#soft whump

caretaker building a small pillow fort for the hundredth time that week so whumpee can be in the living room with them

“yeah, no no it’s all yours!” in response to whumpee just sitting quietly in a box. as long as whumpee’s safe and happy, that box can stay!

There is no gentle caress of the sponge, no shushing Whumpee’s cries. Just the desperation, the hardened scrubbing, as Caretaker wipes away months of filth. Dried blood so old it’s tinted black. The streaks of mud across Whumpee’s arms. Bits of food, smudged across Whumpee’s mouth from the hearty stew that Caretaker made them.

They shampoo their matted hair with efficiency. Lather, rinse, repeat and dry. No slowing in their pace, not until Whumpee stands before them. Bandaged, broken, tired… but spotless.

caretaker notices it while waiting at a red light, gently brushes their knuckles over whumpee’s cheek, sighing in relief. at last, they rest

and let caretaker carry them home and tuck them into bed and kiss them goodnight

They'd curl up into a small ball and cry

Cradling the whumpee's face in their hands

Thumbing their cheekbone

Tipping their chin up

Carding a hand through their hair

Palm against a pulse point

Cupping the back of their neck

Supporting the back of their head

Honestly just resting a hand on the crown of their head

Squeezing/massaging their shoulders

It's not that Jūshirō is happy you're sick. Quite the opposite, really; his heart aches at your glassy, vacant expression as you stare up at the ceiling, breath shallow and pained. Some sort of virus struck The Seireitei, depleting Soul Reapers' reiryoku, and you're its latest victim … have been for one week, now — just waiting on The Fourth Division to come up with a cure for the illness. Their only solution thus far has been quarantine, which, sure, put an end to its rampancy across the city, but it's done nothing for the victims already suffering the virus's sting.

Ironically, Jūshirō has been in decent health these past few months. He's thankful for it, because now he can reciprocate the consistent care you've given him all these years; your smile and tender touch have gotten him through the worst of times, and for that, he owes you the world. As he rubs a thumb over your knuckles gently, he closes his eyes, filing through the Chiyudo spells he's learned over the years, murmuring them softly … a prayer of devotion. His efforts are fruitless, but at least it helps him feel useful.

Grief chokes him — makes him look away in shame when your soft gaze slips to his — because now he understands how you feel as you comfort him in his bedridden states: utterly helpless and alone.

divider by @pixopix