A ghost/spirit creature who is still trapped here and unable to move on.
Maybe they're still tied up, or the chains are still visible on their form as they haunt. Maybe they're lost, because their body was never found and the case never solved. Maybe they were all alone in life, and now roam around like a husk of loneliness.
Caretaker trying to help the creature, thinking that if they can just solve whatever was unsolved, they'll be freed.
So they break the chain. They find the body and bring closure to people. They show the creature they're not all alone anymore.
But it doesn't work. It doesn't work because nothing is solved. It's simply... too late. Whumpee died, and they weren't saved. This isn't them anymore, it's just a manifestation of their pain and suffering.
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Ghost whumpee watches from their old cell. They watched their body decompose and they watched as a new whumpee took their place. They’ve tried everything to get out, to escape the cell and find a way to cross over, but nothing works.
Whumpee is ice cold aganist Caretaker's skin, but still, Caretaker holds on to them. At least, in the dark, in the bed, they can pretend Whumpee's isn't blue and green all over, injuries still open and red with transparent blood spillling out and fading into thin air like mist. They can even let Whumpee's soft cries fade onto Caretaker's chest and let it turn into mere white noise, a sad song for their fate.
But there is the cold, a cold Caretaker could never imagine it could exist. They can't ignore the way Whumpee's hands burn where they touch Caretaker's back as they cuddle, they can never escape the cold. It doesn't matter the month or how long they turn the heater on or how many blankets they pile up in the bed, Caretaker is cold because Whumpee is cold, and nothing can ever warm Whumpee again.
Please, Whumpee whispers. Caretaker shakes their head and lets out a sob.
Summary: A hit taken during a mission leads to a lapse in memory.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x GN!Reader, 1.1k words.
Era: Post formation of 141
TW: Mentions of head trauma, violent deaths from warfare, descriptions of blood, amnesia. Angst because Simon can't be happy. Retrograde amnesia and concussion.
Day 26 of my bastardized version of Russian Roulette Febuwhump/Kinktober for March that I'm affectionately calling Trinket's Cause of Death. It's basically 50/50 whump/kink where I generate a number corresponding to a prompt. This first whump prompt!
Day 26: Amnesia with Ghost (whump) for @isavuu
It was more than just worrying when you suddenly disappeared mid-mission, refusing to answer calls over comms and not in the house you were supposed to be clearing. Here one second and bantering Ghost, telling shitty dad jokes to keep one another grounded and the next just… silent.
There was the briefest moment of sound that your microphone picked up, a heavy thunk and an exhausted sigh from you before it became radio silence. Calling you by callsign and nickname and even your full name did nothing.
It scared the shit out of Ghost. Reminded Simon too much of a couple with a young son, so full of life and easy smiles, just as easily snuffed out. You were the first person to break through the hard shell of his mask and get down to the soft bits, to see the Simon he keeps hidden away from any and everyone.
He can’t lose that; he can’t lose you. He can’t lose the one good fucking thing to happen to him in years. Ghost ignores Price’s orders to stay in position and let the Sergeants find you, instead barreling through hostiles like a bull in a china shop trying to locate you.
The first thing he sees is the blood. Thick, bright arterial spray coating the nicotine-stained wallpaper of the second-story bedroom signaling a fatal injury to the jugular. There’s a darker spot of blood in a circular dent in the wall, as if someone’s head was slammed against it.
The second thing he sees is the bodies. Two lumps on the floor, both in tactical gear. It isn’t hard for Ghost to tell which one is you, he knows you like the back of his hand even without the identifiable markers of 141 gear, the patch stained with red.
Simon prays for the first time in his life that all you have is a head injury- that he won’t have to carry back a cooling body, to take your dog tags for the last time. You won’t be as easily packed away as Tommy and Beth, you could never be. You have woven yourself into each and every strand of DNA in his body.
There is no Simon if there’s no you.
After the most cursory checking of the room to make sure there’s no more surprises waiting around the corner, he drops to his knees behind you. “Love…” His voice is so soft as he hesitantly pushed your shoulder to roll your limp body onto your back, more Simon than Ghost.
There’s a downpour of blood from a gash on your head that’ll undoubtedly leave a scar, but the fact that you’re breathing and alive is more than enough for him.
Simon takes a deep breath before Ghost pats your cheek, gloves velcroing with drying blood as he attempts to rouse you. “Come on love, open those pretty eyes. Wake up.”
It takes several attempts to rouse you before your eyes flutter open, discombobulated and pained. You attempt to sit yourself up but it’s all too easy to keep you on your back. “Easy baby, stay down. You took a bad hit. Can you hear me?”
You make a vaguely agreeing noise, those pretty eyes locking onto his face but not easing the way they normally do when you look at him. Your pupils are too big and your gaze distant. “Who’re you…?”
The doctors on the base diagnose you with a severe concussion and retrograde amnesia when you continue to have no idea who your team is. You can remember the 141 task force, but you can’t access your personal memories and experiences as a member, wiping away the past 3 years of your life with a single slam of your head into a wall.
It could be something as simple as a scent that brings it all back or you could never regain them at all, it’s purely a matter of luck. But for now you can’t remember any stories Gaz and Soap tell you, none of Price’s discussion about prior cases and paperwork making any sense. And you can’t remember Simon.
Ghost exists in your memory as a superior officer and a campfire tale for new recruits but all personal attachment’s been washed away. That doesn’t stop him from being there for you. You might not remember what it was like to be Simon’s, but he reminds you day after day, telling you about how the two of you hated one another when you first joined and how a bullet graze led to your first kiss.
He sits by your hospital bed as you recover your strength and tells you everything you need to know, seamlessly filling in when you hesitate to answer a question you should know the answer to.
It’s odd to be doted on by someone infamous for brutality and being fucking terrifying only for said Ghost to bring you flowers every day and do your skincare every night and day since you’ve added so many steps you can’t remember.
You tell him at one point that trying to get to your memories is like opening your eyes in impure water- muddied and hazy, even though you can sense that something’s there.
Day after day, your health improves, and the concussion slowly heals but your mind stays muddied and memory-free.
“Johnny hates the goldfish joke,” Simon huffs with amusement as he smooths your moisturizer over the apples of your cheeks with the gentlest touch you’ve ever experienced. He’s maskless again, something he seems to do without thinking around you. It’s enough to make you ache for your memories back, to chomp at the bit. How is this man yours? “It’s your favorite, though.”
One good thing about your amnesia is Simon getting to experience your reactions to his jokes all over again. The way your nose wrinkles and your lips twitch as you try to not laugh, now those gorgeous eyes sparkle. “Is that right?”
“I’d never lie about a joke,” He deadpans even as that scarred lip curls up. “Goes like this. Two goldfish are in a tank. One turns to the other and says-”
You butt in before he can finish the joke, an odd sheen to your eyes and your words a quiet whisper. “Do you know how to drive this thing?
He could thank every star in the sky for this interruption. Maybe, just maybe… “Yeah love, how’d you know?”
“I remember you telling us,” You murmur, clearly trying to hold back from forcing your brain to surface more memories. “It’s stupid, but I thought it was hilarious the way you said it, all Ghost-like. Laughed so hard I almost blew my cover... I remember.”
It’s a small joke with little to no relevance outside of your personal lives but you think that maybe the water’s gotten just a little bit clearer.
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Whumpee who dies (maybe whumper kills them directly once they've outlived their purpose, maybe this is a slow death from the accumulation of all the torture/neglect they've been put through)
But somehow, someway, they come back as a ghost to haunt whumper. Now they're the one being tortured, and in a way it's more horrifying, how they don't understand what's going on, how they feel like they're going insane. How they can technically tell others what they're going through, and plead to be saved, but whumpee ensures no one believes them and no one will come to their aid, just like whumper ensured no one did in their life. How they use their own torture methods against them. How they are always following, their cold imprint pricking the nape of their neck, their broken but grinning form flickering just at the edge of whumper's vision no matter which way they turn. Forever.
Multiple pieces of media have gotten me thinking about doll whumpees lately, and I can't contain myself anymore.
Haunted doll whumpee being rescued from a museum of haunted items, where their collector kept them caged in display cases.
A collector who believes whumpee is an evil spirit and keeps trying to banish them in painful ways.
All the usual doll whump - being dropped, cracked, damaged, thrown away, etc.
Missing their human body and the ability to feel sensations.
The terrible feeling of being paralyzed and unable even to scream.
Desperately trying to affect things in the surrounding environment.
Whumpee went through a very traumatic death and creates a storm of supernatural activity whenever they have flashbacks.
The depression of being a ghost: life has stopped and maybe nothing will ever change or improve.
People running in fear whenever they try to ask for help.
Affecting the physical environment can be imprecise, so whumpee hurts people on accident when they get too emotional. They feel terribly guilty for it.
Caretaker is the one person they've met who has experience as a spirit medium.
Or Caretaker who is terrified of ghosts but chooses to trust whumpee anyway because they don't want them to suffer.
Caretaker translates for them, moves them around, and makes them feel alive again.
Caretaker willingly letting whumpee possess them, as a way to help them finish things or just to make them feel alive. It's an incredible leap of trust.
Caretaker helping them finish their unfinished business.
