From Last Tango in Tadfield:

Crowley parks the Bentley, but just as they go to open the doors to get out, Aziraphale takes a deep breath as if trying to smell some strange perfume.

I say, Crowley, are you aware that your evil aroma is particularly musky tonight?

Evil? What's evil about it? What are you trying to say, Aziraphail? I need another shower 30 minutes after we just took one? That's not very nice of you.

Perhaps "evil" isn't the right word. That night before Armageddon, when you detected that the hellhound had found its master. Gabriel and Sandalphon came into the bookshop shortly after you'd left. Sandalphon noticed your aroma. Said he smelled something "evil."

What makes you think it wasn't the hellhound?

Well, only you could detect that. But I'm always aware of the way you smell. I like it. A sort of light combination of smoking aloes, whiskey, and rut. The irony of calling it an "evil" aroma rather tickled me. I told them it was due to the Jeffrey Archer books.

Well that's just great. You think I smell like a burnt down roadhouse. Are you sure you want to go in with me?

Oh Crowley, don't be an ass. I said I like the way you smell. Let's not have unpleasantness. Shall we dance?


Aziraphale and Crowley are relaxing in bed in Crowley's Mayfair flat. Crowley is half sitting against a couple of pillows, his arms folded above his head. Aziraphale has his head on the demon's shoulder, one arm on his chest, one leg across Crowley's hips.

So tell me more about my evil aroma, Aziraphale. I'm dying to know.

Well. (Aziraphale inhales a deep breath, contemplates a moment.) Fragrant wood smoke, generally. A sort of pungent mix of cedar, aloes, sandalwood and such. Whiskey, if you've been drinking. (Nuzzles Crowley's armpit hair) And you positively stink of sex. I'm surprised humans don't follow you around with nostrils flared.

Humpf. Although that might explain some past incidents . . .

Aziraphale gives Crowley a lick.

And your skin tastes peppery – a sort of mix of cayenne and black pepper.

The angel raises himself and leans over Crowley to give him a kiss.

You have bitter almond breath. Like cyanide. With an overtone of ozone. You know, that rather zingy smell the air has after a lighting strike.

Aziraphale moves so he is now atop Crowley, hands in the demon's hair.

And when you're a woman, your vagina smells of frankincense.

Beelzebul used to use me to defile the altars in temples and churches.

Aziraphale recollects Crowley describing walking across the consecrated ground of a church aisle as similar to walking across a hot sandy beach in bare feet. The image of Crowley being roasted alive atop the stones of an altar comes unavoidably into his mind. He remains still and silent, not wanting to stir up hideous memories any further.

Yessss. You can imagine what that was like, Aziraphale.

Beneath him, Crowley has morphed into a woman, a serpent demon radiating the heat of hate and despair. Aziraphale is now gazing into unblinking slit pupils within irises the color of desert sand, beneath delicately horned brows. A thick black forked tongue slowly slips between the demon's soft rosy lips and flicks at the angel. Unflinching, he calmly returns her gaze and opens his mouth slightly, extends his own tongue, and licks it across his upper lip. Crowley extends her tongue further and tickles the angel's tongue and lips. Then she smiles.

My brave, fearless Angel. That usually scares the piss out of humans. Stay on top of me. Now I'll tell you what you smell like.

She slips her ruby talons through his lambswool hair and pushes his head against her shoulder.

You smell like water. Rainfall after it's picked up the scent of damp earth and forest. Melting snow. With that salty, bitter smell of the ocean. Your skin tastes dry and dusty, like sage and flint. Always reminds me of Patron tequila. Your mouth is a delicious combination of all those sweet golden wines and sherries. And you breathe ozone, too. Maybe that's an angel thing, do you think?

Crowley writhes beneath Aziraphale and rolls him off her, then straddles his hips.

And maybe someday we can do a little science project to see what your vajayjay smells like. But not today.

A viperish smile, revealing points of two teeth. Aziraphale reaches up and fingers her lips open. Her fangs aren't needle sharp as a snake's, but instead have the more rounded mammalian canine shape. The rest of her teeth are human. Pushing his hand aside, she leans forward to rub her firm little breasts against his chest hair. Gently bites the carotid area of his neck, just hard enough so all her teeth are felt, but not hard enough to pinch or hurt him. Rakes her talons along his ribs and flanks, again just hard enough to let him know she could be doing much worse things, but isn't. Sits up and caresses his chest with her talons, circling and tickling his nipples until they're hard as leather. Scoots back until she's atop his thighs, wraps the talons of one hand around his testicles. Uses the claws of her other hand to drum lightly along his erection.

The angel meanwhile has been caressing her breasts until her back arches in pleasure.

Crowley. Please. Do me.

Smiling sinfully, she places her hands on her thighs and mounts his erection. Begins to rotate and slowly flex her hips back and forth. Rhythmic interior contractions caress the angel's cock.

Aziraphale doesn't wait, knowing she'll be joining him soon enough. For the first time ever he cries out as Divine Ecstasy overtakes him. Moments later Crowley is with him. They remain for hours as if frozen in time.