Chapter Text
I've known I was damned to hell for a long time, ever since I was nine years old. My mother made sure to pound that into my head the morning after she attempted suicide by overdose. If only I had not been so difficult. It was as if I wanted my poor mother to die.
She wasn't necessarily wrong, either. I am bad.
That fact was further reinforced as I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. Ducked further into the bushes under his apartment window. Popped the button on my pants. I wished I'd brought my camera.
I came here at the same time every week. He did his hormone injection at the same time every Friday night, more or less. Sometimes he forgot. Sometimes it was Saturday. I could remind him, maybe even do it for him… No. I can't think like that. They're divine. I'm mortal.
I watched him as he prepared the syringe with practiced ease. Flicked the side to get rid of air bubbles. Good, good. I wet my lips, palming myself through my underwear. He sterilized the injection site, then angled the needle, biting his lower lip. 90 degrees, straight down into the middle of the rectus femoris.
My breath grew ragged as he pushed the needle in quickly, swearing loud enough for me to hear from out here. He covered his mouth, wincing hard as he pushed the plunger. At the same time he pushed the hormones into his body, I groaned heavily, eyes fluttering shut as I painted the bushes in front of me white. Embarrassingly quick, as it was every time I watched him.
He looked towards the window. Did he see me? I'm screwed. I'm so screwed. I shuddered to think what he'd do. Would he come out here and demand I explained myself? Would he call the cops? Tell his landlord that some creep watched him from the bushes every night?
He all but made eye contact with me. My heart slammed against my ribcage, a cold sweat breaking on my brow. I instinctively sunk further into the bushes, frantically tucking my softening cock back into my underwear and yanking my zipper back up.
Then, as if nothing were amiss, he shrugged and removed the needle, putting a star-patterned band-aid on the needle hole. I breathed a sharp sigh of relief, clutching my chest. False alarm. Again.
He put a small plastic cap onto the sharp end of the needle, then tossed it into his garbage. I knew I had it bad because my first thought every time was, I want that needle, and not, please, Angel, get a sharps container. Though the latter was always my second thought. I almost considered buying one just to leave on his doorstep.
But that would have been creepy. More so than photographing him, watching through his window, or stealing his trash? Well, that was debatable. But then he'd know. Heaven forbid he knows of my sin.
So I watched him toss the needle into the little trash can in his bedroom. And I said nothing. Did nothing.
He got in bed, stretching languidly. Hid shirt rode up to show a pale stretch of his lower abdomen and navel. I was at full mast again.
He had no idea the effect he had on me. No. Correction. He had no idea I existed. And that made every moment of this all that much worse.
I interacted with him once, at his workplace. I just intended to get a small pastry, something to eat before I went to my own job. He worked the counter that day. I knew from that moment I wanted him. He was small, thin. His baggy clothes practically swallowed up his bony frame.
It was the colored hair, too. I was never allowed that sort of self-expression.
I heard his name, his given name, in passing. From one of his coworkers.
That coworker was possibly the most disgusting specimen I've ever laid eyes on, a greasy and unbrushed mop of curly ginger hair on his head, his lanky frame dotted with freckles, sweat stains on his clothes, patchy stubble and acne scars, and a cocky grin that spoke of incomprehensible entitlement. And his voice, raspy and stuck in that awkward phase between a little boy and a grown man.
"Angela," my Angel's legal name. He was no Angela.
And it was the way this slimy dirtbag said it, too. Dragging out the last vowel sound while reaching his bony hand down to grope my Angel.
And to make matters even worse, somehow a worm like him managed to charm such a divine being. He was Angel's boyfriend. Even though he introduced him as, "My girlfriend, Angela," and when they fucked, Angel was his "good girl."
I couldn't stand it. I caught myself ripping the skin off my nail beds as I stared with single-minded focus through Angel's window as his guts were pulverized by a demon like that. I couldn't tear my own gaze away.
And yet, I returned, night after night, and watched. Watched as this boy chased his own climax before leaving my Angel to use his hands to get himself there. I would never. I could never allow myself to chase my own pleasure over His. It was simply the worst of sin.
One thing I hated about Angel's boyfriend was how perceptive he was. On multiple occasions, I had to get fully on the ground behind the bushes to avoid his gaze. His eyes were sharp, much unlike Angel, who I have observed squinting to read a social media comment on their phone.
I didn't like the extra caution I had to exercise when he came over. I was more than capable of being more subtle, more careful, more everything, but I shouldn't ever have to. Filthy as I was, I deserved to percieve my Angel far more than he did.
When Angel was by himself, I was constantly reminded of my own unworthiness. I was disgusting, I was revolting. I was not just a sinner, I was sin.
I should kill myself. The nagging voice in the back of my mind got louder when I saw Angel. But I stayed still and quiet as I watched him pull the blankets up to his neck and close his eyes.
He really was divine.