Chapter 56: 46.1 - Devoured
DISCLAIMER: Bonus Chapter. Contains GL sex scene. Parental guidance advised.
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Love is such a ridiculous word.
People say it like it’s a blessing, like it holds power to redeem, to save, to cleanse all the rot from your soul.
Azalea believed that too.
I watched her look at Kairi the way people in old stories looked at saviors. It was foolish—childish even—but I never mocked her for it. She didn’t know how to love quietly. She bled it through her fingertips, hopeful and unashamed.
The way she looked at that girl...
It was almost the same way I used to look at her.
Selene.
The so-called Wicked Witch, the designer of paradoxes, the cursed light of my life.
Azalea’s love was soft. Earnest.
The kind that wanted to hold hands in the dark and whisper promises under blankets.
Mine? Mine was the kind that whispered don’t leave me in between threats. That curled up beside fire and claimed it as home, even if it burned. We weren’t the same.
But it didn’t mean it wasn’t love.
Even now, thinking about her—thinking about the way she held my gaze that first time—I feel it. The ache. The pull. The quiet gravity she had over me. Not by force, not through manipulation, but something simpler. Something more devastating.
She saw me.
And I let her.
That’s what made it dangerous.
That’s what made it real.
Azalea was always the ghost I pretended not to see.
But Selene—Selene was the sin I never dared to wish.
She wasn’t part of the Lovecraft legacy, not by blood.
But somehow, when she stepped into the threshold of our shattered family, she carried a kind of grace none of us deserved.
Composed, logical, irritatingly idealistic.
I hated her. I hated how clean her thoughts were, how she insisted on asking me things no one else did—like how I was feeling, like what I wanted.
And gods, I hated how warm her hand felt when she touched my shoulder.
I remember the first time I let myself look at her properly. Not as an asset. Not as a variable. But as a woman. She had that little furrow between her brows, like the world always owed her an explanation. And when I asked her why she stayed—why she kept returning to me, even after the ugliness—I didn’t expect an answer.
She just smiled. Tired. Real.
"Because I see you."
No one’s words had ever cut deeper. Or softer.
We were sitting in that dusty library, the one my family used to call "The Mouth." It smelled of ash and old parchment. She leaned over the grimoire we were translating together—some ancient nonsense about reversible oblivion—and I didn’t realize how close we were until our knees brushed.
I don’t know who kissed first. But whoever did, the act was inevitable.
It wasn’t some dramatic, hunger-driven act. It wasn’t about possession.
It was clumsy. Hesitant. Her breath stilled when our lips met, and I remember the slight tremble in her jaw—like she, too, wasn’t sure we should be doing this.
Her mouth was warm. Too warm.
It made my skin betray me, pulse rushing where reason should’ve stayed.
And yes—god help me—I was soaked. I clenched my thighs, already aching.
I pulled back, breath shallow.
This wasn’t conquest.
This was invitation.
Selene looked at me, eyes searching for something—doubt, regret, maybe even fear. But I gave her none. I gave her only the truth. I touched her face like I was afraid she’d vanish, and I kissed her again, deeper this time.
She gasped softly against my mouth, fingers curling around my wrist. Not pulling me closer. Not pushing me away. Just there. Present. Real.
When she pressed her forehead to mine, I saw it. The girl behind the theories. The one who memorized death spells but still folded her notes into perfect squares. The one who argued logic of magic and then tripped over her own shoes in the hallway.
"Helena," she whispered, voice thin, unsure.
I almost told her I loved her. Right there. Right then.
But I didn’t.
Because that sentence would’ve never done me any favors.
Instead, I guided her gently to the floor, the cracked marble cold beneath our knees. She kissed me again, hands sliding to my hips with caution, not demand. I let her explore me like I was a prayer she was afraid to utter too loudly.
"So, you do really want me so badly. Should have told me earlier."
"No, I just hate you. I really hate how much I love you."
She raised her eyebrow, pressing her chest to mine.
It’s warm, soft, and also quite stiff now. Seemed like she was hiding her nervousness.
"If you really hate me that much... then show me, my biggest rival."
And for the first time in my life, I let someone touch me without flinching.
No curses. No blood pacts. No circles drawn in salt.
Just breath. Heat. Carnal desire.
Her lips tracing along my collarbone as if trying to memorize the map of my existence.
"Nggghh..." I felt my body betraying me.
"You’re shaking," she said.
"You really did me dirty, and you know that."
And yes, I indeed was shaking.
Because it felt like I’d stolen something precious. Something forbidden.
Like joy.
Like peace.
Like her.
I buried my face in her neck and let the walls crumble.
Let the silence between us become sacred.
No war. No legacy. Just two girls too broken for the world, finding sanctuary in skin.
We then went further, feeling each other’s warmth passionately.
Wrapped in a blanket. The one covered our sin on the lover’s bed.
It wasn’t bound in blood or law. It was messy. Mortal. Beautifully real.
"Selene, Selene..." I couldn’t help my breathe. Her skin touching mine, her body printed out clearly on my body. It felt like as if I really wanted this to last forever.
So when I hear her name now, when I feel that ghost breathing down my spine, I remember that night—not for what it was, but for what it gave me.
It gave me a moment.
A moment where I wasn’t a Lovecraft.
I was just Helena. A lover.
With someone who loved me.
No matter what.
