So I do in fact love Bloody Mary (and Bloody Mary on the Rocks) like generally, period.
And I also love mutated fish Simon (because of the radiation poisoning among the many other afflictions my man has—).
But now that I know that the tree is like a THING, I’d very much appreciate seeing—(damn do I need to do this myself)
Tree person Simon! I’d love to see Tree-Person Mutated Simon! He was of Eden—where their bodies became the soil??? Has no one popularized Tree Simon yet! Dryad adjacent Simon? (I know that he’s not Greek… is there a Korean equivalent? Lemme see here… I dunno if there’s a specific naming convention in Korean Shamanism, but Tree Simon!)
So we can have Mutated Fish Simon, Mutated Tree Simon, Tree Bonded Simon, Ghost Simon, Demi-God Simon, God-Touched Simon, Vengeful Spirit Simon, Psychic Simon, Seer Simon, (hell maybe Blood Bender Simon), and so so many more! I’d love to see what else we can create and come up with for Simon in and outside of the ship in how he’s depicted! :D!
ghost x reader, but what if he's a literal ghost
wc: 0.3K
part one part two
You see glimpses of it, glimpses of the shadow haunting you. It's never a direct glance, only existing in your peripheral. Movement in the corner of your eyes, a shadow lingering at the edge of the doorframe, a smudge on your reality.
You called a priest, a medium, and a psychologist. The first two agreed something was here, but it remained unresponsive to any attempt at banishment or contact. If it wasn't malevolent, nothing to do except move if it was really bothering you. (could be a guardian angel or a positive spirit they had said, nodding their heads and taking their incense and sage out the door).
The psychologist thinks you would benefit from medication (which could be true in a lot of cases, but you know something's here. You know it. You're not crazy.)
While these glimpses were pulling at your nerves, there's no way in hell you're moving over them. So you live with it. You make your peace and live with it.
And then it gets worse.
You had found an old box tucked away in the attic you never visit. It's covered with dust, untouched for who knows how long. There's a collection of old photos here, documents, traces of people long gone now. One picture stands out to you. A stern-looking man, with a face full of scars, and hair cropped close. A name is scribbled on the back: Simon Riley.
You feel something click into place, and you know that he's here. That he's still in this house for some reason. When you look up from the photo, two dark eyes stare at you.
You scream, flailing backwards as the box tumbles, spilling the rest of it's contents. The eyes just blink at you from the shadows. You stare, blood pumping, and fear coursing through you. The darkness that surrounds the eyes gives shape to something large and hulking. A silhouette.
He's not fully there, like a charcoal drawing that still needs detail. But it's him.
"Simon," you whisper out softly, the air thick and full of suspense. His eyes go wide at you, and he appears a little more clearly before he melts back into the shadows.
A mission goes horribly wrong. A furious lieutenant and a grieving sergeant confront reckless recruits whose disobedience got a beloved comrade killed. Raw emotion, blame, and brutal truth tear through the silence—because some lessons come soaked in blood.
The meeting hall stank of sweat, gunpowder, and failure.
“It was a bloody disaster!” Lieutenant Simon’s voice cracked like thunder, rattling the bones of every soldier standing at attention. The room pulsed with tension, his rage wrapping around them like barbed wire.
He stood in the center, a monolith of fury, his gloved hand slashing through the air as if carving the shame into their chests. “You call that coordination? Teamwork? We were lucky enough to come back here in one piece!”
His words lashed at them, each syllable sharp and merciless.
Then came the crash—a chair hurled violently across the room, splintering against the floor. The sound echoed like a gunshot, silencing even the bravest attempt at explanation.
A young soldier opened his mouth to speak, likely to offer an apology, an excuse—but Simon’s death-glare and venom-laced words shut him down before a single syllable escaped.
Then everything changed.
You walked in.
Your steps were soft, measured, like the eye of a storm. But the shift in the air was immediate. Simon felt your presence before his eyes met yours. His rage, still boiling, simmered into silence the second you entered. His posture softened—barely—but enough for the seasoned soldiers to notice.
“Sergeant,” he said, and for a fleeting moment, his voice wasn’t fire, but gravel warmed by sunlight.
You saluted. “Yes, sir.”
“At ease,” he replied, his hands clasped behind his back, voice now thick with restraint. “Could I speak to you in private?”
“In a moment, Lieutenant,” you said, stepping past him with a calm he didn’t have. “I need a word with your recruits.”
The shift was immediate.
You faced them—young, green, and so stupid they didn’t even know how stupid they were. The storm that had once been Simon was now yours to unleash.
“Recruits.”
The word tore from your throat, jagged and sharp. It dropped into the silence like a lit fuse.
“Today… was a disaster.”
You paused, breath ragged.
“No. Today was a f***ing nightmare.”
The hall was frozen. No one dared move, not even to blink. You stepped forward, the weight of your grief and fury dragging behind you like chains.
“One of you—maybe more—ignored my orders.” Your voice cracked but didn’t falter. “You thought you were smarter. Faster. Braver. You weren’t. You were reckless. Arrogant. And because of that…”
You choked, the pain breaking through.
“You exposed your squad. You almost got us all killed. Including me. Including the man who trusted you to follow his lead.”
Silence met your words. Cold and suffocating.
“Listen closely,” you growled, your voice now low, deadly. “You don’t matter here. Not yet. You’re cannon fodder until we decide otherwise.”
You paced, your boots thudding like war drums. “You ran headfirst into a minefield. And you stole the chance for the bomb team—my team—to clear the way. Because of you…”
You stopped, breath hitching.
“Ryan’s dead.”
A single name. A single gunshot to the soul.
“Sergeant Ryan Keller.” You swallowed hard. “A father. A husband. My friend. My brother.”
The room held its breath as you spoke of the moment—the explosion, the blood, the way his eyes had gone still in your arms.
“He was supposed to come home in three weeks. He promised his daughter he’d teach her to ride a bike.”
Your voice cracked again. And then it broke.
“GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER, OR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU NEVER WEAR THIS UNIFORM AGAIN!”
“YES, DRILL SERGEANT!” they barked back—most of them, anyway.
Then… a whisper. Cowardly. Cutting.
“…Maybe if you’d done your job…”
The world stopped.
You turned slowly, like death itself had turned its gaze.
“What did you say?”
The recruit straightened, either too foolish or too numb to back down.
“Maybe if you’d cleared the mines faster… Ryan would still be alive.”
The storm broke.
You were on him in seconds, fury exploding from every pore. You slammed him into the ground, dirt rising like smoke.
“MY fault?!” you screamed, grief boiling over. “I gave the orders. YOU disobeyed. YOU led your squad into a death trap!”
You yanked his collar, forcing him to face you.
“You cost me my friend.”
Your voice trembled, but you didn’t hide it. You wanted them to see.
“He trusted me. He died because you didn’t.”
You stepped back, the weight of grief dragging your shoulders down.
“His blood is on your hands.”
Your tone fell to a whisper—broken, raw.
“You stole a father from his child. A husband from his wife. A brother from me.”
Tears streamed freely now.
“And I don’t care what happens to you after this… but I’ll make damn sure you never forget the feeling of his blood on your skin.”
You turned to Simon—Ghost, as his men called him.
He’d been watching the entire time, unmoving. Eyes like ice. Jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. But beneath the cold exterior, something shifted. Sympathy, pride… pain. Something human.
“GET YOUR ASSES TO YOUR BARRACKS!”
The recruits scrambled, boots slamming like thunder, hands shaking as they saluted and disappeared like shadows into the hall.
Silence followed.
Ghost didn’t speak at first.
He watched you, still trembling, still bleeding from wounds no one could see.
Finally, his voice, low and unsteady:
“I… They just don’t get it.”
You didn’t reply.
You didn’t have to.
He stepped closer, wordless, and stood beside you. For once, even the Ghost had nothing left to say.
He couldn't think. Paying no attention to what he was walking through or past, Simon whipped through the jungle, focused on finding that spot. His eyes were closed - he remembered this path. He remembered. He slid from the jungle onto the beach, eyes finally opening as he stumbled forward, not stopping until he found it. Just at the shore edge, just where water met sand, he had met a gruesome end. No evidence remained of it now, sand cleaned by the tide, and his body long gone. Simon crumpled to his knees and pressed his face into his arms in the water, none clung to him.
His heart ached desperately, although he wasn't sure how that worked. The nausea was most unwelcome too, gripping at his stomach much like it had shortly before his death. The whole thing played over and over; finding the pilot's body, being sick, immediately going to find the others to tell them, and then his untimely death. Simon had screamed and tried to make them listen. It had fallen on deaf, frantic ears.
Or so Simon had thought.
Much easier to believe they hadn't heard him over their own shouts, and cries. Simon never was very good at raising his voice to be heard. His own fault that should do him in in the end.
But Bill had heard him, and if Bill had heard him then who else had heard him? Had they killed him anyway? Surely- surely not. Not Ralph. Not Jack. Jack knew him better than anyone- surely he knew his voice even if he hadn't recognised him in the dark. Gosh, had any of them even noticed he'd disappeared in the first place?
A dry sob escaped Simon's throat, fists balling beneath him as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. The faces of his killers, the angry shouts, it all came back to swallow him whole and Simon temporarily forgot how to deal with that. Simon forgave, he always forgave, who was he to judge? He wasn't God. It wasn't his place.
But they had heard him.
Another dry sob wracked his body as Simon tried desperately to find a reason, find sense in what he now knew. What a waste of a life. What a mess. The injustice of it had finally caught up with him. He couldn't decide what was worse - Ralph and Piggy's betrayal, or that of the boys he'd known for so long, had attended classes with, had sung with, had praised God with. Simon might have been quiet, he might have been intimidated at times, but he still had considered them friends even when they considered him weak. Even on this island, hadn't Jack cared enough to feed him? Hadn't he let him build shelters with Ralph rather than drag him hunting with the others? Hadn't Jack cared?
The red hot stab of betrayal hurt far more than any jagged spear could.
Tears finally spilled over, the ghost's incorporeal body shaking violently with broken sobs. He tried desperately to dig his hands into the sand, to ground himself, but his hands felt nothing but rock solid ground, only adding to his distress. He cried loudly into his arms, not considering anyone could ever hear him.
How could they? So wrapped up in an imaginary beast- and so quickly having forgotten Simon, the child they'd killed in this very spot. Bitterness swelled in his chest, threatening to devour him from the inside out. His wails had been ignored that night, why shouldn't they be ignored now?
His breathing came in short and fast, a powerful volley of emotions stabbing into him taking his mind instead of body this time. After almost an hour, he fell onto his side, exhausted, eventually forcing himself to roll onto his back. There he stayed until sunrise, trying not to blink for fear of seeing his own death over and over again.
ghost x reader, but what if he's a literal ghost
wc: 0.8K
warnings: violence (but like dream violence lol), use of good girl
part one
Your paranoia gets worse. Pipes creaking and reflections in windows make you jump.
You’re ashamed to admit the amount of times you think you see Simon, only to be met with dark corners. Your new house, once a blessing for the amount of rooms and space, has become a place you do not recognize. Your home is not safe anymore.
Despite not seeing Simon since the attic, the prickling sensation of being watched never leaves you. You feel eyes on you at all times now. Never alone.
Your friend lets you crash on their couch for a few days. As you lock the door to your house, your stomach sinks, unsure if this is the right decision. But you need a few days to think about your options.
You certainly can’t move out. It’s way too expensive to find a new place to live or stay in a hotel long-term. You could couch surf until you sold the house… but that just feels like avoiding the problem.
You toss and turn on your friends worn couch cushions, eyes glued to your phone screen as you google how to talk to a ghost. The medium and priest couldn’t help you before, but maybe…maybe you could help him move on? You would just need to somehow summon him.
On the drive home, you can’t help but think that this could work. Maybe he’s friendly.
Then the nightmares start.
Nasty things with sharp claws, you wake up in the middle of the night, nauseous. Tendons splitting apart, hot blood spewing everywhere, and bone-chilling shrieks. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible.
Sleeping elsewhere does nothing to fix the problem. The dreams follow you to other houses and beds. No, it's better to save your money and dignity and deal with the nightmares at home.
You start to dread going to sleep, and you try to force yourself to stay awake watching whatever garbage is on at 2 am. Anything's better than feeling those cigarette burns, hearing those wails, feeling your skin peel off. You’ve woken up in tears once or twice.
The lack of sleep takes its toll on you, physically and mentally. Melatonin, meditation, journaling, nothing helps.
You’re in the middle of a particularly bad dream, being chased by something big and dark with sharp teeth. You’re tearing through the darkness of your dreamscape, trying to outlast whatever it is behind you.
It’s a fool's errand of course. You’re going to end up right in its grasp, neck clenched inside its massive jaw. You can already hear the bones snapping, feel the blood dripping down your neck and-
And then nothing.
You’re ripped out of the terrifying scene, and instead, you’re somewhere…peaceful? It’s still dark and shadowy here, but you no longer feel the sense of terror. Something’s different. Your eyes eventually adjust, forcing sense and reason to shape the shadows into a waiting room. You squint.
Well, that’s weird. But you feel safe here.
Something heavy weighs on your torso, and your eyes blink open, face twists into an unpleasant expression at waking up after finally getting some rest.
Two dark eyes blink back at you. You freeze, scream caught in your throat as the terror begins to rise.
“That better?” Simon asks in a gruff voice. Your fear gives way to confusion. That’s when you finally analyze the situation you’ve woken up to.
Your friendly/not-so-friendly ghost straddles you with his hands against your temples. He’s hunched over, his face hovering close to yours. Swathes of darkness keep him smudged in your vision. His face feels more like smoke, nothing truly solid except his eyes.
A ghostly hint of an eyebrow raises at you, and his head tilts.
“What?” you ask in a daze, unsure if your dream has turned stranger.
“The nightmare. Better?”
Oh. You nod, thinking of the warmth and safety that had washed over you at the end. He grunts, satisfied.
You stay frozen beneath him, not quite sure what to make of your situation. The familiar prickling sensation you’ve been feeling returns, and you wonder if he has been watching you this entire time. And you wonder what made him intervene now. What changed…
Your ghost doesn’t move. He stays hunched over you, and you briefly note that you can vaguely feel the weight of him on your pelvis.
Something stirs to life in you.
But he doesn’t move. He either doesn’t realize the impropriety of this scenario, or he doesn’t care. Because he’s a ghost.
You feel warmth at your temples though, a vague sensation akin to someone massaging the muscles there. Your eyes grow heavy, and sleep sinks its claws into you once again.
“That’s a good girl,” you hear faintly, and you watch as he drifts into smoke and you into sleep.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 5/?
Fandom: Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Characters: Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce, Agatha Wellbelove, Shepard (Simon Snow), Lamb (Simon Snow)
Additional Tags: Tragedy, slight awtwb spoilers, serious angst fest, Angst, suicide is mentioned but no one does it, Revenge fic
Summary:
What if the fight in the desert had gone a different way?
What if not everyone had survived?
What if people had to throw out everything they believed, everything they thought they were, and everything they dreamed of to survive?
What if there was a way to undo the damage?
Baz has to deal with the fact that he survived the attack in the desert, but Simon did not. What's worse, he's now Lamb's captive. He doesn't care what happens to him as long as he can get his revenge...until the unexpected happens.
After all, just because mages are banned in Vegas doesn't mean that magic ISN'T.
He reaches for my hands, but his pass right through mine. He’s shaking his head. I think he is crying. Can ghosts cry? He is motioning to the door, then trying to grab my hands again. I open my palms for him. He nods and lays his hands flat on mine. I can feel them. Just a tickle. A prick of energy between nerves. I try to curl my fingers around his hands. But I clasp at nothing.
