#cult

[vilelithium]

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔟𝔶𝔰𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔯𝔢𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

𝔵𝔵

[lalalychee]

𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

i think this might be the longest a painting has ever taken me, so please stop and take a look at it!! i spent 3 whole months on it. no AI whatsoever, just painted with my hands and my heart.

this work is about the contradictory messages within cults and high control groups--about searching for love and truth, and being given hell in return.

i hope you like it! please tell me what you think!

ⁱ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵃ ᵖᵃᵗʳᵉᵒⁿ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵒⁿˡʸ ᶜᵒˢᵗˢ ᵗʷᵒ ᵈᵒˡˡᵃʳˢ ᵇᵗʷ

[foxkaori]

Just narilamb on your screen

[maltes3]

Yandere!Cult x Hybrid!Reader

The high priest of the congregation was mid-sermon, preaching to a dark room of hooded, kneeling followers, when the faint, muffled sound of a crying baby echoed from the stone steps outside. Opening the church doors, expecting to find a miserable human orphan to turn into a low-level servant, the cult leaders instead pulled back the basket's wool blanket to reveal a newborn hybrid glowing with distinct, unnatural features that perfectly mirrored the sacred, centuries-old prophecies carved into their subterranean altars. To your birth parents, your hybrid traits were an absolute horror to be abandoned; to the cult, your presence on their doorstep was a divine, undisputed miracle. Your parents thought they were leaving you to a quiet life of standard church charity, completely unaware that they had just handed their child over to a hyper-fixated, blood-bound cabal that instantly declared you their living god.

From that exact moment, your childhood was transformed into a gilded, terrifyingly pampered isolation. You were never allowed to set foot on the dirt outside, nor were you permitted to wear standard clothes. Instead, you were wrapped in silk robes embroidered with real silver thread, carried everywhere on velvet litters, and surrounded 24/7 by dozens of zealots who bowed flat on the stone floor whenever you so much as sneezed. The Yandere!Cult built a massive, temperature-controlled sanctuary deep beneath the main church just for you, filled with soft cushions, imported toys, and gold-plated high chairs. If you dropped a toy off the side of your playpen as a toddler, three different high-ranking priests would practically tackle each other into a heap just to be the one to hand it back to you with tears of religious ecstasy in their eyes.

Yandere!Cult treats your hybrid features not as a strange mutation, but as absolute, unquestionable holy attributes. Where human society would have shunned your unique traits, the cult built an entire theological system around worshipping them. Every evening, the high priest personally sits beside your silk-draped bed with a silver basin of warmed rosewater, painstakingly washing your hair, brushing out your fur, scales, or feathers with an ivory comb, and humming ancient lullabies. If you let out a sleepy, grumpy whine because you don't want your hair brushed, the entire room of watching initiates will instantly gasp in horror, dropping to their knees to pray for your divine forgiveness. At the same time, the priest frantically offers you honeyed fruits and apologizes for his "clumsy, unworthy hands."

Yandere!Cult's territorial, overprotective nature means that the outside world is treated like a toxic wasteland of heresy that must never touch you. They have completely erased all records of your birth parents from the local registry, tracking down the hospital files and burning them to ash so no one can ever claim a biological right to you. You are given no concept of money, labor, or human societal rules only the absolute certainty that your word is law within the temple walls. If you express a casual, childish curiosity about what lies beyond the heavy oak doors of the cathedral, the priests will look at you with deep, heartbroken panic, wrapping you in thick, embroidered shawls and softly gasping. "The outside is cold and cruel, little deity. The mortals out there are blind to your glory. Stay here, where your children can keep you safe forever."

The comedy of your daily life peaks whenever you try to exercise any form of normal, mundane independence. If you decide you want to walk down the stone hallway by yourself instead of being carried in a sedan chair, a squad of hooded paladins will walk directly in front of you, literally sweeping the stone floor with peacock feathers and laying down velvet runners so your holy feet never have to touch a speck of dust. If you casually point at a random, expensive item in a trader's catalog, the cult’s covert asset team will bypass the market entirely, acquiring the item by any means necessary and presenting it to you on a satin pillow before sunset. You have effectively become a prisoner of pure, unadulterated adoration, a young hybrid living in a high-security, golden paradise where your word is divine scripture, your safety is a holy war, and your worshippers will gladly burn the outside world to the ground before they ever let you leave your throne.

The High Priest the formidable, imposing leader who makes seasoned warlords tremble with a single cold glance completely disintegrates into a soft, overly attentive mess the second he enters your presence. From the day he picked you up off the church steps, he claimed sole, exclusive rights to your care. He refuses to let lower-ranking initiates hold you for more than a few seconds at a time, deeply convinced that their "unworthy, clumsy hands" aren't careful enough with his precious little god. He carries you everywhere himself, propping your small frame securely against his hip or cradling you against his heavy, gold-embroidered robes while he conducts morning prayers, handles cult finances, or issues dark decrees to his followers.

The High Priest has turned his own office into a glorified playroom, refusing to part with you even during high-stakes strategic meetings. While hooded elders bow low to report on regional operations, the High Priest is completely unfocused on their reports, instead balancing a heavy parchment ledger in one hand while using his free hand to feed you sweet, seedless grapes or stack golden toy blocks on his massive mahogany desk. If an elder speaks too loudly and startles you, the High Priest's eyes will instantly flash with a terrifying, lethal glare, silencing the entire room with a harsh whisper. "Lower your voice in the presence of the divine, unless you wish to offer your tongue as a sacrifice."

High Priest's spoiling habits are entirely out of control because he treats your every minor gesture like a holy directive. If you so much as reach your hand toward a shiny crystal paperweight on his desk, he will instantly press it into your palm, smiling with a deep, terrifyingly soft fondness. If you tilt your head toward the window, he will halt the entire church service to have the stained glass opened so you can feel the breeze. He spends vast sums of the cult's hidden treasury ordering exotic silk toys, velvet-lined cushions, and rare fruits from across the continent, practically smothering you in gifts every single morning. He will sit on the floor of your sanctuary for hours, holding out sparkling trinkets one by one just to see which one makes your eyes light up.

High Priest's attachment borders on a desperate, anxious obsession whenever you are even a few feet away from him. If he has to step away to perform a mandatory ritual at the main altar, he will check on you every five minutes, looking over his shoulder with frantic worry until he can rush back to scoop you back into his arms. When you fall asleep in his lap, he will sit completely frozen for hours, refusing to move a single muscle or let anyone else make a sound in the cathedral just so your rest remains undisturbed. To the rest of the cult, he is a terrifying, absolute sovereign. Still, to you, he is just a giant, overly protective guardian who refuses to put you down, utterly consumed by the joy of being the one who gets to carry his little deity through life.

The lower-ranking initiates have developed a complex, highly competitive internal hierarchy based entirely on who is allowed to perform the most mundane tasks for you. Because the High Priest hoards all the primary caretaking duties, the initiates view tasks like sweeping the dust off the velvet runner three steps ahead of where you’re being carried, or carrying the silver tray of your discarded fruit peels, as the ultimate holy honors. If an initiate is assigned to polish the golden frame of your high chair, they will spend six hours meticulously buffing the metal until it shines like a mirror, weeping tears of religious fulfillment while their peers stare at them with intense, petty envy.

They treat your minor, everyday noises as profound, world-altering omens. If you let out a little sneeze during morning prayers, the entire congregation will immediately stop chanting, drop their foreheads flat to the floor, and spend the next twenty minutes whispering prayers of protection for your sacred sinuses. If you let out a happy gurgle or a cheerful chirp because you like a specific dessert, the cult scribe will frantically write down the exact time, temperature, and sun alignment in the official church records, declaring that specific hour a permanent holy holiday on the cult’s calendar.

They have zero boundaries when it comes to keeping your environment hyper-sanitized and completely silent. A specialized division of paladins intimidating, armored zealots who usually guard the perimeter are routinely deployed to hunt down and eliminate any minor inconvenience in your vicinity. If a stray songbird outside your sanctuary window chirps a little too loudly while you're taking an afternoon nap, three armored guards will quietly step outside with crossbows, entirely convinced they are defending the peace of the realm. If a fly dares to land on the silk pillow near your head, the guards will look like they’ve suffered a catastrophic security breach, dropping to their knees to beg the High Priest for punishment for allowing a "foul beast" near the divine one.

They treat any item you have touched, used, or casually dropped as a priceless relic that belongs in a reinforced vault. If you chew on a wooden teething ring for five minutes and then toss it out of your playpen, an initiate will catch it with velvet-gloved hands, place it onto a silver satin cushion, and escort it to the lower treasury under heavy armed guard. They refuse to wash or throw away any blanket you’ve used, instead preserving them in airtight glass cases around the sanctuary so they can bow before them when you aren't in the room.

During the rare times the High Priest actually sets you down on your golden throne to address the assembly, the cult members exhibit a terrifying level of collective discipline to keep you entertained. If you look even slightly bored or fussy during a long theological sermon, the terrifying, stone-faced elders in the front row will instantly start making goofy faces, doing quiet puppet shows with their embroidered sleeves, or juggling glowing mana-orbs just off to the side, desperately trying to earn a tiny smile from their living god without drawing the wrath of the High Priest.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

There was a Batman game where you had to take down an Cthulhu cult.

[theonion]

Commanding that the heinous term shall not be uttered in the halls of their sacred temple, the cloistered enclave of truest of the true believers declared Wednesday that Father-Brother, His Holiness, Master of All The Spheres and Stars, has repeatedly stated that this is not a cult. “For the ninth and final time, this is not a cult but a programmatic intramental polysymbolic thought-system for enhancing mental paravirility and omnispiritual psychowellness as clearly stated in Protocol 117,” said Elder Healer Sister-Brother Camilla 82 Eridani, adding that this is the exact sort of transgram-sodden thought violation from which all must refrain, as that is the type of word used by those that seek to sow division amongst us.

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[oldwinesoultoo]