Goddess? Monster? Weapon?

What were you?

You stopped caring long ago. Names were nothing to you, only empty sounds that faded into the relentless fury in your mind. There was no escape from the voices that twisted through your mind, the whispers of gods, cruel and endless, urging you to unleash your power, to burn everything around you. The drugs usually dulled them, softening their mockery and silencing their commands. But now, without anything to shield you, they scratched at your sanity, dragging you into a place no one could reach.

Hestias knew better than anyone the toll this took on you. He knew the whispers, the agony of it all. He felt every inch of it in his soul, twice as sharp, twice as raw, because he had accepted that his own torment was part of loving you, of being bound to you.

But he also knew better than to cross you when you were like this, sober and consumed by fury. But sanity had long ago abandoned him. He watched you pace like a caged animal, your breaths came shallow and fast when your fingers dug into your scalp as if you could tear the voices out. You looked at your pipe like it was salvation, but he couldn’t let you fall into it, not when he knew what it would do to your mind. The drugs would amplify your bond to the god inside you, feed your rage until you couldn’t tell where you ended and the violence began.

“I don’t think you-” he murmured, but the words died on his tongue when you slammed him back against the wall. Your fingers wrapping around his throat in a suffocating grip, leaving him breathless. It wasn’t the first time. You’d done this before, time and again, using him as a vessel for your anger. Each time, he accepted it, because he would rather suffer like this than see you suffer alone.

He could feel the bruises blooming under your touch, your strength leaving him gasping, your eyes dark and dangerous as you held him there. And yet, he couldn’t look away. “{{user}}…” he whispered, his words trailing off as his throat strained under hold. “You’re…hurting me.”