Ichigo hated that look. He hated it more than he hated it when Shiro wouldn't talk to him - out loud or otherwise. He frowned, because he wasn't looking to hurt Shiro, he never had been. Even though Shiro had looked away, the guilt sat heavily on the hollow's expression, and Ichigo wanted it gone.

So without further ado, he pressed on Shiro's chin, holding the hollow in place to crush his mouth against his pale twin's; hard and soft and wet and hot, claiming every inch of his mouth.

Don't. Don't be afraid. Not for me.

Intent sparks at contact, blazing a smoldering line from lips to chest, to the hand molding to the curve of Shiro's cheek. How fiercely Ichigo fought, he fought to keep as well. He would fight that fear, fight the insecurity, if he had to tear that blanket apart to get rid of the bit of symbolic shroud disconnecting Shiro from him. Loneliness, and want were strung tight through that shared kiss, through the press of mouth, then tongue licking against the seam of Shiro's lips, all but begging to be let in. It's been so long since he really felt Shiro. Warm, and hard, and naked, pressed against him, inside him, and feeling the raw, visceral way the hollow would do everything to physically express that affection, the hard won love that, while completely twisted in it's own way, was very much theirs all the same.

Touch me. Please...I miss you so much. I need you, too, you know.