissed-out smile that makes you wonder if gouging out his eyes had even hurt for more than a second. You shake your head, mostly to yourself. He’s always had a tolerance for pain.

“Open your mouth, snuffwhore.”

He shudders under your touch, and obeys- he’s always so obedient. He presents his tongue for you, like he knows what’s coming- he probably does, you’ve done it before- and only recoils a little when you snub your cigarette out on it. You hold the cig there just a second longer, twisting and pressing down just to watch the way he squirms when you do, and then you drop it to the floor. He takes his tongue back into his mouth and spits, trying to get rid of the acrid taste. You know it lingers longer than that no matter what he does. It’s cute to watch him suffer, though.

You give him a light smack on the thigh, just to see the way he jolts at the sudden, burning sensation- it’s always fun to play with him when he can’t see, but fresh cuts make it even better. You let your hand wander a little until you find one of his many self-inflicted wounds, and you dig your thumb into the exposed flesh, twisting until the small hiss he lets out gives way to a sob. You let go soon after, but you can't help but taunt him with a quiet, "Fucking pathetic."

He whines and bucks his hips at that, drawing your attention back to his growing arousal- you should really do something about that. You don't have all the time in the world to keep teasing him, as much as you'd like to.

You pick your knife back up and trace the V of his hips with it, drinking in the way he tries to stay still but can’t quite, recoiling at the sharp chill. You drag the blade lightly over his skin, toward his side, and slip the blade underneath the waistband of his boxers. You cut him free of them, at least on one side- just enough to pull them partway off and release his aching hardness. He’s so obviously desperate for you, flushed red and leaking. You’ve never seen him so aroused. You pass the knife over to your non-dominant hand and spit in your palm where it just was, wrapping your skinny fingers around his length. He bucks up into your fist before you even start stroking, letting out this little whine of relief as he moves his hips. God, he’s cute. Such a shame it's going to waste.

“You’re just aching it, aren’t you?” You tease, leaning in so close to his ear that your breath makes him shudder. You move your hand a little faster and hold the knife to his neck as you add, “This what you needed all along, huh? Need someone to show you just how fucking worthless your pathetic life is?”

He whimpers and nods along, rutting against your hand- if you just kept it in place there you’re sure he’d still be able to get himself off that way- as he encourages you, a soft and steady stream of, “Yes, please, please I’m so pathetic, please kill me, please.” It makes the rational part of your brain- what’s left of it- a little sick, but you know you can’t stop now. He wants it so bad.

You drag the knife along his collarbone, starting to slice, only a little deeper than the initial cut. He whines. It’s not enough, even as blood colors the stainless steel blade and wells up, leaving a crimson-red trail. 

“Mau5- Mau5, please,” He whines, chains rattling above him as he struggles against the bindings. He presses himself into you, still chasing release, but not quite so desperately. “Want- Want you to spill my guts."

“What?” You ask, caught just a little off guard. You thought he’d always wanted it to be a little more peaceful than that- quick and painless, a slitting of the throat or maybe just having his neck snapped. You've discussed this kind of thing, well, to death. You wonder why he's changing his mind all of a sudden. He ruts into you again- he twitches in your hand and, wow, he’s really into begging for this.

“Cut me open. Wanna-” His words slur together, maybe just woozy from the blood loss, and you’re a little surprised he’s maintaining an erection now that you think about it. He lets out a high, needy whine. “Come on. Come on, I’m not fuckin’ pretty on the inside.” 

You’re pretty sure he’s talking nonsense, but a part of you wants to see his guts opened up for you, spilling out of his skinny torso. And you can respect his dying wishes, right?

So you do it, despite the protest in the back of your mind. You let go of his cock, watch him squirm and thrust into the air while you swap your knife back to your dominant hand. Not that it matters how clean this is ‘cause it’s a mess already, but you’re not sure it’ll smell awesome if you puncture his stomach by accident. So you grab his hips, pressing into fresh bruises as you hold him still and start from where you left off before, almost surgically cutting through the soft flesh of his tummy, watching as his innards come loose from their proper places, intestines sliding freely downward like freshly-cooked spaghetti. With extra marinara.

God, you have a horrible sense of humor. 

He’s writhing under you, these wretched, pained cries escaping him, but you don’t stop cutting until your knife meets the bone of his pelvis. Your knife is just inches away from his cock now- God, how the fuck is he still hard? 

He’s shaking bad now, between the blood loss and the rush of cold air into the cavity of his torso. You feel something drip from above onto your wrist- blood, still streaming from his eye sockets. A quick look up confirms it, but it seems to be coming faster now, mixed with something less viscous. You try not to think about it because he can’t back out now even if he wants to.

Your heart aches. You spend a little too long staring at your bloodied knife before you experimentally run the blade over the tip of his cock, sensitive as ever. He makes a choked sound, almost like a hiccup, that tugs at the part of you that still doesn’t want to lose him. 

Fuck. It’s too much. You’re not sure you can do this anymore. You pull the knife away and freeze, just staring at his face where you’ve mutilated it, one eye dangling pathetically. You almost want to do the same to yourself. 

“Gerard?”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His chest heaves, like it’s taking all the effort in his body just to breathe, and then he says, “Don’t.”

Don’t what? Don’t do it? Don’t leave him like this?

He pulls at his chains again, noticeably weaker, and it hurts just to look at. You hear your knife clatter to the floor. What the fuck are you doing? Why did you ever fucking agree to this? 

“Gerard, I- I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing you can force out of your mouth right now, endless apologies. You know he won’t forgive you and you can only hope God doesn’t either.

And then he has the nerve to force out, almost a wheeze, “Do it. Kill me.”

You’re trembling. You don’t think you can. 

Another weak rattle of chains.

“ Joel.”

It snaps you out of your thoughts. Fuck, he still wants you to finish the job, doesn’t he?

You let out a shaky breath and nod more to yourself than to him, picking up the knife. You shuffle closer, until your body is pressed against his and you can feel his blood soaking the crotch of your jeans. You press the knife to his throat, and you hesitate, because it’s so hard to force yourself to admit it out loud even now.

“I love you.”

You wait.

And you don’t get a response.

You know he’s still alive, because you can feel his chest moving even as he hangs limp. It makes it hurt just a little more, just right, hitting the most desperate part of your heart and tearing it apart. But you know what he wants, so you don’t keep him waiting. You press your lips to his, way too wet and way too needy, and you can just barely feel him reciprocate the kiss before you slit his throat. 

And that’s it. His chest grows still, and he’s gone. You don’t pull away from him for a long moment, though, unable to let go. When you do, it’s hesitant, and the movement of your crotch against him highlights the fact that you’re still hard. A sick thought crosses your mind, and- and you’re already a murderer. You’ve already done something you can’t undo. You know he wouldn’t have minded it when he was still alive- you’d even talked about it a few times. 

So you do it, because it’s the only way you can conceive to show him how much you still love him. You fumble with the front of your jeans, and God, your boxers are clinging to your skin because they’re soaked with his blood too. But eventually you get your cock free and force yourself up onto your feet. Your dick’s perfectly level with his eye socket.

So you do something you’re never going to forgive yourself for, you stick it in.

You know you’re violating him, defiling a lifeless corpse, and you don’t care because it just feels so good, perfectly tight and wet and warm for you, even forcing your cock into a hole that isn’t meant for it, isn’t deep enough to accommodate your full size. You fuck into his skull shallow and desperate, driven only by instinct and need and the feeling of just how wrong this is that makes it all so sweet. 

It makes a wet squelching sound with every thrust in, a sickening noise that should turn your stomach, but only manages to stoke the flame just a little lower. You tangle your fingers in his soft, tousled brown hair and use it as leverage to force yourself deeper, feeling the soft flesh of his eye socket give way as you press in, and as you bury yourself to the hilt, you run into something more squishy, almost delicate. It takes you a second to recognize that that might be his brain.

Not that it’s doing him much good now.

The realization spurs you on for some reason you can’t describe, the thought of leaving a hole where his brain once was and filling it with your cum, it’s more depraved and erotic than you can bear. The front of your jeans soaks further as you buck into the hole, and you can hardly hear the sound it makes over your own involuntary groans. The pressure mounts in your groin, building and building until it’s too much, and spills over, feeling like a tidal wave of every emotion you’ve ever felt spearheaded by lust and regret, ecstasy and pain all at once-

And then it’s over.

And you’re in a shitty basement that smells like cigarette smoke with your cock buried in a human corpse. 

You pull out and step back, watching a flood of pink and white spill from the socket. His one remaining eye dangles unfocused, but you swear it’s watching you. Judging.

You reach into your back pocket and pull out your smokes. The lighter’s in the box with them, so you go ahead and light up. 

The smell of cigarettes won’t be quite as overpowering in a few days, anyway.