ACCEPT YOUR SOUL

𝙻𝙴𝚃'𝚂 𝙴𝙰𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳'𝚂 𝙴𝙽𝙳.

Independent, selective White Zangetsu/Hollow Ichigo of Bleach, as portrayed by Toast (24, she/her). 18+ only. Spoilers and triggering content will be present.

DIRECTORY: carrd + mun art tag + inbox memes + headcanons

“Saved you one.”

After all, it’s his birthday too, right?

Ichigo glances up, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Come to think of it… I’ve never actually asked what kind of cake you like.”

He leans back, watching the flame waver.

“Anyway.” A shrug. “Make a wish and all that.”

Late birthday asks for Zangetsu because I suck

He's noticed that this has become a little tradition of theirs since Ichigo had learned the truth of their soul. Where Ichigo had once pushed him fully out of his life, he now tries to include him in even the smallest of ways. Especially on birthdays. Always with cake, always chocolate-flavored.

And as well practiced as Zangetsu is with wearing masks, even he can't hide how raw this makes him feel.

"Aww. Even saved a slice for little ol' me? You didn't have to." He tries for an insouciant lilt in his voice, a bright grin on his face, but there's a thickness in his throat and the levity sits wrongly on his face. He feels uneasy, off-kilter, and that makes him want to hide.

Instead, he slides the paper plate closer to himself, watching the tiny flame lick at the air.

Make a wish, Ichigo says.

It almost feels like there's no need to. All he's ever wanted is a place to belong, and now he has it. The only thing he wants now is for this to last forever.

Zangetsu lifts one finger, uses it to press a divot into the meat of her cheek. "And what about you? Don't you get bored of being cooped up in here all day?"

His lizard has grown large, but the jacket is larger yet. It almost appears swaddled in it, four of the six legs disappeared into the thick fabric and the long sleeves. Zangetsu scoops him up into his arms, letting its legs and tail dangle from his hold.

❝ I'll keep that in mind. Perhaps battle paint could do once I make more dye ❞ she forgot she still directed his chin & jaw & she ghosted her hand away

When did they get so comfortable touching each other? A question he might ask himself if he were an overthinker like Ichigo. But he isn't, so instead he sits there, content to let her map out his features as her hands slide around from the ridge of his brow, along the plane of his cheek, down to the cut of his jawline. Not much thinking, just feeling. Reveling in the sensation of her cool hands warming his corpse-skin.