|𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐|

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|𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒎 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏, 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅.|



He had just finished a mission, it wasn't a tough one per say. He did have a few wounds, but nothing too serious.

His body ached, he was tired, tired of everything. Everything was the same.

Everything.

It was the same thing every day.

Exercise the curse. Practice with his father. His previous wounds healed as new ones formed and the process would start over and over again.

Exercise. Practice. Exercise. Practice. Exercise. Practice.

It was the same.

It never changed.

And he couldn't do anything about it.

No matter how hard he tried.

How hard he tried to make it different from the previous day, it went back to the same routine. The same stupid fucking routine that he couldn't escape from.

It was his hell.

He could destroy his room, break everything his hands could touch. He could scream and strain his vocal cords. He could take it out on others. He could even pull punches while dealing with curses tho that wouldn't really help because he was almost always assigned with someone else.

Yeah sure they were all destructive ways of dealing with his emotions but it didn't really hurt anyone.

Well other than himself.

But this of course wasn't the first time he's ever dealt with this. Nor will it be the last.

His flames were the only thing he had.

They didn't provide comfort. Quite the opposite. That struck fear and uncertainty into his body.

The flames felt like someone else. Like an entity of its own.

The flames were destructive in their nature.

Yet he continued to engulf himself farther into them.

He knew the flames would devour everything in their way.

Even him.



He greedily took air into his lungs. Chest falling heavily as sweat dripped down his forehead.

He slowly looked down at his shaky hands, noticing a few burns, they didn't hurt like the should've, no, odly enough, they comforted him.

This was the only thing he could do.

Get stronger and stronger to save others. To help those in need. To lend them a hand.

Even if he couldn't be saved, even if no one would lead him a hand he would surely help those who needed it.

[Y/N] didn't understand why it was this way.

Why the weak leaned on the strongest, but when the strongest becomes the weak, they can't lean on anyone.

It angered him because he couldn't do anything about it. No matter how much he tried.

He felt like he was chained, arms restricting him from fixing this messed up world that he lived in.

He couldn't breath.

The air wouldn't enter his lungs.

His hands were shaking and he was sweating like crazy but he was cold. His body was cold. It all felt cold.

He couldn't do anything.

He couldn't move.

His eyes darted to his hands. He didn't even remembered when he had activated his technique.

Flames were hugging his hands, burning his soft flesh.

He felt a sting. He panicked, trying to get rid of them, the flames that appeared in his nightmares.

He couldn't.

Why couldn't he?!

The flames were his to control.

He was the one blessed by the gods with such a unique power.

The power of blue flames, just at the tip of his fingers.

It was his.

So why couldn't he get rid of them?!?!?

They were hurting.

Hurting.

He closed his eyes for a split second and once he opened them again, they were gone.

He was going insane.

He let out a huge breath he didn't realized he was holding in.

He looked up. His eyes darting around, trying to ground himself back into reality.

Why.

Why him.

Why.

Him.

The male ran a hand through his hair, purposefully messing up his [h/c] hair as he sighed.

The cycle will repeat again.

Again.






It's like 12am and I was watching some show while writing this so apologies if it's a late upload.

I'm slowly losing my sanity.

Did I struggle to write this time? Yes.

Did I struggle to pick between the version of The Smiths or Deftones on this song? Yes.

Did I push through it? Yes.

I really regret not getting enough sleep for this.

Hope you enjoyed like always and see you next time.

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