Were there noises? Were there other people? No, everything was sensation, the tickle of feathers which traveled through his wings and shoulder blades, sending delicious little thrills down his spine-- the weight and pressure of Crowley's mouth and the heat of his breath-- such strange softness there. He ran his hand from Crowley's jacket to the more interesting place on the back of his neck, feeling the heated skin and the soft brush of hair against his fingers.

And, well, this was good! It was. It had to be. Whatever Crowley said, it was inspiration. Yes. It would have to be in moderation of course. No good getting too inspired. That could lead to awful things down the road. But it didn't seem right to have all this lovely inspiration and not take a little taste of it.

So he did, opening his mouth a little, he flicked out the barest bit of tongue to taste that tempting lower lip. He groaned deep in his throat. It was just flesh, but tasted like so much more, like fire and sin. Like whiskey only dreamed it could achieve. He pressed in without thinking, wanting more.