#sanguinarydesign

Dear Jim, you have 5 new victims.

                   ” ——— Jim Moriarty; but you know that.” 

Mike was happy. He had plans on surprising Dimitri, already had a dinner picked up. The day hadn't been as bad as it usually was and he wanted to celebrate it. Pulling up, he saw that his car was there, but most of the house was dark. “Huh, thought he was usually around by now,” he muttered, stepping out and moving up to the front door. He knocked twice. “Dimitri,” he yelled, hoping that it made it through the house. He didn't hear anything and checked the door. Locked, obviously. He found the spare key, kept in a watertight keep box and buried, before using it to allow himself in and reburying it.

He walked in carefully, mindful of loud noises and tried to hear for some hint as to where he was. In the kitchen, he put down the bag and listened before hearing something strange in the basement. Mike never gone down. Dimitri claimed he only had storage down there and there hadn't been a reason to head down any of the times he had come over. Now, he was curious to see if the man was digging up old school reminders or maybe something from his first job.

The door was unlocked, and he stepped down carefully, avoiding tripping hazards and looking for him. Instead of lots of boxes and totes, like he thought, there were only a few. There was also a room he didn't expect. He approached it and opened the door before going inside.

His first sight was horrifying. There was a body on the table. It had to be a body, there was too much blood loss for the person to be alive. He saw multiple stab wounds, some as large as a blade, some pin hole sized as an ice pick. He saw the tools in a metal tray, several with evidence of usage. He moved to get back up the stairs and call in backup before something smacked the back of his head, making him fall and crash into unconsciousness.

When Mike woke up, his head was still in massive pain. He groaned, moving his arms to try and check how bad it was. But they wouldn't move. He opened his eyes and saw them taped to the arms of a chair. His legs were also taped apart and to the chair. He lifted his head and saw that he was in the place where the body had previously been. The tray of instruments was nearby, but not close enough for him to get a knife or something out of it.

Dimitri was near the door, wearing plain, but blood splattered clothes. He was holding a knife, carefully wiping off the blood while watching him figure out the situation. “Dimitri. Untie me,” he demanded.

The other man shook his head. “I can't do that, Mike,” he said.

He started struggling against the tape, feeling it rip off hairs but not stretching at all. “Let go of me.” He kept shaking his head, as if a simple request was impossible. “Dimitri, let go of me,” he repeated, moving the chair, trying to get some leeway. He was becoming panicked, anxiety building up. “Let go of me, let go of me.” He stared at him, the knife and his posture destroying part of his emotional control and he wanted out and he....

My muse is sexually frustrated and yours offers to help.

So a very special thank you to the following, since replying to all of them would just be me saying a lot of the same thing. 

Exnatura, heartbreakingsalvatore, jay-the-youtuber, and an extra special thanks to sanguinarydesign for throwing puppies and kittens and goats at me, that made me giggle (I love goats btw). And then the several other Anonymous people, thank you (you should come of anon and love me too <3) 

And of course, hairlikehellfire and  justagirlatthebar for talking me down before I went to bed. You two helped more than you'll ever know. 

sanguinarydesign

abamentia

illshootyoudown