Shiro will be the death of him. That thought strikes Keith in the few moments his heart forgets how to beat in his chest and instead flutters and throws itself around like it's a frantic bird trying to make its way free. But he can't be blamed for that, can he? Not with the heady combination of the near desperate need and that gentle, soft affection.

His breath catches, held a moment and then exhaled in a sound that shakes more than he means it to. He can feel Shiro's mouth at his neck. Fingers nearly fly up to tangle as best he can into short white hair, gripping, all encouragement. He knows it's leaving a mark, and even the thought of it has a groan trying to break free.

But he fully plans on returning the favor, on leaving some sign on Shiro's skin. Shiro is his, and Keith will fight the entire universe for him if it comes to it.

"Shiro..." Keith breathes his name out like a prayer, the hand not buried in Shiro's hair slipping down, finding the hemline of his t-shirt, fingers sipping beneath it ever so slightly, so only the tips of his fingers touch ever so lightly against the skin at the small of his back. Keith has never been good at slow, never been good at holding back. He's controlled himself this far, this long.