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It’s in the little things, really. It’s in the scent of explosive residue, in the stench of freshly spilled blood, and in the vestiges of cologne left by a corrupt human. It’s in the traces of a burglary gone wrong, in the aftermath of a gang-related firefight, and in the plastered smile of a criminal during an interrogation. Perhaps Shirou has worked for the police department of Anima City for too long – no, he definitely has – but he finds himself drawing conclusions from nearly every detail that happens to pass him by. Even he can’t decide if it is a force of habit. Even he can’t decide if it is some second nature, instinct, or trained skill.
Regardless, there is the reality of the offending garment before him. An object that he would have thought had gone missing in the laundry, if he hadn’t managed to stumble across it at two in the morning.
The black shirt has been draped over the couch of the study, the body of the garment wrinkled and obviously tampered with, and it bears only the slightest of bloodstains. Of course, that part of his observation cannot be helped; there are only so many black shirts one can buy before the purchase starts to outweigh one’s salary. There are the vestiges of blood in the fabric, the obvious traces of use, and shadows of movement imprinted within. Judging by its position and state, the rumpled shirt had probably been tossed over the arm of the couch as an afterthought. No less than two or three hours ago, if he had to guess. Visual scrutiny can tell him that much.
What information can be gleaned from scent, however, can reveal much more.
And so Shirou gathers the shirt in one of his hands, the metamorphosis to his bestial form slowing the movement by mere seconds, and brings it to his half-formed snout. Closes his eyes and takes a whiff of whatever scent is buried within. It is only when –
The door to the study slams open, catching his attention. Shirou turns to see Michiru standing in the doorway, the dim light of the hallway spilling over her small frame, and stares wordlessly. Michiru stares just as silently back.
For the span of a moment, anyway.
“It’s – it’s late,” she says, as if Shirou doesn’t have the ability to glance at the clock. “What are you doing up?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one that has to get up early tomorrow,” Michiru points out. She passes the threshold as she speaks, taking quick strides towards him, and stops just before him. Hands on her hips, a pout on her mouth, and slightly furrowed brows. “Just because you’re immortal doesn’t mean that you don’t need sleep. Those eye bags of yours are gonna get worse if you let them, you know.”
Shirou sighs. “I didn’t realize that –”
It takes a moment for him to recognize that the rumpled shirt is no longer in his hands.
“You should get some sleep while you can!” she calls out over her shoulder, tucking the shirt beneath one arm. She casts only the slightest glance towards him as she passes the frame of the door once more, eyeing him from the shadowed hall, and shoots him a characteristic grin. “I’m doing laundry, anyway. I’ll give this to you tomorrow, yeah?”
Michiru leaves before he can even begin to respond. Shirou finds himself staring where she stood only a few moments ago, the strange, sweet scent lingering on his hand.
It takes Shirou approximately three seconds to realize the origin of the scent.
Shirou finds Michiru’s taste a little lacking. That’s all it is. Shirou is nearly a god, considering both his lifespan and his abilities as a beastman, so it would only be natural that he would expect only the best of the best for Michiru. He is her partner, after all. Likewise, it would only be natural for Michiru to want the best for herself. She has him to compare any potential dating partners to – not that she would see him that way – and so Shirou had expected whoever she dated would at least be his equal. Someone strong in character, resolute, and admirable. Someone who could give him a run for his money in a fight, if it ever came down to it. Someone that would put in the effort to make her happy.
So what the hell is she doing with someone like this?
The human that stands before him is weak, he assesses with a methodical gaze. Physically weak, awkward, and evidently prone to cowardice, judging by his near inability to hold Shirou’s gaze. And yet Michiru had chosen to go on a date with this human. One of her classmates in the beast-man and human integrated university, as she had explained. Five years of not even mentioning interest in a relationship of any kind, of insisting that her work for Anima City and university took precedence, and she had chosen this one. Out of all the options she could have possibly had, she had chosen this weakling of a human. A weakling that was too intimidated by Shirou even in his human form.
Truly, Michiru’s taste is questionable.
“She’s got class early tomorrow,” Shirou says, as if mentioning it to the human would dissuade him.
The human shoots him what Shirou thinks could be a reassuring smile. Shirou doesn’t smile back.
“I mean, I know that,” the human admits, rubbing the back of his head. “If you’re worried about her coming back late, the movie isn’t that long. She’s the one that wanted to see it, not me.”
“I see.”
The door opens half a second later, revealing a version of Michiru that Shirou can barely recognize. Shirou can only give her a questioning look as she bounds down the steps. Michiru only thanks him for keeping her date company while he waited, oblivious as ever, and then her date is taking her by the arm down the street. Michiru allows him to do so in an almost uncharacteristic manner, talking at length on some topic.
Only then does Shirou take the liberty of observing her from afar.
Shirou can’t quite remember if he noticed the change before that day. If he registered it on a conscious level at all, that is. Michiru had eventually switched to a pair of biker shorts and a more form-fitting jacket to accommodate the filling out of her figure, and yet it had failed to draw his eye. Michiru had wandered around Shirou in various states of disarray for years, and yet Shirou had still failed to notice anything different about her. For approximately four and a half years, Michiru was only Michiru the fool, Michiru the former human, and Michiru justice-loving, brazen adolescent. Michiru was simply Michiru, and that was that.
Then Shirou had wandered into the kitchen one morning to see Michiru half-awake, her hair a complete mess, and a cup of coffee before her, and something had changed.
Shirou traces the curves of her hips and thighs through the denim as she makes her way down the street. Watches her soft mouth laugh at something stupid the human had said. Admires just how well she fills out the outfit she’s chosen to wear. The fact that he’s never seen it on her shouldn’t be his concern, neither should the fact that she had bought it just to show this human.
Honestly, it’s the smug look on the human’s face that irritates Shirou. A more bestial part of him claws at him from the inside – vestiges of territorial behavior, Shirou knows – but he shoves back the thoughts before they can flood. Irrational thought is not the mark of a proud beastman, after all, and neither is clinging to such primitive behavior. The scent of her in heat should mean nothing to him. Knowing that she is in such a state, gathering that she is likely acting on that state, and likely witnessing the antecedents before the fruition of her heat should mean nothing to him as well. It would be illogical to be upset about something that would never concern him in the first place.
Yet he can’t help but bristle at the thought.
Michiru isn’t his. Shirou is painfully aware of that fact. Michiru isn’t his and would never be his, given the obvious reasons, and Michiru would never see him the way she would a human. Shirou would pine forever after an oblivious, headstrong fool like a pathetic pup, and Michiru would find what she was looking for in someone else. Someone that couldn’t ever be him. And Shirou, being her mentor in protecting Anima City, would be there to watch it happen.
Consequently, Shirou isn’t the one that Michiru waits for in the hospital bed.
Michiru is brash, reckless, and imbued with a sense of justice that rivals his – and so Shirou hadn’t been surprised that she’d gone off and gotten herself hurt in Rabbit Town. It would take longer than six years to resolve the issues between the gangs of Rabbit Town in spite of Mayor Rose’s efforts to end systematic poverty that had come to plague Anima City, and it would take much more than simply stopping each scuffle one by one to end the cycle of crime. Shirou’s sure Michiru knows that much. But evidently that headstrong nature of hers had won out in the end, inciting action on her part, and she had been stupid enough to walk face-first into a battle that wasn’t hers.
Shirou can only give Michiru a withering look as she waves at him from the hospital bed, one of her arms wrapped in a sling. A magazine article on the former false Silver Wolf lies open on her lap, her hair is a bird’s nest, and vase filled with an assortment of flowers sits on the table beside her. Her clawed fingers play idly with pink rose as he walks in.
There’s the scent of the human on both the rose and vase, which is unsurprising – but then he notices the trace on her uninjured shoulder and her cheek. The human had likely arrived just as soon as he had heard word of her injury, armed with a bouquet of flowers. Shirou can imagine it: the human striding in like he owned the place, placing a quick kiss on her cheek, and charming her in that human way. He can imagine the human saying something awkward but perfectly timed, making her laugh the way Shirou can’t, and then he can imagine the human offering to take her out on another date. Something fun, more intimate, and ultimately more human in the way that Shirou can’t provide. Shirou imagines Michiru agreeing, smiling all the while.
Shirou tries not to glare too openly at the rose.
“Aren’t you ever tired of getting hurt?” Shirou asks. His gaze lingers over the melange of bruises, trailing the shape of each one. “If it weren’t for your ability to transform, you could have –”
“I know, I know,” Michiru says, cutting him off. Her fingers pause over the rose as she sighs. “I could have died, I was being dumb, and I should’ve left it up to you. We don’t have to go through this every time, you know.”
“Then why?”
Michiru frowns. “What do you mean why? It was the right thing to do.”
She’s not wrong, of course. Shirou hates that he isn’t, hates that he can’t just berate her for every stupid thing she does, hates that she’ll keep doing whatever she wants no matter what he says – and yet there’s a part of him that doesn’t. He can’t say that he wouldn’t have intervened if he were in her place. Shirou can’t say that he wouldn’t have done everything in his power to prevent the unnecessary deaths of beastmen. Not with certainty, at least. As much as he wants to take her by the shoulders and tell her, in detail, just how irresponsible she is, he can’t. It would have little impact on her actions, anyway.
Above all, Shirou hates just how easily she can see through him. Despite her obliviousness in nearly everything else, Shirou’s thoughts have somehow become as clear as day to her. As if they are merely encased in glass. He can see her picking through them even now, judging by her expression. Picking through the oncoming lecture, preparing points to counter his argument, and rifling through his current emotional state, despite his attempts to remain shuttered. Sometimes he wonders if she can discern the more base part of him, the one that craves her in the worst ways possible, but he tries not to mull over it too much. Regardless of whether her ability is a byproduct of their time together, trust in one another as partners, or even from living so close to one another, Michiru has gotten too damned good at it.
And so the conversation ends before it can begin.
Shirou turns on his heel before he can feel the urge to lecture her again. “I’ll tell Melissa that you’ll be out for a few weeks,” he says, not quite looking at her or the rose in her hands. “The nurse said you’ll be discharged sometime today or tomorrow, but it’s better that you heal properly.”
It’s only when he’s just reached the threshold that Michiru calls out to him, imploring him to wait, and he pauses at the door frame. A beckoning motion of her hand, and he moves to stand begrudgingly at the side of the bed once more.
Shirou blinks as Michiru shoves the pink rose behind one of his ears.
“Just a reminder for you to visit me later today,” Michiru says, grinning. “You will, right?”
Against his better judgment, he agrees.
Shirou shouldn’t be worried about her. Michiru is an adult – has been an adult for five years now, considering her twenty-third birthday – and so Shirou shouldn’t have to worry over someone who is perfectly capable of handling herself. Michiru has gone out to drink countless times before, has stolen The Family’s daughter from right under Flip’s nose, and has remained largely unscathed from her vast number of stupid, reckless ideas. Even Shirou would expect the Michiru to go out for drinks after classes, considering the stress of her degree. It wouldn’t be completely unheard of for her to go out alone, either.
The image of Michiru slumped over a half-finished drink, however, does nothing but aggravate him. He finds it difficult to believe that drinking until she blacked out had been her plan. And he can’t remember her mentioning if she had planned to meet anyone later that night.
The human – Shirou can hardly be bothered to learn his name – supports Michiru at her side, attempting to give Shirou a reassuring smile. Shirou keeps her grip on Michiru’s arm, meeting the human’s expression with one of disdain. Much to his surprise, however, the human doesn’t back down immediately. A result of becoming too accustomed to Michiru’s kindness, Shirou presumes.
“She’s not some kid,” says the human, tugging at Michiru’s arm. “She said I could take care of her if she got plastered.”
“Did she?”
“I mean –”
A well-timed glare from Shirou discourages the human from speaking further.
The more bestial part of him bristles at the human’s audacity. Claws at him from within. Michiru stirs slightly in the human’s arms, her head lolling back and forth – and then it is the scent of her heat the nearly knocks him over. It rolls off her body in waves, sweet, familiar, and intoxicating all at once. The mere presence of it is nearly overwhelming, considering the intensity of the scent, and yet –
And yet it is something that only brings relief to Shirou. As selfish as the realization is, Shirou can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.
If Michiru were still in heat, then it could only mean that she had completely failed to have intercourse. Michiru hadn’t bothered to ask Melissa or any other female beastman about her condition, Shirou gathers, and so she had simply let the state of her heat worsen over the few weeks. A completely idiotic decision on her part. The fact that the inorganic origin of her condition caused her heat to make itself known so late in her life had contributed to that decision. And then there are the symptoms of an extended heat plastered over her form: fatigue, weakness, shortness of breath, and deviations in behavior. The flush that has spread itself across her face only further confirms his observation.
“What are you to her, anyway?” the human demands. “You beastmen are always the same! If it weren’t for the Prime Minister, then you animals wouldn’t even have –”
“Her friend,” Shirou answers, cutting him off. He doesn’t know whether the words are more aimed towards the human or himself.
Michiru, despite having filled out over the years, is just as easy to gather into his arms as she was five years ago. Head held tight to his chest, a hand pressing into the softness of her thighs. The air is cool against Shirou’s fur when he steps out into the night, as is the rain.
The glass of water that sits on Michiru’s desk is nearly untouched. Michiru eyes it every so often through the obvious haze that has overtaken her, likely considering having more, but makes no effort to reach for it. Shirou can’t decide if it is her stubborn nature or an urge to be difficult – likely a mixture of both – but it’s enough to irritate him. It takes approximately four glances on her part for Shirou to sigh, reach over to the desk for her, and press it into her hands. Michiru only regards him through half-lidded eyes, furrowing her brows.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know.” Her breaths are labored. “He’s not that bad, he’s just – just a little pushy, I guess. I could’ve taken care of it.”
Shirou arches a brow. “Looking like that?”
“I would’ve been fine.”
“… I doubt that.”
Michiru stares into her glass, her clawed fingers tapping against its surface every so often. Avoids the unspoken question and lecture that Shirou can already feel in the back of his throat. Disregarding the circumstances, it would be completely inappropriate to lecture her on something like that.
“Nothing worked,” Michiru says. She offers him a sheepish smile, in spite of her physical discomfort. “I even asked Melissa about it, but I guess there’s only so much modern medicine can do. The pills she gave me for it didn’t help very much.”
A pause. Shirou stares at her in disbelief.
“You knew.”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” Again there is that embarrassed smile, as if the topic were anything but the state of her heat. “I’m not that dumb, you know. Even I figured that something like this was gonna happen.”
Shirou frowns. “Then you should know that –”
“I do,” Michiru says a little too quickly. “I’ve tried everything. It’s supposed to be like a summer cold, right? Well, I guess if a summer cold could only be treated with – with doing that.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Michiru is silent at that. Eyes averted, her face turned away from his. Shirou can see the flush beneath her fur deepening even through the darkness, and then –
Oh, he thinks.
Shirou knows he shouldn’t. Shirou knows he won’t be able to stop himself if he does – if what he expects to be there is actually there – but he finds himself reaching towards her. The side of her cheek is small against his palm. Michiru doesn’t stop him. Then Shirou is gently turning her face to his, moving at a painfully slow pace, and hopes that Michiru knows this is her opportunity to shove him away. To tell him to never touch her again. To call him disgusting for lusting over her. Shirou thinks of countless ways that this can go wrong, each of them leading to the end of their friendship.
Much to his surprise, she doesn’t.
It’s in the little things, really. It’s in the smell of his stolen shirt, the vestiges of her heat as she passed by, and the way she had looked at him in the hospital. It’s in the way she looks at him now, her soft lips parted and her eyelashes fluttering against her cheekbones. It’s in the way her gaze locks onto his, desperate and pleading. Her skin burns beneath his touch.
Shirou can interpret it as nothing but pure lust.
“Please,” she says, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.
When Shirou presses his lips to hers, they are just as soft as he had imagined them to be.
The kiss is desperate, shameless – and yet it is still undeniably, irrevocably gentle. Demure, somehow. Shirou kisses her with a fervor that she hadn’t expected, stealing away a surprised gasp. Both of his hands come to cradle the sides of her visage, keeping her in place, and he finds himself kissing her over and over again, as if he is trying to make it perfect every time. As if he is afraid that she would never allow him to do so ever again.
One swift movement, and Shirou deposits her biker shorts at the end of the bed.Another, and Shirou presses a finger to her clit. Flicks it, testing her. It is only when Michiru lets out a gasp that he plunges his fingers into her core, hushes her with his mouth, and curls his fingers against what should be sensitive bundle of nerves. Michiru writhes beneath him, her nails raking across his back through his shirt. Whispers his name into the space between them. Michiru begs him not to stop, to keep going, that she’ll do anything if he keeps doing what he’s doing.
Silently, he wonders if he’ll ever have the opportunity to have her like this again. Shirou wonders if he is only a stand-in for someone else, if she would have preferred someone else, and if she had only allowed him to do this because he was there and willing. Did Michiru know how much he thought about her in the long hours of the night, her name a mantra on his lips? Did Michiru want him like he wanted her before this? Aside from that, Shirou can’t decide if this mewling, writhing creature beneath him is truly Michiru, or if it is a version of her that is only affected by her heat. Would she be disgusted by him after this?
Shirou isn’t sure if he wants to know the answers to his questions.
So when he finally thrusts into her core, both of them half-clothed and impatient, he merely focuses on the task that lies before him. If it isn’t her first time, then she’s damned good at pretending it is. If it is her first time, then he’s a complete asshole for taking her virginity in such a rough manner.
But it takes less than a moment for Michiru’s features to contort in pain, and even less than that for the guilt to hit Shirou full force.
“Shirou,” Michiru gasps, “do you think you could …”
Regardless of whatever lust she had felt towards him, Michiru doesn’t deserve having her first experience like this.
Shirou begins pull himself out. “I’m sorry, I –”
Michiru wraps and locks her legs around him, firmly keeping him in place. “No, no, you’re not – you’re not hurting me or anything,” she says quickly. “I mean, you are, but I don’t want you to stop. I’m pretty sure it’ll feel good in a bit.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“You’re not very convincing.”
Shirou sighs. “We can stop at any time you want,” he insists. “Just say the word.”
Michiru offers him a characteristic, toothy grin at that, reaching up to pinch his cheek. An effort to make him feel less guilty, he surmises.
Shirou gives a few experimental thrusts, observing each and every detail of Michiru’s reactions. As useless as it is – he can hardly imagine that she would ever let him have her again – he commits her reactions and the causes of her reactions to memory. Shoving every inch of his length into her without warning had caused her nothing but pain, whereas drawing himself at a different angle seems to lessen her discomfort. Thrusting at a slow pace incites a similar reaction. It is only when she finally lets out a moan that he allows himself to work towards his own pleasure, wrapping his arms around her.
Shirou is well-aware that he is taking too much from her. He knows that he’s being selfish as he steals soft sounds from her mouth, drinks her in, and pries her open with his tongue. Shirou knows that he’s being selfish when he pretends that she truly does belong to him, if only for a moment. When Michiru’s features only tell of something akin to complete bliss, Shirou pretends that it is an expression that is meant only for him.
Michiru’s leg hangs over one of his shoulders sometime during the course of the night, and Shirou doesn’t hesitate to play with her clit until she falls apart. Michiru sits astride Shirou’s lap on the edge of the bed, lets his hands guide her movements, and listens to his instructions as she undulates on his length. Shirou bites down on her shoulder as he takes her from behind, her knees spread on the bed, and Michiru sinks her teeth into the pillow. Shirou captures her mouth when his before she can cry out, and Michiru hushes him with hers when she feels a growl rumble at the back of his throat.
Shirou pretends, pretends, and pretends some more that she is his.
Michiru’s nails scrabble uselessly at his back when he places her into a mating press, the pain vaguely apparent in her expression again. She gasps his name. And then his name is a mantra held between the both of them as he thrusts harder and faster into her. Shirou holds her close and groans into the sheets as he begins to near his release, the world beginning to go white. Michiru reaches it before he does, tightening and twitching around him. It’s enough to make him go over the edge.
Michiru can only offer him a lazy, satisfied smile when he finally pulls out of her. The remnants of his release paint the inside of her channel and a portion of her sheets white – but that’s an issue that can be resolved later. According to her, that is. Michiru whispers something that sounds like an offer for him to stay the night in her bed, pulls him to her side, and passes out seconds later. Shirou considers it for a moment.
Michiru isn’t his. Shirou is painfully aware of that fact. Michiru isn’t his and will never be his for obvious reasons, and she would likely hate what she did in the morning. Michiru may very well come to hate him, too, and it would be his fault for inciting it. He had been the one to make the first move, after all.
Despite that, Shirou decides that pretending that she belongs to him is better than having nothing at all.