Chapter 17: The Taste of Immortality
The kiss didn’t end so much as it transformed. It deepened, turned hungry, a conversation without words. Milly’s fingers, still laced with Y/n’s, tightened as she let herself be lowered back onto the bed, the rough wool blanket scraping against her knuckles. Y/n shifted above her, a shadow blotting out the firelight, her weight settling between Milly’s legs with a certainty that stole the air from Milly’s lungs.
Milly’s hands came up, palms flattening against the cool, hard plane of Y/n’s chest. She could feel the powerful heartbeat even more strongly here, a steady, deep drum against her skin. She slid her hands slowly upward, over the pronounced collarbones, tracing the column of Y/n’s neck, her thumbs brushing the sharp line of her jaw, still damp from the shower.
“You’re so warm,” Y/n murmured against her lips, the words a vibration Milly felt in her own teeth.
“You’re not,” Milly whispered back, sliding her hands down again, this time following the pathways of muscle, the grooves and ridges she’d only seen. Her fingertips brushed over a raised, silvery line that ran diagonally across Y/n’s ribs. “You wouldn’t have so many of these if you used your ability to heal them right.”
Y/n went still for a fraction of a second, then let out a slow breath that fogged briefly in the cool air. “They’re reminders. Not everything should be erased.”
Milly propped herself up on her elbows, forcing Y/n to lean back. She looked at the scar under her fingers, then at the others—a nick on a shoulder, a faint puckering near her hip. “Reminders of what? Battles?”
“Of consequences,” Y/n said, her voice low. She caught Milly’s wandering hand and brought it to her lips, kissing the palm. A shiver, utterly foreign and delicious, ran down Milly’s spine. “Of being touched. Of being here, in a body that can be marked.” Her glowing eyes held Milly’s. “Your curiosity is a brand all its own.”
Milly swallowed. She pushed gently, and Y/n allowed herself to be rolled onto her back. Now Milly looked down at her, at the magnificent, conflicted creature sprawled across the dark sheets. The towel was coming undone. Milly didn’t look away. She reached out and with a trembling hand, she pulled the damp fabric loose.
It fell away.
Y/n didn’t flinch. She watched Milly’s face, the intensity in her gaze both a challenge and a surrender.
Milly took her in. All of her. The strong thighs, the dark hair between them, the cock that lay half-hard against her stomach, a stark, physical truth. It was part of her, just as the scars were, just as the power in her green eyes was. It wasn’t separate. It was Y/n.
“Okay?” Y/n asked, the single word layered with a millennium of anxiety.
Milly answered by leaning down and kissing her again, a soft, lingering press of lips. Then she kissed the scar on her ribs. The one on her shoulder. The hollow of her throat. Each kiss was a punctuation mark, a sentence written on skin. “You’re beautiful,” Milly breathed against her stomach, the words muffled. “Every part.”
A sound escaped Y/n then, a ragged, broken thing that was half-groan, half-sigh. Her hands came up to bury themselves in Milly’s wild blonde hair, not guiding, just holding, anchoring herself as Milly’s mouth traveled lower.
Milly nuzzled the coarse hair, inhaling the clean, dark scent of her—olive soap and something else, like wet stone after a rain. She kissed the inside of her thigh, feeling the muscle jump under her lips. Y/n’s breathing hitched, became shallow.
“Milly…” It was a warning, or a plea.
Milly looked up, meeting her eyes. “I want to,” she said, simple and direct. “Let me.”
Y/n’s head fell back against the pillow, a nod. Her hands tightened in Milly’s hair.
Milly took her in slowly, her tongue flattening against the length of her, tasting salt and skin. Y/n was fully hard now, thick and hot in her mouth. Milly worked her down, taking her deeper, relishing the choked-off gasp from above, the way Y/n’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Fuck,” Y/n hissed, the word tearing from her. “Your mouth… fuck, that’s…”
Milly hummed in response, the vibration drawing a sharp cry. She established a rhythm, slow and deep, one hand coming up to cradle Y/n’s balls, rolling the heavy weight gently. The other hand slid up Y/n’s stomach, pinching a nipple, feeling it pebble under her touch.
Y/n was coming undone. The composed, formidable daughter of gods was trembling, her breaths coming in sharp pants. The glowing green of her eyes was like shattered glass. “Stop,” she gritted out, her voice strained. “I want to be inside you. Now. Please.”
The raw need in that ‘please’ set Milly on fire. She released her with a wet pop, crawling back up her body. She was still in the hoodie and sweatpants. Y/n’s hands were on her immediately, fumbling with the drawstring, pushing the fabric down over Milly’s hips with a desperate urgency that was utterly human.
Milly helped, kicking the clothes off, then pulling the hoodie over her head. She was bare now, her skin flushed and hot against the cool air of the room.
Y/n sat up, wrapping an arm around Milly’s waist and flipping them with a effortless, dizzying strength. Milly was on her back, Y/n hovering over her, supporting her weight on her arms. She looked down at Milly, her hair falling over her forehead, her eyes drinking in the sight of her—the freckled skin, the heaving chest, the wetness between her legs.
“You’re sure?” Y/n asked again, even as her hips nudged forward, the head of her cock pressing against Milly’s entrance.
Milly hooked a leg around Y/n’s waist, pulling her closer. “Do I look unsure?”
A ghost of that rare laugh, the first thaw of winter, brushed Y/n’s lips. Then she pushed inside.
It was a slow, inexorable stretch that burned in the best way. Milly gasped, her back arching off the bed, her nails digging into the hard muscle of Y/n’s shoulders. Y/n stopped, buried to the hilt, her entire body rigid with restraint. Sweat beaded on her temple.
“Move,” Milly begged, voice cracking. “Y/n, please, move.”
Y/n obeyed. She withdrew almost completely, then slid back in with a deep, rolling thrust that punched the air from Milly’s lungs. She set a punishing, perfect rhythm, each stroke hitting a spot inside Milly that made her see sparks behind her eyelids. The bedframe groaned in protest, a steady, creaking counterpoint to the wet, slick sounds of their joining.
“Is this… is this what you wanted?” Y/n gritted out, her control fraying with every plunge. “When you looked at me… in the doorway?”
“Yes,” Milly choked out. “Fuck, yes. Harder.”
Y/n snarled, a sound that held nothing of the divine and everything of the primal. She hooked Milly’s other leg over her arm, spreading her wider, driving deeper. The angle changed, and Milly cried out, a broken, sobbing sound of pure pleasure.
“You feel…” Y/n panted, her forehead dropping to Milly’s shoulder. “You feel like life. Like sunlight. It’s blinding.” She bit down on the junction of Milly’s neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but a claiming, possessive pressure.
Milly was fracturing. The coil in her gut wound tighter and tighter with every thrust. She could feel Y/n’s own rhythm beginning to stutter, to lose its measured precision. “Come with me,” Milly pleaded, her words slurred. “Don’t you dare hold back.”
That was the permission Y/n needed. Her hips jackhammered, frantic and desperate. The obscene, wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Milly’s world narrowed to that point of blinding friction, to the scent of their sweat, to the sight of Y/n’s face—eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, utterly lost.
“I’m gonna… Milly, I’m…”
“Yes,” Milly commanded.
Her own orgasm ripped through her like a seismic event, a white-hot wave that blurred her vision and tore a scream from her throat. She clamped around Y/n, milking her, and that was all it took. Y/n shouted, a raw, guttural sound that seemed to shake the very stones of the house. She pulsed inside Milly, heat flooding her, her great body shuddering as she collapsed, careful even in her release to not crush Milly completely.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling. The fire in the other room had died to embers, leaving them in near-darkness. Y/n’s weight was a solid, welcome pressure. Milly traced the scars on her back, her fingers unsteady.
Y/n finally stirred, pulling out gently and rolling onto her side, gathering Milly against her. The chill of her skin was now a comfort. She pressed a kiss to Milly’s sweat-damp hair.
“The stars are wrong,” Y/n whispered, her voice hoarse.
“What?” Milly mumbled into her chest.
“The old tales. The constellations. They don’t show this.” Y/n’s hand stroked down Milly’s spine, possessively, wonderingly. “They should have a new one. For this. For you.”
Outside, high above the olive groves and the sleeping earth, a pinprick of light in a familiar constellation flickered, winked out, and then reignited, burning with a new, fierce intensity. Far below, in the deepest dark, a three-headed dog lifted one massive head and whined, sensing a shift in the fabric of its master’s solitude.
And in the small stone house, Milly, mortal and brave and loved, slept nestled in the arms of a god, who watched over her until the first grey hint of dawn bled through the cracks in the wall.