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Angels do not have soul-marks, for their souls are eternally and unequivocally bound to their deity. In love, as in service. That type of love and devotion is something humans only dream of as they trace the faint lines on their skin. Ilsa knows, she has seen them clutching at wrists and stomachs as they curl into themselves to sleep.
Sometimes she wonders- the fact that Ethan and Benji do not bear the mark of each other seems an... well, certainly not an oversight, but... She strangles those thoughts in their sleep lest they take root in her mind and grow into thorny tangles of doubt. Curiosity is encouraged, but certain questions skirt too close to heresy.
Heresy... even the concept of the word leaves her mouth stained with a taste of iron, threatening to scald her tongue. She wonders if demonic entities have soulmates. A laughable thought, surely, considering the soulless creatures she has dealt with over the years.
She is sent to deal with a minor demon, someone who got a little too brave in their proximity to humanity and started trading in souls. Typical.
She exorcises the demon with little fanfare, the humans scatter as they are wont to do, while the remaining demons cower in her shadow. Too minor to pose a threat, Ilsa does not spare them a glance as they dissolve into smoke to slither away. She simply flicks black blood off her blade onto the warm sand.
She has not seen the Earth for some time, and is strangely proud of the progress that has been made. Still, she is not surprised the demons have managed to create a foothold here, with their lofty promises. Her tongue burns and she swallows the thought.
Her wings tense in preparation to take flight, when a single white feather floats down and settles in front of her feet. She looks down at it, quizzically.
Then, she feels something burn across her heart- what passes for a heart- and her wings fail to lift her. Her legs, in much the same state, refuse to work as intended and she falls to her hands and knees with a gasp. The feather moves gently with the breath expelled from her lungs.
Ilsa's head snaps up in alarm, some instinct or other guiding her eyes to the other side of the humans' roaring fire.
Through the fire, looking as though she is being consumed by the flames, is a woman- not a woman- an entity. Her gown is white, the locks of her hair almost equally so. Still, they cannot compare to the colour of her wings, so large that they drag on the ground, and such a pure white they make Ilsa's breath catch. For she has seen no such angel in their realm, nor outside it, and certainly that is what they are. What she must be.
Ilsa stays kneeling; the gesture of faux worship makes her throat tingle with the buildup of iron in her chest. Yet, it seems correct that she should stay down.
Her wings shiver with the burning pain that has, despite its intensity, faded into the back of her mind. She meets the creature's eyes. The burning blue caresses her and she would lean into it if she could only fathom how to lean into such a thing.
"Who are you?" she rasps out through the iron gates in her lungs, knees still firmly planted on the ground. The burning sensation beneath her skin is a mockery of the gentle warmth humans speak of, and yet, she feels an unmistakable tug deep in her chest. Despite not having experienced something like it, she knows exactly what it means.
The woman smiles, revealing sharp canines that dig into her lower lip. Ilsa's body runs cold, warring against the burning that she has not yet deigned to look upon.
"Can you not tell?" The woman- the creature, Ilsa's mind hisses- walks through the fire, flames licking at her skin and making her eyes shine with an otherworldly light.
Ilsa's vision blurs with how aggressively she shakes her head. "No, you can't-"
"I have done nothing, darling. This whole business is your side's doing, is it not?" Her hands cup Ilsa's face and, again, all Ilsa wants is to lean into it. So she sets her jaw and jerks away. The demon's smile simply grows.
"To answer your question, I am yours." She- it- hooks a finger in the neckline of her own gown and pulls the fabric down, showing flawless skin to Ilsa's disobedient eyes; until she reveals, clearly written in Ilsa's own script, the name branded onto the skin. "Ilsa," she- it, fuck- breathes out and the sound of her name on this abomination's lips makes Ilsa shiver.
"As you are mine," the entity continues, kneeling down to mirror Ilsa's stance. She reaches out a hand towards Ilsa's chest.
Ilsa should move. She intends to move. She cannot. Fingertips kiss her skin, blue eyes following. The burning immediately dispels, instead leaving her strangely empty. Ilsa glances down, and feels the looping letters make themselves at home on her tongue and in her voice, as the name materializes in her mind.
"Alanna," she whispers involuntarily. The demon's head snaps up. Her eyes carry every sin conceivable, but above all, a hunger so overwhelming that Ilsa fears she may be consumed where she kneels.
"Yes," the demon hisses. "My name belongs on your lips alone." The gentle fingers on her chest grow sharp, though no less gentle, against the lines of Alanna's name burned into her skin.
Alanna's teeth are suddenly sharper, eyes the intense blue of raging infernos. Hellfire, surely. "Say it again." Her tongue is forked and the sight makes Ilsa's spine tingle, the sensation curling along the base of her wings.
"You reek of sin, demon," Ilsa manages to spit out. "I would sooner die than allow your name on my tongue again."
"I suspect we smell much the same to most," Alanna muses, calmer than she has any business being. "How many have you killed in service of your holy mission?"
"It is not the same. We are nothing alike." Despite her words, the taste of iron blossoms on Ilsa's tongue as Alanna's words echo inside her skull.
"And yet your soul longs to entwine with mine." Alanna moves to lean in, though she halts when Ilsa's blade meets her exposed throat.
"What do you know of souls?" Ilsa's hand shakes; her blade longs to taste blood and she cannot bring herself to indulge it.
Alanna smiles, but this time it is devoid of humour. "As little as you, angel." Her title sounds like an insult falling from sinfully soft lips. Iron makes itself known once again.
"I should kill you where you stand."
"Oh, can your faith not withstand even a lick of temptation, my love?" Alanna tuts, her playful demeanour immediately returned.
"Hold your tongue," Ilsa growls and presses in closer, her face and blade both. A drop of black blood beads on the demon's skin; it travels down the length of Ilsa's sword, tainting it.
Alanna leans in despite the threat against her throat, allowing Ilsa's blade to dig into her skin further so she can breathe into Ilsa's space. She smells like fire. "Hold it for me." Her nose crinkles in a smile and Ilsa scoffs.
"I shall cut it off."
"How wasteful." Alanna pouts, pausing momentarily. Then, eyes alighting anew, she continues, "Allow me to taste you and you may do with my tongue as you wish."
Ilsa's breath nearly catches. "That's not-"
"If your conviction is as strong as it appears, a kiss surely would not move you." Alanna's lips are barely a breath away.
The devil whispers in her ear, quite literally. And yet, is she not correct?
They stay frozen in place until the fire has almost burned out. Alanna's blood has continued running down Ilsa's blade, the skin unable to stitch itself back together. It now also stains her hand and arm. Her fingers itch.
"I want you," Ilsa whispers and Alanna's eyes trail down to her lips, "to leave me alone."
Alanna sighs, then grasps Ilsa's blade and pushes it down. Newly pooling blood from her palm paints the sword black and Ilsa lets it fall.
"You think I wanted this?" Alanna questions, eyes suddenly the colour of glaciers. "To be bound to an angel? They would kill me for it."
"Yes, because my side will simply be overjoyed," Ilsa snarks. She pushes herself up to stand and sheathes her sword. Alanna stays kneeling.
White wings spread across the sand, blood-stained gown pooling around her. Alanna looks up at her and the familiar taste of iron rises like bile in Ilsa's throat.
"Let us pretend this never happened," Ilsa says, because what else could she say?
Alanna rises, wings flexing beautifully. She holds Ilsa's eye deliberately and raises the cut hand to her lips. She licks the length of the open cut slowly.
"You can try," Alanna responds. Her smile is stained crimson, and Ilsa's mouth waters before the iron taste can catch up.
Alanna's eyes trail down her face, halting on the spot above her heart. She takes a step and swirls into smoke. Ilsa bites back disappointment, but it takes but a second before she feels warmth against her back.
For a moment, Ilsa feels fear, unfamiliar and cold, and then Alanna reaches around to press her hand against Ilsa's chest and the fear evaporates as quickly as it appeared. It burns away in the face of desire; desire so strong she feels her skin crawl in protest.
"Alanna-" It's a protest, it's meant to be a protest.
Alanna presses in closer, hand trailing up Ilsa's throat to gently grab her by the jaw.
"Just one taste?" Alanna whispers into her ear. "And then I shall leave you alone as you wish."
Absolutely not. Alanna slithers around her side, their wings brushing together as she moves, and Ilsa exhales shakily. To want something so badly, something separate from fulfilling her mission, is unheard of, unacceptable.
"One," Ilsa agrees. Alanna's hold on her jaw tightens, and Ilsa's body hums, the iron fading until she can barely taste it beneath the desire.
"Kiss me, then." Alanna's smile is sharp, but her eyes are wide.
"You talk too much," Ilsa mutters. Before Alanna can respond, Ilsa presses their lips together. For all her flirtatious bravado, Alanna's lips are surprisingly gentle, undemanding. Ilsa kisses her again, and again, until she once again tastes iron, and for the first time, it tastes good.
"Open your mouth," she whispers against the seam of Alanna's lips and Alanna complies; a small, vulnerable sound escaping her as she does. Ilsa's lips burn. She licks into Alanna's mouth, moaning when she brushes against the demon's forked tongue.
It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong. Her tongue presses against one of Alanna's fangs until she tastes blood.
Ilsa presses her hand against the name on Alanna's skin. The fine script feels as though it's been carved with a blade, in contrast to Ilsa's burn. Alanna gasps against her mouth and Ilsa swallows it, even when it burns all the way down to the center of her chest.
Alanna breaks the kiss, her chest heaving with heavy breaths. "I have to go," she gasps.
Ilsa blinks. "Are you joking?"
"Do you want me to stay?" Alanna grins, eyes glittering so bright that Ilsa's breath catches in her throat.
"Do as you wish," Ilsa replies dismissively. "I am not your keeper."
Alanna laughs and Ilsa's mouth tingles with a renewed iron taste, scalding her still burning tongue.
"No, you're simply my soulmate." Alanna manages to sound both exhilarated and frustrated, impressively enough.
Before Ilsa can speak- she does not know what she would say, for it is an outlandish position to be in. Deeply disastrous, and yet-
"Don't miss me too much." Alanna places a gentle kiss on her cheek, and Ilsa feels heat rise against her skin. Alanna's wings carry her into the falling night, and Ilsa is alone.
A single white feather falls elegantly through the air and Ilsa kills the urge to catch it. She turns, stolen heat blooming in her chest as the fire dies behind her.