Simon Finds A Toy

Simon Finds a Toy

You had just moved to town when the serial killer who was passing through takes a shine to you. Simon/Reader, 3.5k

18+ cw: kidnapping, hobbling, spanking, animal death

March is practically over when everything goes wrong.

Running through an abandoned warehouse avoiding bodies was not how you saw your evening going.

When the first of you began disappearing into the dark, no one noticed. You didn't all know each other, it was one of those friend of a friend types of gatherings, with everyone separating into pre-formed cliques within the first hour.

It was a younger guy who had suggested exploring the old building a mile down the road—no surprise there. Per his words, he fancied himself an urban explorer. You hadn't seen him since the beginning, one of the first to go missing.

You weren't even supposed to be here tonight! You'd just moved into town and you were trying to make friends. When the pretty girl at the bakery invited you to hang out, you thought you were good. That maybe life wasn't so hard and setting down roots wasn't impossible.

Stupid—tempting the universe like that.

Whoever this guy was, he was massive. The kind of massive where if he barreled into you, you would be pancaked. You had watched him take a bear of a man (Jeremy? Jason? Maybe—all you can remember is he said he was a footballer) out half an hour ago—lifted, bent, and broken all in one smooth, brutal move.

It was as awe-inspiring as it was fear-inducing.

So you run.

You run and you hide until you're backed into a corner. He's found every other person and now it's your turn. You're bleeding and bruised, aching where you slammed into sharp corners and machinery in the dark.

This is it, the climax of your story, is anyone surprised that you run your mouth a little? You don't hold back as you tell him everything you think about him, every new fucked up thing this evening had presented, every grievance ever buried down under the veneer of civility.

Why is he just staring? You're caught, nowhere to go, and he's just … looking. He's got shark eyes—pools of inky black that suck you in. Drowning.

He decides to take you home with him.

This has to be a joke.

///

April brings cruelty in its change, where you're expected to learn the shape of the season.

Stop messing with these knots or you won't like the consequences.

How were you supposed to know this is what he meant? He said it exactly once; the first night in the truck when he hopped out after hours of driving just to find you with the rope halfway undone, eyes glaring at him from above your gag.

He grunted out his warning while retying it, calm as you please, as if it wasn't a bother to him one way or the other.

Looking back at it he was probably hoping you would ignore the warning, the psychopath.

The next morning he had to tighten them again after your long night spent fiddling but he didn't say anything—just adjusted the knots and walked back around to continue the drive. He hadn't stopped that day other than for gas and one bathroom break on the side of a cracked and potholed back road, where if there had been any traffic, they would've gotten quite the show.

He didn't even have the decency to take you into the trees.

You had gotten one hand completely out of the hog tie by the time you two reached your destination; this little tin-roofed shed with just enough room for him to pull all the way in and close the doors behind him was the only building you'd seen in hours.

He doesn't address your unbound hand—simply refastens it into the tie while ignoring how you had removed the cloth gag with your partial freedom. What follows is the culmination of days worth of you sitting in enforced silence, thinking up every creative thing you could call him. Unfortunately he ignores you cussing him out, and throws you over his shoulder to begin his trek through the woods.

He doesn't seem to mind you screaming your head off, at least other than making sure you don't do it directly in his ear. That got a sharp adjustment of your torso across his shoulder; your grunting wheeze in response not very demure.

Now you're here—staring at your hands. Or rather, your thumbs and where they were taped in little braces to stop you from moving them. Sweat and dirt making the skin itch beneath the bandages.

He told you you wouldn't like the consequences. He TOLD you. Did you think he was lying?

Well—kind of, yeah. What sort of monster breaks someone's thumbs?

Your stare turns into a glare, unseeing of anything around you until a heavy hand landing on your shoulder makes you jerk in surprise.

"Leave it, pet. No use thinking on it now," is grumbled down at you before he huffs in something resembling amusement as you lean sideways, trying to get out from underneath his grasp.

You've been waiting for the day when he loses his patience and murders you too, but it hasn't happened yet. Maybe he finds it entertaining when you act like a kicked dog around him.

Which is a funny thought considering he has a dog that damn near idolizes him.

He ignores him most of the time—takes care to feed and water him but that's the extent. No scratches behind the ear, no tummy rubs, no kisses between the ears. As if you needed another reason to hate this guy.

You watch him put together three plates, two in bowls and one on some kind of wooden board. You snort to yourself when you think of this guy enjoying a charcuterie board, ignoring him when he cocks an eyebrow back at you, waiting for an explanation that won't come.

At least you've gotten better at keeping your expression blank when he sets the two bowls on the floor, before taking his charcuterie board wanna-be into the dining room.

Asshole.

///

May saw flowers blooming and lessons learned.

You have use of your thumbs again. That's a win.

Puttering around this stupid cabin is driving you insane. You've learned a few things since you've been here—his name is Simon, he's military, he murders people in his free time, and his dog's name is Dog.

Fucking. Psychopath.

You're not allowed outside. Simon had told you this as he was unwrapping your thumbs for the last time, break yer ankles if ya even try f'r the door. So you don't. You make your displeasure known in other ways, pushing to see where the lines are, so you know where to press to cause the most damage.

He annoyingly stoic. Nothing you say seems to get a rise out of him and other than breaking an established rule—don't touch the rope, don't go outside, don't try and stab him with a kitchen knife—he leaves you to your own devices.

He's always around, hovering. He responds if you talk to him civilly, ignores you if you scream at him, and bends you over his knee if you start swinging.

The cup you threw at his head was ugly anyways.

You screamed yourself hoarse that first time he pulled you across his lap, other leg pinning yours down with a forearm pressed between your shoulder blades. You thrashed but could barely move, well and truly immobilized.

You began pleading as your pants were pulled down, begging him not to touch you, telling him you were sorry. He acted like he couldn't hear you.

The first slap was more shocking than anything. Your voice caught on a hiccup of air as his palm made contact, the fat around his strike rippling. You don't get a moment to process before he's smacked you three more times, alternating cheeks.

Eons later, after he's reached whatever preconceived end he had decided on, you're a limp, sobbing mess, your face pressed into the cushions, great gasping sobs rolling their way out of your chest.

He cleans your face before applying cooling balm to your skin and that was a greater gut punch than the spanking had been. He doesn't get to be both—he doesn't get to hit you over and over again and then hold the tissue while you blow your nose. You can't handle him being both.

You don't sit comfortably for days and a new rule is created—don't throw things inside the cabin.

///

You're allowed to eat at the table with him now, no more guarding your bowl from Dog who was surprisingly nimble. Simon and Dog have the same conversational aptitude so at least you can eat in peace.

That's another good thing he has going for him (are you going to go to hell for thinking of good qualities in a murderer?) he never stints on portion sizes.

You were quite pleased to realize you had stayed delightfully soft over the past couple of months. Locked in the cabin as you are, the only exercise you've gotten is for your tongue, which has been honed razor sharp by this point with the vitriol that never seems to cause as much damage as intended.

He was a decent cook too. Nothing insane, his meals were basic and limited by what he had stored in his kitchen and cellar, but you hadn't had a bad meal yet.

He left sometimes to restock. Or for other excursions. When it came time for him to leave you would be moved to the bedroom, regardless of how much you kicked and snarled, and a leg chain would be connected to a hook under the bed.

Those days were some of the worst. If he noticed the salt crusting the bed when he eventually returned he never said anything.

///

June saw the temperatures rise, tensions following suit.

You don't like to think about the start of summer.

You had a nervous breakdown one day when the heat was intense. Simon had gone to pick up food and he had left you unchained. You were standing in the living room, looking at the front door, free to walk through it whenever you wanted.

So why were you standing here?

Simon would be upset if you left the cabin. Its one of the rules, don't go outside, that you're supposed to follow. There are consequences if you don't follow the rules.

You ignore the tremble in your knees as your fingernails dig crescents into your palms, the door taunting you with its presence. You could do it; you should do it. Run. Get away, get to the police, have him thrown in jail.

You're going insane, you're losing your mind. Is any of this even real? Why are you still standing here?

In an attempt to get yourself out of the standstill you were in, you forced yourself to take a few trembling steps . . . towards the kitchen where you got yourself a glass of water, and ignored the door behind you that was taunting you by calling your name.

You taught Dog a few tricks instead.

Nothing crazy—sit, lay down, shake. Still, you were pretty proud. Something good came out of this.

You didn't make eye contact with Simon for a week once he was back.

///

July is sunburns and fingermarks left where you touch him.

All you see is Simon, he's all you talk to (that sometimes talks back), all you hear. Is it any surprise you said fuck it?

You remember reading something once that said humans required touch, if they didn't get it they'd go crazy. Heh. Maybe that's what happened to Simon, living up here in this cabin, hard to have anybody to touch.

So you bend first; you always bend first with Simon. Every day with him is a yielding in one way or another. You're not sure if you even know how to stand upright any longer.

It starts with a pat on the shoulder.

He had brought you back a puzzle book from his last murder spree. Some giant workbook with a dozen different types of puzzles. If you had any dignity left it would've been lost at how excited you got for that puzzle book.

So, you thanked him. You took the book, patted him on the shoulder, and then went to sit at the table to play with your new entertainment. Simple, simple, simple.

So explain how you ended up here.

Don't swallow, keep your throat open for me, don't you fucking swallow—fuck, fuck, fuck.

///

August was a sticky heat and you were careful not to dig too deep.

You had to butcher your first animal at the end of the summer months.

Simon was out on a short trip when the dog caught a fox. He came dragging it in just like his papa, proud of the innocent blood dripping from between his jaws, his own muzzle bleeding where sharp teeth and claws had sank in.

When you pried it from his teeth, you realized the fox was still breathing, little heart thrumming against your fingertips, vibrating at an almost continuous hum.

The dog's fangs had punctured its stomach. Organs and muscles ruptured and bleeding. Another mark in the 'just like papa' column. Not decent enough to kill cleanly. Have to play in it, enjoy it.

You knew what you needed to do but still you hesitated. Weren't you going to attempt to save it? It's what you would've done before. Before Simon, before this cabin, before the nightmares.

One hand held it firmly, keeping it from attacking out of fear or pain while you softly dragged the other through the damp fur of its back, attempting any sort of comfort.

You could see yourself in it; living your life with your own sharp little teeth as protection until something bigger came along. Something that saw you and decided you would taste best in its maw, your blood coating its throat.

It drug you as a prize back to its home, uncaring of the blood you leaked on the floor, the bile you spit at its feet. You wondered if it would hurt less, to be the dog.

You did the fox a favor when you sliced its neck. No more pain.

///

September saw the leaves changing and witnessed your further plummet into Simon's orbit.

He had been home for weeks. Continuously. No little camping trips, no missions, nothing. He was beyond pissed but it was his own damn fault for getting stabbed in the leg.

You had cackled when he came limping in, blood oozing through the fabric he'd tied tightly around the wound. Looks like his latest quarry had sharper teeth than he realized. Good for them.

Stitching him up was repugnant—he laughed in your face when you gagged at the blood that coated you up to your forearms and were thankful to wrap him up and be done with it so you could bathe. The blood left a stubborn stain under your fingernails for days.

After weeks of him following you around—touching you constantly, sticking his fingers in your mouth or in your cunt whenever he liked, eating the food you made for yourself—you were fit to burst.

Go find your next plaything, just get him out of my hair!

///

October saw the trees shedding their leaves, their bare branches showing through. It saw you without a mask of your own.

You were allowed outside when Simon was home. It had been such a subtle decline, you thinking of escaping, that you didn't notice it's absence until now, when you were watching the cold sun create shadows on the ground with no desire to wander father than the front porch.

You were allowed outside, you were no longer chained up when he left, you could leave. You could pack a bag, pick a direction, and walk. For however long you needed to.

But.

It was getting colder at night. You'd be out there for days if not weeks before you found a road to follow if you were lucky. Plus you had no idea which direction to go. What if you ended up deeper in the mountains?

What if you continued to lie to make yourself feel better?

///

November saw the winds begin to howl with your feral side howling along, music in the dark.

Simon was gone—getting the last of his energy out before you were snowed into the cabin with the winter storms that were starting up. The eerie howling having long become a background echo in your ears.

Dog had been acting strange all day. Staring out the windows, growling at the door, barking when the trees brushed the roof. You'd let him out to check several times but he always came back inside after circling the cabin.

Strange.

The sun had almost set when you saw movement outside the window, a dark mass moving between the trees, too deep in the dusk to make out.

Dog hadn't come back yet from his last perimeter check, leaving you alone inside the cabin. You watched out the window for several long moments, only hearing the wind moving through the trees.

A loud bang on the opposite side of the cabin had you looking away from the window with a start; when you looked back after a few short seconds, the shape was gone—faded back into the trees.

Your heart pounded in your chest, mouth drying up and palms becoming damp. You ducked out of sight of the window and creeped into the kitchen, pulling one of Simon's knives out of the knife block.

One benefit to living with a serial killer, his knives were always in pristine condition. You know if you needed to stab someone, this knife would be slicing through them like butter.

Pressing into a corner, your mind spun in rabid circles. Who was that outside? How did they find the cabin? Were they there to hurt you? Dog never came back in. What if they murdered him and left his body to rot in the leaves? Dog was a good boy, he didn't deserve that.

You gripped the knife tightly, steadying your nerves. You weren't going to be the victim again. You'd been there, done that and you knew how it played out. When (if you told yourself, it might not happen, they might leave, there might not be anyone out there) they came through the door, you would defend yourself. If someone came through that door, it means they killed Dog and they will be coming for you.

You took a deep breath while wedged into the corner with the door firmly in sight, holding your knife in front of you, ready to attack. You would do it. If they thought you wouldn't, they're about to be too dead to relearn.

The door opens between one heartbeat and the next, the wind's grasping fingers catching, causing it to slam back against the wall, a dark hulking mass standing on the doorstep. You pounce, screaming like a wild thing, knife flashing through the air. They snatch your wrist and wrench it behind your back, kicking the knife away.

Thought we were past this, pet.

Oh. It's just Simon.

The following let down had your body shaking like you'd spent all night out in the cold. Tremors wracked you from head to toe as you tried not to think about how readily you'd been to commit murder.

The last few moments replayed in your head as you breathed in a controlled manner, attempting to regain control of your body. It's only Simon, it's only Simon you repeat to yourself, self soothing, it's only Si—what?

Since when has the fact that it's Simon been comforting? Have you forgotten what he did to you?

No, of course not. You hadn't forgotten. You knew Simon wasn't the good guy of the story. You were simply happy for the devil you knew . . . right?

///

December saw the snow begin to fall, walls following suit.

Simon finished last minute preparations around the cabin, within ears reach all day, every day. You spent a lot of time trailing after him, watching him work. Helping occasionally when he'd hold out nails for you to pass him as needed, or holding a board steady as he cut.

You asked him questions—things you hadn't bothered wondering before, how long have you lived up here, do you have any family, what do you do for your job?

He answered truthfully, as far as you could tell. It made you offer pieces of yourself in return.

///

January saw the snow pack everything in, forced proximity tightening bonds.

You and Simon spent all day together, every day. He never ran out of stories to tell you about his past mission or murdering sprees. Listening to him talk, you realized he really did get rid of the annoying ones first. A strange thought to have with no feelings attached—you didn't even notice their absence.

///

February was dark. February was cold. Hadn't it always been you and simon?

///

March saw the snow melting, the sun waking earlier each day. When Simon left to stretch his legs, March saw a second body following along behind him.

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