Chapter Text
His sexy neighbour was naked again.
Generally speaking, Aziraphale didn’t make it his business to learn the ins and outs of his neighbours’ state of undress, attractiveness notwithstanding. He knew nearly everyone around the block, having lived in this suburb for more than half of his life. Born and bred in Surrey, he’d had a taste of London in his twenties and then moved back home after the passing of his parents. Novels could be penned anywhere after all.
Hence the neighbourhood had always felt like an extended family of sorts to him, people he’d greet by name on the street but wouldn’t ever care to see in the nude.
Anthony Crowley, however, was another matter.
Fingers hovering over his keyboard, frozen in the middle of the sentence he’d just been typing, Aziraphale stared through the open window to his left. Normally, the view from his first-floor study wouldn’t be anything spectacular; just the side of a typical two-storey red-brick house, separated from his own by a low fence, that had stood dark and empty until three weeks ago. But now the balcony that directly faced Aziraphale’s study was flooded with light streaming through an open pair of French doors, providing him with an unhindered view of his new — and devastatingly bewitching — neighbour.
At two in the morning, Anthony J. Crowley — ‘Just Crowley, thanks,’ he’d said after Aziraphale introduced himself over the fence the day he’d moved in — was painting.
Without a stitch of clothing on his body. Again .
Crowley was an artist. Quite a famous one in the world of modern art, according to Google. Aziraphale had blazed through a number of articles written about the man after receiving his business card the day they’d met. Crowley had presented the minimalist thing with a flourish, a slow appraisal of Aziraphale up-and-down, and a pointed drawl of,
‘Give me a buzz if you fancy a commission. I’ll do you for a special discount.’
It had made Aziraphale’s cheeks flame like nothing before. The nature of that first meeting should have immediately clued him in that Crowley would spell trouble, in one form or another. Handsome thing like that, flirting right off the bat with frumpy old Aziraphale of all people, and with an unmistakable euphemism to boot? It didn’t matter that Aziraphale had felt the sizzle of attraction at once, the man just simply could not have been serious.
Little had he suspected, however, that his biggest ‘trouble’ with Crowley would take place in the dead of night, when he’d be sat in front of his computer, making the most of a silent world to work on his next novel. He wouldn’t ever forget the first time he’d looked out of the window at the newly occupied house to be greeted with the glorious sight of a completely naked Crowley — just as he was right now.
Aziraphale bit his lip, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. Not for the first time he mused that his tendency to keep odd hours while writing was both a blessing and a curse, for Crowley also seemed to create his art solely in the wee hours of the morning.
The brightly lit room through the open French doors — Crowley’s work studio, he supposed — illuminated a tall slim figure that stood with his right side to Aziraphale, dragging a paintbrush in long brushstrokes over an easel. Even from this distance, Aziraphale could make out the long red hair swept up into a bun, and the sharp profile of a face that was unreasonably attractive. His body was wiry and lean, with long limbs and a whipcord torso. All angles and — the universe must be laughing at him — exactly the type Aziraphale had always been drawn to.
If it weren’t enough that Anthony Crowley as a general concept could send Aziraphale into a tizzy with the desire to get to know him, his neighbour also possessed a certain feature that Aziraphale was increasingly interested in getting to know a lot more intimately. Even now, with Crowley only in profile, said feature was perfectly visible.
No wonder. A penis of such titillating proportions couldn’t possibly escape notice when all of the man was on display.
Aziraphale bit his lower lip as his eyes raked down Crowley’s trim body to linger on his cock. Even while soft and flaccid, it hung from his pelvis to an impressive length, with girth to match. Only a few inches short of a foot, if Aziraphale had to guess from this distance.
He didn’t want to guess. Heaven help him, he wanted to know. Up close and personal. With his hand and mouth and, if he were lucky beyond reason, his arse. Aching. Empty.
Crowley shifted, sliding his right foot back as he bent down, still intent on his work, and it made that massive cock of his sway. It awed Aziraphale that he could clearly see that small movement from here, the considerable weight of it evident. Good lord, Anthony Crowley was more than well-endowed and Aziraphale, even through a belated bout of guilt that had become the norm on nights like these, was goddamn enchanted by and desperate for his beautiful neighbour and his equally beautiful cock.
Aziraphale knew he ought to avert his gaze. His second draft wasn’t going to write itself. And he was being a pervert. A pathetic, voyeuristic pervert. And yet…
The thing was… the thing was that the first few nights, Aziraphale had made a credible effort to respect Crowley’s privacy. He didn’t have curtains on the windows of his study, but he’d turned on every light in the room in addition to the desk lamp, then opened his window and played classical music, in an attempt to draw Crowley’s attention to the fact that Aziraphale was awake and right there with first row tickets to the other’s… studio. The man had even looked in the direction of Aziraphale’s house (he’d barely managed to turn away in time to furiously start keyboard smashing); it was impossible for Crowley to have missed that his nudity was in plain sight of his neighbour.
But nothing had changed. Crowley didn’t draw the curtains across his French doors. He didn’t put on any clothes (notwithstanding the apron he’d wear; rarely).
And sometimes… sometimes, Aziraphale could swear that Crowley caught him looking, just like now —
‘Oh lord,’ he gasped to himself as he scrambled to pretend that he’d been busy clicking away on the computer all along. Like he’d done so many nights already.
But he’d been caught. He knew that he’d been caught. And just like every other time it had happened, Aziraphale could already anticipate what he would see when he snuck a peek at Crowley several seconds later and —
Yes, there it was. Anthony Crowley had returned to painting but he’d clearly adjusted the position of his easel — to stand with more of his front turned towards the French doors. He was now presenting an almost unobstructed view of his front, his enticingly lithe body with his enticingly huge cock, directly to Aziraphale.
There was a smile — a smirk, was it? — curving his lips as he stroked his brush over the canvas. And as the seconds ticked by, slow and punishing, there wasn’t the slightest chance Aziraphale could miss the very prominent change in Crowley’s body. The way his cock, hanging soft between his legs, gradually began to lift, flushing red with the rush of blood. It was hardening without one touch of Crowley’s hand, growing from its already hefty size to something that made a whimper escape Aziraphale’s lips. Crowley was so deliciously big that his cock didn’t even stand straight while fully erect, swaying and bobbing heavily with every movement as he painted.
Aziraphale squirmed in his seat, squeezing his thighs together. His own trousers were growing tight over his groin and his arse clenched around nothing. All of this was a familiar manoeuvre on Crowley’s part; he’d done this before, on many a night.
And that was just the thing, wasn’t it? How could Aziraphale feel guilty for watching, how could he be persuaded to not look, when Crowley was obviously, blatantly , offering himself to Aziraphale’s coveting gaze?
Crowley wanted Aziraphale’s eyes on him. A mutual getting off, perhaps. It was an unspoken secret between them.
He would watch until Crowley turned off his lights or, often enough, when his own need became too much to ignore and he’d flee to wank himself raw over his bedsheets. Three fingers up his arse, fantasising that it was Crowley’s mammoth cock he was writhing on.
Yes, Anthony Crowley was trouble. Big trouble, as it were.
~***~
Their first real interaction as neighbours, not counting the day Crowley moved in, took place only a few days later. The premise of the meeting nearly made Aziraphale shrivel up in embarrassment due to the sheer cliche of it all.
He was knocking on Crowley’s door to borrow some sugar, for an urgent mug of cocoa.
What a hackneyed act straight out of a bad porn film, he thought, cringing to himself as he waited for Crowley to answer.
It had been a couple of weeks since Aziraphale started receiving the nightly naked shows of his neighbour. And it would become the day he learnt that Crowley did not save his nudity only for work*. The man wore no clothes inside his house, period, and Aziraphale was about to find that out in approximately twenty minutes.
(* Aziraphale had given that possibility the serious consideration it was due. Every artist had their own process, after all. Aziraphale himself struggled to write a word without a preemptive sugar rush to kickstart his brain — ergo, the urgent mug of cocoa that just wouldn’t do without at least three spoonfuls of sugar — a ritual that necessitated prolonged use of his exercise bicycle during a project. Whenever he remembered to clamber onto the blasted machine, that is.)
The door swung open and Aziraphale stopped breathing.
Later on, for the life of him he couldn’t have said what he’d been expecting to see Anthony Crowley wearing. Till then his overall impression of the man’s attire had been… a general lack-thereof, honestly. Perhaps the dark jackets over equally dark and sinfully tightfitting shirts and jeans, like he’d worn the day he’d moved in or the couple glimpses Aziraphale had since caught of him leaving the house.
Instead, he found himself staring at the shiny folds of a blood-red dressing gown, loosely pulled around a slender frame. Aziraphale’s gaze, quite without his permission, dipped from the open neck of the robe, which exposed a generous amount of pale skin dusted with chest hair, to the hem that looked like it should have reached the knees but ended mid-thigh thanks to the considerable height of its owner. Aziraphale’s eyes did linger on those thighs, long and lean and hairy, and the shins, even longer and leaner and hairier with well-turned calves that were all too visible because the man had crossed one leg over the other as he leaned against the doorframe, waiting for Aziraphale to —
Oh. Starting, Aziraphale quickly looked up and could’ve sworn he felt the actual bloodrush to his face when he saw the smirk on Crowley’s face. Great, he’d been caught.
Just like he’d been caught looking at Crowley painting in the nude the past several nights, but oh dear, that wasn’t the safest train for his thoughts to hop aboard just now.
‘Need a hand?’
Aziraphale blinked, and then was mortified to realise Crowley had spoken first because he was still staring at the man. Goodness, what was wrong with him?
‘Pardon?’ he stammered without thinking and almost groaned at himself.
‘Well, you didn’t come knocking for nothing.’ Crowley’s smirk was now a full-blown grin. ‘So. Do you need a hand with something?’
He loosened the arms folded over his chest to wiggle his fingers in time with his words, and Aziraphale was momentarily distracted. Up close, he could see that Crowley’s hands were surprisingly big, his fingers long and nimble in their airy movement. Of course they would be, he mused vaguely to himself; Crowley was an artist, his fingers able to wield all manners of paint brushes and tools with delicate elegance and dexterity.
Crowley had such lovely hands. And somehow, the movement of them along with that phrase — need a hand? — felt enticing and electric in that moment. Aziraphale could certainly do with that hand, yes indeed —
‘Mr Fell?’
Oh god. Aziraphale wanted to shake himself.
‘Just Aziraphale, please,’ he blurted.
‘Let me guess, “Mr Fell was my father”, eh?’
‘What?’
Crowley chuckled then, and Aziraphale could swear that his eyes were glinting — and oh, his eyes! He could see them properly now! Crowley had been wearing sunglasses that first day, and he’d never seen him up close since then, to be able to appreciate just how light his brown eyes were, irises so bright they almost seemed to glow like amber in the afternoon sun and —
Oh right, Crowley was still waiting for Aziraphale to clarify why he was calling on him unannounced. Had Aziraphale ever acted more like a ninny in his life?
‘Cudvesumsuga?’ The words tumbled out of his mouth in a mess as great as his thoughts currently were.
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that.’ Crowley looked amused but, oddly enough, Aziraphale didn’t feel mocked. Though he wouldn’t have blamed Crowley if he did.
He took a deep breath and enunciated, ‘I was hoping to borrow a cup of sugar from you.’ He held up the mug he’d brought along with him, the white porcelain one with angel wings for handles. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, of course.’
‘Borrow? Didn’t know that was the sorta thing people lent. Not exactly like a bowl you could return, is it?’
Aziraphale felt his cheeks flame. He huffed, furrowing his brows disapprovingly. ‘You could simply say no —’
‘I’ll just give it to you, shall I?’ Crowley grinned, revealing a row of even teeth with crooked canines, and Aziraphale was charmed in spite of himself.
‘Ah. Right. If you’d be so kind. Thank you.’ He held out the mug, and only then did the inflection of Crowley’s words strike him.
Wait just one minute. Did his handsome and naked-at-night neighbour just proposition him?!
Before Aziraphale could react to the possibility, Crowley stepped back, sweeping his arm in a welcoming gesture.
‘Come on in, Aziraphale.’ The way Crowley’s smile seemed to seep into his voice as he said Aziraphale’s name sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.
‘I can wait here,’ he said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t want to intrude, I’m already imposing on you as it is.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Crowley bracingly. He disappeared inside, leaving the door open. After a moment of hesitation, Aziraphale followed him.
The appearance of Crowley’s house wasn’t all that different from Aziraphale’s or the neighbourhood at large. Creamy walls and warm tones. It all contrasted sharply with Crowley’s red dressing gown and the dark clothes he seemed to prefer. However, as Aziraphale was led through a living room and into the kitchen, he took note of the half-opened boxes, sparse furniture — dreadfully minimalist and modern like the black leather couch with a glass-and-steel coffee table — and a number of potted indoor plants scattered about. Ah yes, of course, the man was barely moved in. Aziraphale suspected that the space would look quite different several months on.
Assuming, of course, that Crowley would still be here that far in the future. Surely he would be? He looked to be around Aziraphale’s age, early forties at the most, and he’d bought the house, hadn’t he? Aziraphale was certain that it had been for sale, not lease. And who bought a house outside of London if not to settle down?
The questions flashed through Aziraphale’s mind in the short amount of time it took to reach the kitchen, his eyes raking thoughtfully over Crowley, from the deep red of his hair — oh, he’d let it down, how gorgeous were those curls flowing down about his shoulders — to the sway of fabric around his arse because, lord above, that saunter sent his hips swinging in a manner that could only be sanctioned by the devil.
From there, it became too easy to imagine other ways those hips could move, preferably between Aziraphale’s legs or against his arse and, good gracious, he could suddenly picture in his mind’s eye how every shimmy of those hips would send Crowley’s generous cock bobbing like —
‘—ale?’
His eyes snapped up to find Crowley watching him, eyebrows raised and hand held out, in the middle of his kitchen which was flooded with the late afternoon sunlight.
Was this really happening, Aziraphale wondered, heart hammering in his chest as he stared at that hand. All big and long-fingered and beautiful, and he wanted it on his body. Swallowing, he raised his own hand, trembling slightly, and slipped it into Crowley’s.
His skin was slightly calloused but cool to the touch, his palm strong and sturdy.
‘Uh, Aziraphale.’
He looked up from their joined hands, flushed.
Crowley gave him a lopsided smile, looking bemused. ‘Your mug’s in the other hand.’
A moment passed in silence, followed by a wave of mortification the likes of which Aziraphale had never experienced. With a squeak, he snatched his hand back and, avoiding Crowley’s eyes and blushing like the fool he must surely be coming across as, meekly held out his mug.
‘Sorry, I…!’
Crowley took it with that chuckle of his, amused but not unkind. Placing the mug on a counter, he opened a cupboard and pulled down a transparent plastic container that had SUGAR scrawled across its front in black marker.
‘You’re lucky. I went maybe a little overboard stocking up on essentials when I did the weekly shop on my second day here, so I have plenty of sugar to give you.’ His eyes flicked over Aziraphale, carrying that same glint from before, and Aziraphale fidgeted as he wondered whether there was another double entendre hidden there.
No, best not think about that. He’d already made an absolute fool of himself. He couldn’t afford another faux pax, even though Crowley looked good enough to drive him to distraction. It was distressingly unfair. How could anyone look so — so delectable in a mere dressing gown?
Someone who looked even better out of it , the thought popped up unbidden and he did his best not to picture Crowley’s body underneath those clothes. A near impossible feat, considering that Aziraphale was already in possession of that forbidden knowledge. Extensively.
Was it even forbidden though, when Anthony Crowley made sure to parade himself and his gloriously thick cock in front of Aziraphale almost every night?
‘The kettle’s on.’ Crowley’s voice cut across his unhelpful thoughts. Thankfully. ‘Making coffee. Want some?’
Aziraphale wrinkled his nose automatically. The expression didn’t escape Crowley’s notice, and he laughed.
‘Not a coffee person, eh? Probably for the best. I only got the cheap instant sort for now. No idea which box my coffee maker is in.’
‘I hope moving in is proceeding smoothly?’ Aziraphale offered politely for want of anything else to say. His mind was filled with the concept of Anthony Crowley as a whole and little else. What did normal people even talk about?
‘Eh.’ Crowley shrugged a shoulder dismissively as he spooned sugar into the angel wings mug. ‘It’d go faster if I didn’t have to work. Deadlines after my arse and all.’
Work. Right. Aziraphale swallowed thickly, determined not to say anything else. But Crowley didn’t offer more words either and the silence was somehow worse.
‘You paint,’ he blurted out without thinking, and then rushed to add, ‘I mean, that is your work? According to your card.’
Crowley’s lips twitched as he fitted the cap back on his sugar container. ‘Pretty sure my card says traditional and digital artist, not painting specifically.’
So much for avoiding more faux pax. Aziraphale went rigid as it dawned on him he’d basically admitted that he’d seen Crowley… working.
Closing the cupboard, Crowley leaned his hip against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. ‘I do paint more than anything else though. Now how did you know that?’ He tilted his head, mouth curving in a smile that could only be described as provocative. ‘Looked me up, did you?’
The air went out of Aziraphale’s lungs. His face was so hot; he was certain that he hadn’t stopped blushing ever since his knuckles met Crowley’s front door.
How on earth was he supposed to respond? There was that inflection in Crowley’s voice again. Was he goading Aziraphale into being the first to admit what transpired between their open windows in the dead of night?
Yes I ‘looked you up’ because you paint in the nude and I see you paint in the nude and you know that I see you paint in the nude and I know that you know that I see you paint in the nude and —
‘What did Google say about me?’
And just like that, Aziraphale could breathe again. The sharp twinkle hadn’t left Crowley’s eyes, their dirty unspoken secret still lingering in the air between them. The man was something of an arse, but he wasn’t cruel and Aziraphale gladly took the escape offered.
‘That you’re a modern genius,’ he replied, a smile reaching his face at last. ‘Or should I say, the genius to watch out for this summer at the Serpentine Gallery?’
For the first time since they met, Crowley was suddenly the one taken aback. ‘Oh, you saw the articles?’
Aziraphale nodded, a little smug. At least that was something he could admit to without wishing to evaporate on the spot.
Crowley stared at him. His face broke into a sudden grin. ‘So you did actually look me up? On Google.’ He looked inexplicably pleased about that.
‘I assume that’s your hardest deadline at the moment?’
The kettle on the stove began to whistle and Crowley moved to take it off the hob. ‘Nah, all my exhibition pieces were finished months ago. Right now I’m just loaded with private commissions. A man’s gotta eat between exhibits after all.’
Aziraphale tactfully refrained from commenting that Crowley was probably rich enough to retire and never lift a brush again, if his wealth matched all the raving articles written about him.
Though it would be a pity if Aziraphale didn’t get to see Crowley working again and, oh bollocks, he really should stop thinking about his neighbour like this! It was lewd and indecent and —
Right then Crowley crossed the room to grab a sachet of instant coffee from the kitchen island, and the sunlight pouring in through the windows on the other side silhouetted him briefly. And, immediately, Aziraphale’s gaze was drawn to the shape of his thighs, the long line of his body, the slight curve of his arse shadowed in red because, oh heaven help him, that dressing gown couldn’t just be opaque, could it? No, it had to be deceptively sheer enough to tease Aziraphale like this in only the correct light, and now Crowley was returning with his mug of instant coffee, passing through the light again and Aziraphale could make out the tantalising hang of his —
‘Aziraphale?’
He snapped to attention, face burning, wondering how many times Crowley had been forced to call his name this morning because Aziraphale couldn’t keep this man safe from either his gaze or mind.
‘I’m sorry, I was just admiring your —!’ Aziraphale had to stop to corral his thoughts, watching the now familiar rise of Crowley’s eyebrows. He gestured weakly at the dressing gown. ‘It occurs to me that I probably caught you in the bath when I came over unannounced. I’m sorry.’ He was quite proud of his save, despite the fact that it wasn’t a fluffy bathrobe on Crowley.
He wasn’t prepared for Crowley’s response, the lazy grin that curled around a drawl of, ‘Nah, I just threw this on to answer the door. Meet the demands of polite society and all.’
‘What?’ Aziraphale blinked as Crowley leaned against the counter next to him, blowing at his steaming coffee.
‘I’m told it’s impolite to be starkers while greeting guests.’
It took a moment for the words to sink in, painting the full picture of what Crowley was revealing about himself. Visions of Crowley as seen through the French doors of his studio flashed through Aziraphale’s mind. He’d imagined it was part of the art process or whatever one would call it. A painting thing. A night thing.
But now Aziraphale was doomed to picture Crowley like this all the time, the bare beauty of him present in every room of his house, limned in both moonlight and sunlight. All the time, always.
‘Are you, Aziraphale?’
Aziraphale looked round at Crowley, his mouth dry. ‘Am I what?’
‘Part of… polite society?’ Crowley arched an eyebrow, and his eyes slid down the length of Aziraphale’s body. Blatantly appreciative. Not unlike how Aziraphale looked at him in the dead of night, caught in raptures over his undeniable allure.
‘Oh, I…’ Aziraphale wrung his hands together, the weight of Crowley’s question and gaze thick on his tongue. It almost sounded like Crowley was… but surely he couldn’t be implying that. Not to Aziraphale, who looked and was nothing like Crowley.
‘I should go. My cocoa has probably gone cold by now, I’ll need to make a fresh mug.’
‘Ah, I see why the need for sugar couldn’t wait.’ The atmosphere lightened, as if a crackle of electricity Aziraphale hadn’t noticed disappeared. Crowley slid the angel winged mug, full to the brim with sugar, along the counter towards Aziraphale. ‘Is this enough? Could lend you a whole pound really, if you’d like.’
‘No, that’s all right, thank you,’ said Aziraphale, taking the mug with a shaky smile. He turned to leave and Crowley pulled away from the counter to lead him back. ‘I’ll be off to do the shop later this evening anyway. I just need to get my afternoon quota of words done first and nothing helps like hot chocolate.’
‘Right, you said you’re a writer?’ Crowley remarked as he opened the front door for Aziraphale. ‘Historical romances, right? I Googled you too. Not much of a reader, me, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t sound so worried, I’m not offended,’ Aziraphale said with a chuckle, turning to face Crowley on the threshold. ‘I’m still pretty much an amateur. Started my career late, you see. Fame hasn’t caught up to me yet.’
‘That’s not what the reviews say,’ Crowley murmured, the turn of his mouth soft.
Aziraphale blushed, lowering his eyes. ‘Yes, well… Thank you for the sugar. Much appreciated.’ Raising one hand in a vague imitation of a wave, he turned around, clutching his mug in both hands as he began to walk back to his own house.
‘Come again if you need me. I’d be happy to give you a pound anytime.’
Jaw slackening in surprise, Aziraphale looked over his shoulder. Crowley was taking a sip of his coffee, and the last thing Aziraphale saw before the door closed was a wink, slow and deliberate.