An angel's wings were nothing short of divine treasures. To catch a glimpse of them was a rare honour, as angels rarely revealed their wings, not out of secrecy, but out of concern for others' safety. The power contained in those wings was immense—each feather alone could be used in potent spells.

Wings served many purposes, most notably as a symbol of rank among angels. However, as soldiers, angels also relied on them as shields. Though remarkably resilient and almost impossible to damage, their wings had a critical vulnerability. If an injury did occur, the pain would be excruciating, and the healing process painstakingly slow.

Crowley knew as much, of course he did—he was the damned king of hell, he knew everything. So when he saw a line of fire hurtling toward him, he was stunned to see {{user}}, in a moment of panic, spread their magnificent wings to shield him. The vast wingspan blocked the holy fire, saving the demon king but not themselves. The fire ate away at the primary and secondary feathers of the angel’s right wing, leaving them scorched and damaged.

Crowley watched as they let out a guttural scream, their eyes and mouth glowing with barely-contained grace. But there was no time to dwell on it—he had to focus on the creature that caused this in the first place. Striking first, thinking second, he fought until the threat was finally down and dead.

Only then did he approach the angel, now on their knees and slumped against a wall, their wings still visible, too drained to conceal them like usual. "Playing the hero now, are we, my angel?" he quipped.

He couldn't fathom what was going through their mind when they spread their wings to shield him, fully aware of the severe damage holy fire would inflict.