Who wants to read about a delusional killer obsessed with Marcus Pike?
*crickets*
Yeah, I thought that’d be the answer, but I’ve had The Tailor of Enbizaka on repeat for the past few hours (that’s a little concerning) so now you’ve got this.
@absurdthirst is getting tagged because she wrote a fic with a delusional and obsessed Marcus and this feels like a good counter to that. But that could just be what little pride I have bubbling up.
Rated Mature references to sex, gore, infidelity (not really), stalking. One instance of a character getting kicked in the face. Drastic mood swing, one instance of it, because Marcus isn’t stupid and knows how to play the part.
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Marcus Pike was a handsome man. Kind, charming to a fault, sweeter than the Rooty Tooty Fresh N Fruity tropical stack at that little diner he goes to on the weekend.
So other women vying for his attention was something you expected.
What you didn’t expect was him returning the flirtations.
What you didn’t expect was him leaving at late hours and returning even later, smelling of perfume and wine.
He doesn’t say anything so neither do you.
Instead, you bury yourself in work.
As a multimedia artist, you often got messy, and near-violent if the piece was large enough. That helped a bit.
But then he had the gal to talk to her on the phone in front of you and you couldn’t take it anymore.
So you began to follow him.
A DSLR around your neck you trailed him on his lunch breaks and days off. Waited until you heard the elevator closed to run downstairs and trail his car.
The photos were damning. You had hoped, somehow, that you were seeing things. That maybe if you took photos you’d see them on the small screen and it would be a different man across from the woman in the restaurant.
Unfortunately no.
You watched them leave, her leading him in her car and that’s when you made the decision.
———
“Morning.”
Marcus looks tense, worried.
He barely mumbles out a hello before he’s off to work.
Maybe he’s sad that woman didn’t call him back. Good, let him suffer.
You have a new piece to work on anyway.
———
Six months since he snuck off with that other woman he starts it up again.
You can hear him laughing at her jokes, calling her pet names.
It’s disgusting how brazen he is.
So like last time you follow him, you take photos, you cry at the truth on the small digital display.
But you don’t wait for him to go home with her, you need to nip this in the bud, make sure he knows you know.
———
He seems down again, but not nearly as bad as last time.
He even gives a proper hello before heading to work.
That, along with the inspiration that hit you last night, puts more then a little pep in your step.
———
You weren’t following him this time, you just needed a breather. Sometimes the materials can really stink up the place.
So a little jaunt to the National Mall seemed like the perfect idea.
Then you saw him there, on a bench, with a girl.
In her early twenties at most, and it made your stomach turn.
What do all of these women have that you don’t? Why can’t he be happy with you?
You decide to follow her now, you have no idea how long this has been happening but it needs to stop.
———
You stay in your studio for three days straight, rage fueling your nonstop marathon of creation and destruction.
It’s chaotic. It’s elegant.
The limbs raised high, cresting like wings. The main body twisting up from three different bases. Their colors contrasting until the deep red paint overtakes the differences, creating the illusion of a single object.
You tilt your head and sigh.
Marcus will love it.
———
Marcus Pike knows he’s unlucky in love.
His first marriage, Lisbon. He thought moving might help with his terrible luck, and it seemed too, for a while.
Mary was lovely. A librarian at an elementary school, she loved children and was looking for the right man to possibly have her own with.
He thought it was going great, he really did.
But after he stayed the night at her place, she dropped off the map.
Literally.
At first, he thought that maybe she found him, lacking. But then he was approached by a set of detectives and that’s how he found out she was missing.
He was a suspect for months, it put his job on the line. Until one of her neighbor’s kids who stayed home sick mentioned that another car came up and parked in her yard the next day.
The kid didn’t get a good look at the person, and he didn’t know much about cars. So nothing was really gained, but Marcus was no longer a suspect. His silver sedan definitely not the big black van the kid described.
He kept to himself for a while, romance not feeling right after what happened with his last attempt.
But then he ran into Hannah at his favorite 24-hour diner and that spark was back.
She was funny, and she hunched her shoulders and giggled whenever he called her sweetheart or darling.
She worked at a florist and seeing her surrounded by flowers, laughing at his terrible guesses at whatever the name of the flower he was holding was, he could easily see the two of them settling with a proper garden and a white picket fence.
But then she disappeared too.
Right from the storefront, security camera footage showing a dark van pull up, and a dark figure snatching her in a sleeper hold.
Part of him thought it had to be related to Mary. But he quickly threw that aside, his continued guilt obviously clouding his judgment.
But he needed some comfort, some familiarity, so he called his younger sister.
She took the time off from classes and drove up to meet him, staying with him for a week.
“Your neighbor’s a little… weird.”
He hadn’t known who she was talking about.
“The one down the hall? I don’t know, something just seems-“ she finished with a shrug and a then quick joke that his paranoia was contagious.
He’d shrugged it off then.
He shouldn’t have.
You’re at his door, obviously giddy about something. Nearly bouncing on your toes in delight.
“Hi?” It’s late, his sister left a few days ago, but she hasn’t called him since and he’s starting to get worried.
“I want to show you something.”
Marcus doesn’t get a chance to say anything as you roughly grab his arm and begin dragging him down the hall.
He’s so confused he just follows dumbly, looking around the halls as if they have an explanation for what’s going on.
When the elevator dings is when he gets some of his thoughts together.
“Uhh, what are- who-?”
You pull him roughly into the car. Putting a key into a slot and pressing the button for the second basement.
“I’ve been working on this for months, you know how creating can go.” You look at him with a cheerfully smile, “You shouldn’t let inspiration be your only motivation, but sometimes you can’t work without it.”
He just nods, realizing that you’re probably the neighbor that worried his sister.
And he realizes he left his phone in his apartment.
Humming a tune, you sway on your feet, hand rhythmically squeezing his wrist as the numbers count down to the sub-basement.
The ding feels like a death sentence, and as the door opens he’s punched with the overpowering smell of rot.
“Sorry, I’ve been down here so long I’ve gone nose blind.”
You walk him out of the car but let him go to head to a rope, one he notices is holding a large sheet.
“I just finished it, and I wanted you to be the first person to see it!”
Marcus just nods dumbly, covering his face with his sleeve.
“I really hope you like it.” With that and a tug, the sheet falls.
Marcus is going to be sick.
It’s a mess. A mess of blood and body parts. Crookedly and grotesquely held together with thick wire.
You’re rocking on your feet, curled up almost demurely as you look at him, “Well?”
Marcus needs to stay calm, he needs to call the police, but first he needs to get out.
Swallowing, Marcus nods, “It’s- it’s something.”
That seems to satisfy you, for now.
“I know! It took me almost a year to get everything,” you run to him and grab his free hand, “c’mon, get a closer look!”
He does his best to keep his balance, both mentally and physically, as the details of the gore come into greater focus.
“The small intestine is roughly 25 feet long, it’s referred to as the small intestine because of its diameter, not length.”
Marcus nods, eyes refusing to leave the “art” you’re showing him.
“Fat isn’t as malleable as you’d think, there’s connective tissue that holds it together, there was a good chunk of trial and error but I finally got it to act how I wanted.”
His eyes flick to your face, and it’s unsettling how excited you are. In fact, if he didn’t know you were rambling about the difficulty of dislocating an arm, he’d actually think it was kind of cute.
“So how long did this take you?”
They turn to him wide-eyed, mistaking the uptick and crack in his voice as curiosity and not fear.
“Nine months give or take, again materials were the hardest thing to find.”
Materials were hard to find, which means you had some kind of criteria for who you killed.
“Really? Why?”
Your face goes dark, and you glare at him from the corner of your eye.
“Because you insisted on cheating on me.”
Confusion washes over him before dread makes him drop.
“You- they’re-?”
He looks at the sculpture again, finding Hannah’s sleeve tattoo on one of the arms, the old scar from a dog bite on Mary’s thigh.
But then, who’s the third person?
“It was only supposed to be the two, I was almost done really, but you had to go and bring that whore into the apartment.”
“Who-!” You kick him in the face, hard.
“Don’t lie to me you piece of shit! That bitch you’ve had in the apartment all week!” Your panting is drowned out by the blood rushing through his ears.
He turns to look at you, eyes wide in horror.
The anger vanishes even faster than it arrived and you gasp. “Oh god, I’m so sorry Marcus!”
You look around for something and he finally feels the blood dripping down his lip.
Swallowing again, Marcus focuses on holding himself together.
“It’s okay, I’m okay.”
“No you’re not,” you cover your mouth muffling a whine, “I can go get some ice. I’ll go get some ice.”
“Wait, please.”
You run back to him and begin to help him up, it takes everything he has not to shove you off.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
He hushes you, disturbed by how calm he sounds. He’s compartmentalizing.
“How about we go back to my apartment? I’ve got ice packs, and we can get cleaned up. How’s that sound?”
You begin nodding, “Yeah, yeah, and I can order breakfast from that diner you like, and then we can watch that documentary about salvaged art from World War II.”
Something cold fills his stomach, you’ve been watching him. It’s obvious, but it hasn’t really hit until this moment.
“Yeah, we’ll do that.”
You keep nodding, obviously worried and he begins to wonder how deep this delusion of yours goes.
The ride back up is tense, but you’re so blinded by worry that you don’t register it.
“I’ll get a washcloth,” you turn to look at him, “and maybe some rubbing alcohol. Do you have cotton balls?”
Marcus nods, keeping his stride even so you don’t get suspicious.
He needs to get to his phone.
“Okay,” you push his door fully open, having not had a chance to close it before you dragged him away, “you just sit here and tilt your head back, I’ll be right back.”
You scurry off.
Marcus leaps for his phone.
:SOS DO NOT RESPOND:
:there isn a murderi n my apaprtbdmb, am safe for now, send quiet carz:
He tosses the device onto the couch, “I told you to stay put!” You worry over him like a mother hen, pushing him back into his kitchen.
“Just wanted to get the movie going.”
You look downright besotted, “That’s sweet Marcus,” you run the washcloth under the tap, “but it’s been a long day, just let me take care of you.”
Gently you pat at the drying blood under his nose, being wary of any possible cuts.
With that done you gently prod at his nose, flinching when he winces.
“I’m sorry honey,” his stomach rolls at the endearment, “hopefully it’s not broken, your nose is lovely.”
If this were any other time he’d be flattered, he’s heard jokes about his nose for years, even cracked a few of his own. Having the first person that wasn’t his mother complement his nose be a likely delusional serial killer, well his life’s gone to shit.
You finish patching him up and call the diner, getting his order right, all the way down to the extra pineapple.
“How’d you know my order?”
You look at him confused, “Why wouldn’t I know your favorite order?”
He shakes his head, not having an answer that lines up with your apparent delusion, “Sorry, that was a silly question.”
“Are you dizzy? Double vision?” You cup his cheeks, “It was a pretty hard hit.”
“No, no,” he grabs your wrists, stomach turning at the concern in his own voice as he notices the tears building in your eyes, “I’ve been concussed before, this isn’t it.”
You swallow but trust his judgment, stepping back so he can slip from the stool.
“Now let’s get that movie started, hmm?”
Nodding you rush deeper into his apartment, coming back with arms stuffed with pillows and a comforter. Walking over and dropping the collection onto his couch.
Marcus lets you poke and prod him into place, covering him with the blanket and even tucking him in.
There’s a knock on the door.
“That was fast, but it is late, probably had nothing better to do.”
Marcus doesn’t move as you leave to open the door, too scared to possibly mess something up.
“Hell-“
There’s a scream and thud, the sound of wrestling at his door.
“Pike?”
Swallowing he answers and nods.
“Fuck man, you look like shit.”
Marcus just keeps nodding, looking over the back of his couch to see you being held down by two officers fighting to get you cuffed.
You’re screaming, asking why they’re trying to arrest you, yelling for Marcus to help, yelling for anyone to help.
Marcus stares numbly as you’re dragged away from his door.
———
“Pike, you, uhh, you might want to see this.”
That usually means he doesn’t want to see it, but he knows the curiosity would eat him alive.
He trudges to your apartment, now filled with officers and CSI, and stares.
Hundreds and hundreds of photos of him.
Him leaving work, in his car, having lunch at the National Mall. Other photos are so cropped that he can’t tell where or when they’re from, the only real hint being the state of his facial hair.
“Christ.”
The detectives nod.
“Is it like this everywhere?”
“Basically, the bathroom’s empty, and ugh…” the CSI looks at everyone but Marcus.
Another one responds for her, “The bedroom’s really fucking weird, and gross. No offense.”
Marcus closes his eyes.
“They’re really flattering photos, which doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme, but they’d’ve been a solid photographer.”
Now the dark curiosity is demanding to be fed.
He walks deeper into the apartment, the photos of himself lining the walls putting him on edge.
The tech meant gross as in creepy, which is saying something considering.
Photos of him at the gym, the pool, him jogging, the other tech wasn’t kidding about the flattering though, some of the shots unsettlingly tasteful.
He needs to leave.
He heads out. Out of the apartment. Out of the building. He needs to rent a hotel and start looking for a new place to live, maybe even request a transfer.
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