A/N: just some owlwolf that takes place during the shura ending :)

There's flames as far as the eye can see.

Or at least, as far as he can see.

They're in his mouth, burning to ash in the back of his throat, filling his lungs until they're bursting. They're on his skin, sending his nerves alight, shrouding the entirety of his left arm before they licked down to his clavicles. They're on his forehead, protruding thickly from his hairline, weeping red into his eyes.

He can't see. His eyes are open, but there's only red. Red on his tongue, red along his waterline, red between his fingers.

He can't remember his name. Who he is, who he's meant to be. All he knows is this blood-curdling lust that tugged him along, had him tearing into the first thing he could reach. Something in him howls, in rage and victory alike, and he wants more of it. All he knows is how to reach for the new katana that the man before him has, inspecting it with a giddy rush.

A vaguely familiar voice chokes out, "Shura."

He cocks his head. Stares blankly for some time. He doesn't know what he's looking at.

There's something at his feet. Writhing until it falls still. Heaving until there's too much blood to breathe through. He knows he's staring, but he can't decipher exactly what it is. All he knows is the crimson that pooled below the body, the black smudge that grew along the man's chest, and he feels the urge to bury his nose into it. Nuzzle close and breathe in deep.

He's endlessly fascinated by the katana he wrenches from the man's grasp. Longer than he could ever imagine, glinting brighter than the crimson that smoldered in his eyes.

Something tugs at him. Beckons him closer, whispers so sweetly in his ear. He settles on his knees, endlessly drawn to the body that still wept crimson, cradling the katana close to his chest. There's something about the man before him that strikes him in his core. It rattles deep in his chest, pounding hard against his ribcage like it's on the verge of bursting.

It's unfamiliar, this rush in his veins, this disgusting lurch in his gut.

It's familiar, the anticipation he feels as he waits patiently for the man to rise.

Something innate keeps him there, knelt and obedient. Something tells him that he belongs there. That he was made to obey just as he was made to kill.

It's all he knows. It's all he is.

Except the man doesn't rise. Doesn't praise him, doesn't admonish him, doesn't say a word. He doesn't know why he's shaking. He doesn't understand why his eyes sting.

Blood along the floorboards. Gore caking the valleys between his knuckles. A steadily cooling body at his fingertips. This is what he was made for. This is all he knows.

(What does he know?)

Frantically, he grasps at the large hand that lays limp at his side. Squeezes, tugs. There isn't a response.

He swings one leg over and straddles the man's hips. Spreads his thighs wide, presses close, runs his hands up the stretch of his torso. He rolls his hips, grinds into the bulge that's nestled against his ass.

It comes naturally to him. This is how he's meant to catch the man's attention. He knows to expect praise, he knows what comes to him for a job well done. This is something he's trained to do, something he's meant to be.

Except there still isn't a response.

He doesn't remember how to speak. He doesn't remember the words. He doesn't remember who or what the body is, only that he belongs to it. Belongs wholly to the man that refuses to rouse to his touch, belongs indefinitely to the man whose touch was etched into his being.

His hips are pleasantly numb. His cock aches. He's grinding desperately, balanced precariously atop a body that wouldn't move, clinging to hands that won't squeeze back. He shoves his face into the man's throat, breathes in his scent, whines long and high. He hates that he isn't given the answer he craves.

He doesn't remember why he's there. He remembers only a few things, coming gradually to him.

Hands on his hips, keeping him still, keeping him close. Him biting his lip to quiet his cries, tears staining his cheeks, his hole twitching around the cock that pounds into him.

More pleasantly, he remembers the praise. The large thumb that would press against his ruined hole, the hand that would brush roughly through his hair.

That's how he knows he did well. That's how he knows he fulfilled his purpose. And there is nothing more pleasing than knowing he's done well. Bleeding and broken, aching and leaking - he hates the vulnerability but adores the accomplishment.

Adores how the man would murmur low into his ear, "That's my boy."

It rumbles through his core. Leaves him giddy, leaves him panting. He presses his nose into the wound on the man's chest. Breathes in fast and heavy, the scent devastating and intoxicating alike, and he slowly recognizes it as his father.

A broken noise leaves him. Too feral for a moan, too wounded for a howl. He rolls his hips until he's too sensitive. It's sticky, and his head spins, and his legs quake, and still, his father doesn't respond.

"Wolf!"

He recognizes the voice. Soft, shaky, calling out that word as if it means something. As if it's supposed to rouse him. He glances up at the boy that emerged from the flames ahead. Skin fair, bangs plastered to his forehead, small body drowning in the kimono he was given.

Something in him lurches. Preens. There's only red in his vision, saliva dripping from his maw, his mind heavy and muddled from the sheer hunger that wrenches at his being. He takes one last lungful of blood and musk before he lifts himself from his father's lap.

Death is all he knows, but so is this.

He'll return. He always does.