Occasionally you would find them, gently littering the rooms of your apartment -- piled up before the main door, between the sheets in the morning after, across the linoleum tiles of your bathroom. At first, the black ashes had startled you, thinking they were remnants from some sort of severe burn your fallen angel had acquired in an attack.
It wasn't until one morning, upon close inspection, that the true identity of the fragments dawned on you.
You had kneeled down before a large cluster of what-appeared-to-be-soot and reached out a hesitant hand, bringing the held objects to your face. [H/c] brows furrowed and [e/c] eyes narrowed when you noticed something white poking out from between the ashes. Gently blowing at the residue so as to not greatly disturb anything, you let out a startled gasp at what was left.
In your palm, there lay a single white feather. Dirtied with ash and bent at certain angels, yes, but a feather nonetheless.
You stared in awe at the detached plumage, noting in the back of your mind that it was larger than any you had seen on a bird. Slowly, you picked the feather from its tip and lightly shook the remaining ash off, your eyes trailing over the larger pile by the door as you did so. In a distant portion of your memory, you recalled numerous biblical stories your grandmother would tell you before bed, back when you were a child and still believed in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters (Oh, how she'd pale if she were still alive and knew who your current lover was!).
You recalled stories of the creation of the universe; of legendary Noah and his ark; of Moses with his stoned scribbles and the biblical plagues. But the story that rang clearest was the one she'd tell, in a hushed tone as if it were a secret, in a reprimanding tone whenever you'd been particularly rebellious: The Fall of Lucifer. Her words rang clearly in your head as if she were whispering them in your ear on the spot; how Lucifer led an army of angels against heaven in a war that was predestined to fail; how those angels fell to hell and became the first demons; how Lucifer was banished from heaven in a shower of flames so intense it was said that he was the first ever shooting star.
A sporadic shudder crawled its way between your shoulder blades as the full impact of the item you were clutching hit you, and suddenly your heart ached for the angel. You lightly trailed your fingertips along the crisply burnt edges -- you could have sworn they were still hot -- and you were struck deeply with sympathy for the devil.
A fire so intense, you mused, his burnt and destroyed wings still shed their feathers even after thousands of years.
When the day came for the angel's next visit, you had thrown yourself at him and attacked his throat with your mouth the instant he had stepped through the door. The comment he had prepared to give quickly died on his lips with a sharp and drawn out nip to his neck. With a groan, he wrapped your legs around his waist and carried you to the couch (bedroom be damned) where you quickly straddled his waist as soon as he lied down. For once, he didn't protest at you taking initiative, and if he was opposed to the slow way you stripped yourselves or planted feather-like kisses on his chest or gently rode him through each and every one of his orgasms, he hid it well behind husky moans and sighs.
It was after his first climax that, through hazy eyes and a fuzzy mind, you spotted a burnt feather drifting slowly to the wooden floor.