So here's the thing; I LIVE for angsty Shiro. He's just so much fun to write and I'm sure Katō-sensei agrees with me.
Don't believe me? Then I ask the jury to turn its attention to exhibit A: the entirety of the damn manga, but ch 107 in particular.

The clock read 3 AM; an ungodly hour if ever there was one, and Fujimoto Shiro, exorcist extraordinaire, was this. close to losing it.

Mission reports were meant to be concise things, plain and to-the-point, not some comma-stained shitshow - three per sentence was already overkill, but seven?! – and it was just such a monstrosity that currently lay upon his desk.

Buddha have mercy on Watanabe Hayato because if Shiro ever got his hands on him, the fucker would be so dead.

Forcing himself to hunker down, Shiro managed only a single paragraph before the words blurred together for the ninth - tenth? - time that hour, eyes aching and neck stiff, until even he was forced to admit defeat.

Shutting the file with a growl, he shoved the lousy thing in a drawer - he'd deal with it in the morning. Probably. Maybe - and slammed it shut, not caring whether the neighbors complained again, come morning.

Hell, if they did, Shiro would just stroll down to the bar, find himself a nice bird, jolly right on over back home and give those old coots something to really complain about.

Old Mrs. Satō's (hilariously) horrified expression the morning after one of his more vocal houseguests left would forever be imprinted on Shiro's brain and it never failed to crack him up.

Hold on, maybe he still had that chick's number. And he was pretty sure they'd ended stuff on amenable terms, too, by Shiro's standards anyway. God, if he could just remember her name. Something with 'ma', that he knew for sure, but what?

Maka?

Machi?

Ma…Ma…Mayu?

And that, that one damn syllable, was apparently the only cue his shitty brain needed, thoughts fumbling after the scrap like starved dogs and suddenly he was back in that damned farm, crouched on the grass and-

I love you, Shiro

Burying his face in his hands did nothing to stop the heat from rising, nor did it keep a shuddering moan, dragged somewhere from the depths of his being by honey-sweet words, from passing his traitorous lips.

Fucking damn her, he thought furiously, teeth digging into his bottom lip with savage intensity lest more noises escape. Damn her to hell and back because who the fuck did that stupid brat think she was?!

You've had a horrible time

"Shut up!" he hissed, eyes squeezed shut, rage and something terrible he couldn't, outright refusedto place making his throat close up. "Just shut up!"

But when did Yuri ever do what he said, fucking never was the answer, and the specter version haunting him now was no exception.

God but he could still feel those small hands cupping his cheeks, gentle, as if Shiro were something fragile, something seconds from shattering like glass. He could feel the burning heat where her lips had touched his, just a chaste, featherlight press and yet the memory set his heart racing and made his body ache like nothing or no one ever had.

And that just didn't make any damn sense.

Shiro'd been with plenty of women, many of whom were prettier, not to mention more generously endowed than that pint-sized brat and yet none of them, not a single one had ever managed to make him feel anything remotely akin to this, this desperation, this all-consuming need.

Need he couldn't act on because, as broken as he was, as damaged and debauched and fucked up, Shiro still had some standards, damnit, some moral lines even he wouldn't cross.

And bedding a doe-eyed, naive, sixteen-year-old child was most definitely off the fucking table, his feelings be damned!

…Oh. So that's what it was.

A chuckle escaped him, harsh and brittle, and Shiro tipped his head back, slumping in his chair like a deflated balloon.

"…Love, eh?" he murmured, a sardonic smile on his face as he stared at the ceiling. It offered him no answers, and he closed his eyes. "…What a fucking joke. As if we could ever-"

And as the proverbial lightbulb flashed in his head, offering the barest glimmer of hope, Shiro's eyes snapped open.

They couldn't be together. Now or ever, for so many reasons. But they could be...friends.

And if Shiro happened to be in love with her, then that was no one's damned business but his own.

Yeah so this particular story idea has been haunting me since chapter 103 came out and yes, it took me this long to write because I'm terrible like that.
Hell Spawn is still being edited. Sorry. Will update soon, I promise!