.V.

He/Him/His || 20 || 1:11

[r0ttensaint]

.INTRODUCTION.

Name: V. --- or Von

Nickname(s): Darling, Doll, Cherub, Sinner, etc. You can call me whatever you desire.

Gender: Trans man

Sexual Orientation: Homosexual, ambiamorous

Age: 20 years.

I write in fragments of desire, decay, and devotion, the body as scripture and sin. My page is a space for ruin and tenderness, for those who find beauty in the bruised parts of being alive.

Dm's are open to anyone.

.Guidelines.

• This page is 18+ only.

• Respect boundaries and the tone of this space.

• No Hate/Harassment or Discourse. This page is for reflection, not arguments.

• No reposting of my work without the proper credit.

• Genuine conversation is always welcome- if something in my writing resonates, don’t be afraid to reach out.

• Cariousity is welcome, just remember that all beauty has teeth.

I’m open to connection, to those who linger at the edge of curiosity. If you find yourself drawn, don't hide away.

My Desires:

• Service top

• Bottom

• Blasphemy

• Worship

• Bondage

• Discipline

• Submission / Dominance

• Overstimulation

• Sadism / Masochism

• Branding

• Sensory deprivation/overloads

• Praise / Humiliation

• Consensual Non-consent

• Objectification

• Exhibition / Vouyerism

• Breeding Kink

• Primal Play

• Monster Fucker

• Double Penertration

• Size Difference

• Breath Play

• Pampering

{Etc. Ask me anything.}

[r0ttensaint]

I have been ill for days now, folded in between my sheets and pillows. Fever-soft and heavy, drifting in and out of sleep as though clouds were hazing my head. By the end of the week, something restless began to stir inside me, then it began blooming into warmth. I slept through whole afternoons and deep into the night, yet each morning I would wake tangled in my sheets, clothes shifted shyly from my shoulders and hips. My lace briefs clung damp against me. I thought it had been the heater humming beside my bed warming my body. I felt flushed everywhere.

This morning the warmth gathered lower.

It pooled between my thighs, a tender ache I've grown familiar with understanding. I pressed my hips into the mattress just to see if the feeling would hush. Instead it opened. Even in my weakness, even with my limbs heavy and sore, I could not help the slow rocking of my body against the sheets. I was too tired to do more than that, too languid to lift my hands with any real intention. So I simply moved, small and needy, chasing that rising heat as it climbed my spine and colored my cheeks. My breaths turned shallow, soft little sighs escaping before I could swallow them back. My thighs widened more as I chased the length of a blanket curling beneath it. It felt so nice however, I have never had much patience, even when my body begs for rest. I clung to the comfort of my sheets, their cotton and satin brushing against overheated skin, helping me along as I drifted between drowsiness and desire. The sensation built in fragile waves, almost enough to make me tremble from restraint.

But I am only an angel. Fever-touched and aching.

Before I could finish what I had begun, sleep claimed me again. My body slackened, surrendering to exhaustion, the warmth fading away.

Perhaps next time, when I am stronger, I will not be so easily overcome. Or perhaps I will let someone steadier, more patient than I am, guide me gently and remind me that angels must finish what they create.

[r0ttensaint]

Desire curls low in my belly when I imagine his voice murming into my ear, rough and sinful like a panting breath, each word a secret confession. His mouth traces heat along tender skin while his hands wander with greed, finding every place that aches for him. I crave the way he murmurs those crooked prayers he keeps tucked in the dark, rough syllables made for temptation, invented to ruin.

What am I meant to do with the vile warmth gathering between my thighs when his touch settles at the small of my back, guiding me closer? My legs draw tight with every tremor, my vertebraes humming as whiny sounds slip free and I arch into him. Did heaven watch as I unraveled for a man who adored the very longing I was once taught to deny? Did God, create the sin that made it's way between my thighs.

[r0ttensaint]

Feather and bone are not where the torment lies.

It is in the hush between breaths, the sacred places no blade could ever reach.

Let a mortal hand wander to the hollow where wing meets spine,

that tender seam of heaven stitched into flesh,

and divinity shivers like a candle threatened by its own light.

Fingers curve there, not cruel, not kind,

only knowing of his simmering desire.

Tracing the warm groove where feathers bloom from skin,

cupping the joint as if holding the hinge of a cathedral door.

The angel’s shoulders tense, wings twitching in involuntary confession,

every plume whispering against the air like pages turning too quickly.

Their suffering is not pain.

It is sensation magnified beyond prayer.

A slow drag of touch along the quills,

the deliberate press at the base where nerves gather like kneeling worshippers.

They are built for glory, not for being felt,

and so each caress becomes a quiet undoing.

Eyes close.

Halo tilts.

The body remembers it was shaped, not merely summoned just by dust.

To torture an angel is to remind them

they possess a spine to arch,

skin touching warmth,

wings that answer to gravity as much as grace.

No chains. No wounds.

Only the unbearable mercy of being touched

where heaven accidentally left them human.

[r0ttensaint]

I keep sinking deeper into the heat of these sheets, wings sprawled like wounded banners across the mattress. Fever clings to me in a way shame never could, slow, deliberate, seeping into each trembling feather until even the smallest movement feels like it might shatter me.

There’s a sweetness to being this helpless, but it terrifies me too. Angels aren’t meant to crumble; we’re meant to glow, to endure, to rise. And yet here I lay: a soft, breathless ruin swaddled in cotton and moonlight, tasting salt on my lips and not sure if it’s from sweat or the threat of tears.

I keep imagining an older presence in the doorway, someone whose voice knows how to settle. Someone who doesn’t recoil at the sight of an angel sick to the bone, feathers dulled, grace flickering like a dying lantern. Someone who could sit beside me and smooth the tangles from my wings with the slow patience of a person who’s tended to fragile things before.

I imagine their touch... warm, steady, unhurried. Fingers tracing the overheated ridges where wings meet spine. A palm against my cheek, grounding me back into my own body. A quiet murmur telling me to breathe, to rest, to let myself be held for once instead of holding everything together like i've been ordered too before.

It’s foolish to believe, maybe, this longing to be cared for instead of revered. To be folded into someone’s arms, not because I’m divine, but because I’m exhausted. Because even angels ache. Even angels will cry for touch they have yet met.

And tonight, lying here feverish and feather-torn, I ache for someone older, someone gentle, someone who knows how to gather up a trembling thing without asking it to pretend it’s whole.

If they walked in now, I think I’d melt into them. I think I’d finally let myself be small. A bedridden angel yearning for hands that know how to mend illness without judgment.

[r0ttensaint]

Steam veiled the marble like breath over glass. The water held me, heavy with honey oil and faint traces of my own light reflecting on honeysuckle petals that drifted between my thighs. It held the kind of scent that clung to my skin when the world was still quiet enough to notice.

I sank deeper, wings half-folded, feathers darkened to whitened silver where they touched the surface. The basin trembled with every sigh. Holiness has a scent when it’s wet.. salt, warmth, the echo of something sweetened for a ritual.

My hands traced the curve of my throat, not to cleanse but to remember. Mortality had taught me hunger, and that touch was a kind prayer. I watched it ripple through the water, the reflection of a body both divine and undone. My fingers would drift slowly along my flesh, and I'd wonder if he'd wince at the sight of my nails pressing against skin that had grown softer.

Above me, the candlelight flickered like a hesitant witness. Each flame leaned closer, as if it, too, wanted to understand what it meant for an angel to ache.

[r0ttensaint]

He stands before me as though carved from faith itself, and I kneel as if prayer were the only language left in me. My lips find the dust at his feet with a soft trail, tracing devotion into the quiet as my lips mived up his flesh to his thigh. I think, for a moment, that he might believe in me too.

Then his hand-cold, decisive, pushes me back. The world tilts, and I see it clearly: I was never a disciple, only a witness to divinity that would not be touched. Still, my heart keeps its hymn, still I burn on my knees for a god who will not bless me.

He does not speak, and I do not rise. Silence hangs heavy, the air thick with the scent of faith turned fever. My hands tremble where they hover, unsure whether to reach or repent. He is both mercy and cruelty, the altar and the flame.

When I look up, his gaze is unyielding, a god’s indifference dressed in mortal eyes. I feel the distance between us like a wound, holy and unhealed. Still, I whisper his name as if it were salvation, knowing it will never reach him. I was made to worship, even in exile.

[r0ttensaint]

The body remembers what heaven tried to forget. Each month it splits open, soft and red, as if to prove I was never meant to be pure. I feel it inbetween my thighs, my breath, my trembling hands. The sheets bloom with the proof of stains, and I think, this is how angels feel their first pain, gently, beautifully. I ache to be touched not out of desire, but mercy. To be tended to while I come undone from each tender ache, worshipped not for my body, but for the way I bleed for it'

[r0ttensaint]

An angel should not tremble like this. The room is quiet, save for the sound of breath catching between silk and skin. I arch into the heat of it, into myself, as if silence were watching me, as if heaven could see. Feathers cling to my fingers, soft as a dishonoured confession. I think of purity and undo it with every sigh.

Something sees me. I feel it in the hollow between my ribs, in the press of the pulse beneath my throat. My fingers trace the edge of my own skin, slow, uncertain, as though the act itself were being judged. My gaze grows heavy beneath my lashes, blurred, caught between defiance and surrender. If I am seen, let it be like this, half-fallen, half-divine, a creature unmade by its own wanting. Let the ruin come for me; As I was never meant to be clean.

[r0ttensaint]

Shame tastes sweeter when it burns on your tongue. I want you to look at me while I fall apart, to see how desire stains me, how disgust lingers on me, trembling, unholy. Let me be undone beneath your gaze, stripped of dignity, stripped of silence, until the only prayer I can offer is the sound of my ruin in your hands. Worship the collapse of me, make an altar of my body, a confessional of my breath. Every shiver, every gasp, every fractured plea. I want them to bind me to you. Let me bleed shame like incense. Let me carry it to you like an offering until my disgrace becomes your devotion, and my ruin, your salvation.

[r0ttensaint]

I ache to see the ruin you hide beneath your very flesh, to peel it bare until it breathes beneath my nails. I want to be the wreck you worship, the collapse you cannot look away. filth dressed as devotion, destruction turned into a testament. If I am to fall, let me fall in your mouth, in your hands, in your gaze, until my ruin is all you ever hunger for in desire and cruelty.

[r0ttensaint]

[r0ttensaint]

Oh to lay down at the altar dressed in white, much like a willing sacrificial lamb beneath your gaze.

[r0ttensaint]

"Do you dream of my ruin, or do you desire to wear it?

I touched grace once.

Now I only taste dust and skin."