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snail-day · 3 months ago

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Hush Now, Sweet Lamb

Sum: When the spankings won't stop unruly darling lambs, perhaps a lobotomy will.

Yandere! Geto x Reader

WC: 3.9k

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Lobotomy, Body Horror, Non-consensual medical procedure, Gore, Non-con/dub-con, Drool, Vore/Cannibalism (idk he licks the needle), Mental Regression, Death, Unreliable Narrator, ANGST, No happy ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. MDNI

a/n: Hugggeee shout out to @pink-cakes-and-treats for hearing me ramble about this for like what seems like months. Thank you for being my buddy and yapping with me about horrific ideas <3

“I love you.” The words managed to scrape from your throat as if broken glass, torn from the depths of you, raw and trembling, drowned beneath sobs that had started as fragile whispers - please don’t do this. Please. But pleading never worked with him. Not anymore. Not now that he believed in something greater than mercy.

I love you.

Three little words, simple on the surface. But words like that, they grow claws in the wrong hands. Those are words that dig deep. They change shape. Once, they meant comfort. Now, they meant surrender.

A slow blink of your eyes, vision awash with salt and candlelight, and tried to look at him clearly.

Geto Suguru.

The man who stood before you cradled your face like a lover - not the monster delivering your demise. Those violet eyes, once soft and bright with life, were now eclipsed by the sermon room’s dim, flickering glow, like stained glass in a cathedral set aflame. Somewhere within those depths, buried beneath devotion and delirium, was a love that hadn’t died. Instead, the love had festered.

You wanted to close your eyes. But even the darkness behind your lids pulsed with memories of him. The boy next door with pink, sun-kissed cheeks and chubby fingers that always curled around yours. The boy who kissed your scraped knees after washing them clumsily with water that was always too cold. Who made a whole ceremony out of applying Doraemon band-aids, pressing the softest kiss on top of the bandage, despite your complaints about cooties.

He used to say, “I’ll protect you.” You had, foolish and small at the time, believed him.

You remembered your mother’s fingers ruffling his inky, silken hair, laughter spilling from her lips like sunshine on a summer's day - He’s so strong, isn’t he? Like a little guardian angel.

But angels don’t whisper in tongues only curses understand.

Angels don’t weave bindings made of curses around the people they claim to love.

Angels don’t press needles into soft, trembling skin and call it mercy.

The curses - grotesque, sinewy things born from nightmares and grief - curdled in the air around you like sour smoke. They slithered closer, tighter, their slick, obsidian tendrils humming with quiet, predatory malice as they coiled around your limbs, your throat, your wrists. They weren’t angry. No. They purred. Like obedient beasts, eager to serve. And their master, well, he wanted you still as a sacrificial lamb. Fitting for his little nickname for you. His little lamb.

Suguru - who had always moved with the effortless grace of a man both adored and feared - looked almost divine in the candlelight. A priest cloaked in ritual and reverence, lit from below like a god born of scripture and shadows. Or perhaps a martyr - beaten holy by his own devotion. His shadow stretched across the altar like a veil of ink, falling over you where you lay: trembling, meek, and bare as birth, reduced to little more than breath and bone.

Not a woman. Not even a body.

Just a vessel. Just a lamb. Who had become soft. Submissive. Shorn of will. A beloved offering, cradled in ritual, smothered in grace. Something holy only to him. You tried to run in your mind as he stepped closer, tried to fold yourself into some memory where he was still safe to love.

You remembered the summer festivals, when fireworks lit the sky and he bought you watermelon-flavored ice you could barely finish. You remembered sitting on his porch, legs kicking in sync, cicadas screaming so loud it almost drowned out the silence between your hearts. You remembered the way he used to almost hold your hand. Always almost. Until he didn’t.

You remembered that day at the train station - he was leaving for that strange religious school. His shoulders had grown broader. His smile softened. “I love you. Stay safe,” you had said, like you knew something was already being lost.

He stared at you through the closing doors, lips parted in surprise. And then his hand rose, maybe to hide a blush. Maybe to keep from reaching out.

You blocked him after that. His messages grew too much. The words were too insistent. Desperate of sorts. You didn’t know why. You only knew your body was warning you, whispering in every nerve: This love will consume you.

And now - here you are. On the altar. Bound and beautiful in his eyes. A sacrament. He still reaches for you with that same tenderness from your childhood; the same hands that once held juice boxes and glow sticks now steadied a needle. The metal glinted as he lifted it gently, reverently. Not like a tool. Like a gift.

Like he was about to free you from something as a chilling smile curled upon his lips. Soft. Adoring in more ways than one. That left an unshakable unease rippling through your skin.

“Don’t cry,” Suguru whispered, brushing a tear from your cheek with the roughened pad of his thumb. “You’ll feel so much better soon. I promise. Then you won’t have to be afraid anymore.”

Your gaze flickered to the ceiling. Candles flickered like stars. The kind you used to wish on together.

It's funny how you used to think monsters lived under the bed. But the real ones? They grow up beside you. They kiss your wounds. They fall in love with you. When they finally snap, they smile as they make you forget everything you ever were.

You didn’t scream, just a shallow gasp. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because screaming no longer belonged to you. Nothing did. Not your voice, not your body, not your memories. Not even your pain.

It all belonged to him now.

The first prick of the needle behind your eye slid in with a sickening certainty - too precise to be mercy, too gentle to be anything but intimate. You felt it bloom inside your skull like a flower made of splinters. It slipped past flesh like it was always meant to find you there. As if your body had been made for this moment. As if your skull had been carved to cradle his madness.

And in that stillness, something warm trickled down your temple.

He wiped it gently with his thumb, kissed the damp skin with trembling lips. “Shhh, my sweet little lamb,” he whispered, low and soft, as if you were a child crying over a scraped knee. “I know. I know it’s frightening. But I promise you - it’s all for your own good.”

His voice trembled not with guilt but with awe. Like he couldn’t believe he was finally holding you like this. Like he was performing communion - your blood, his wine. Your silence, his scripture. You wanted to move. To recoil. To bite. But your limbs were tangled in a lattice of cursed tendrils, slithering just beneath your skin now - stroking you, soothing you, restraining you. They purred when he touched you. They loved you because he did.

You blinked. Or tried to. The world fuzzed, then snapped. The light was far too bright. Or maybe it was inside your head now, blooming behind your eyes like rot disguised as sunrise. He hummed under his breath, some soft, low hymn that no god ever asked for. And you thought or at least did your best:

This is the boy I loved. The one who carried your schoolbag when it rained. Who tucked tissue in his sleeve just in case your nose ran in the cold. The boy who picked you flowers with dirty hands and whispered, One day, I’ll marry you.

You remembered the shape of his laugh. The way his cheeks would puff when he was sulking. How he used to stand too close, hoping you’d notice. You remembered the way his hands used to shake the first time they touched yours.

They weren’t shaking now.

His hands were steady as death as he adjusted the needle, guiding it deeper with the devotion of a priest performing holy rites. You felt it slip - inside.

Your vision shuttered. The pain was distant now. But the wrongness, that had the luxury of staying and growing in the pits of your stomach.

“You were too soft for this world,” Suguru murmured, pressing his cheek to yours. “Too delicate. That’s why I had to take you. The world would’ve broken you. Used you up. But I kept you safe. I preserved you.” He smelled like incense and iron. Like sweat and sanctity. You could feel his smile against your skin, stretched wide, trembling with overwhelming joy.

“And now… now you’ll finally be perfect. Pure. Still. A lamb in the arms of her shepherd.” Your lips parted, but no words came. Your tongue felt thick. Like it didn’t remember language. Something fizzled - snapped. You twitched again. He caught your jaw in his hand and steadied you, looking into your eyes like he was watching the stars flicker out one by one.

“I used to wonder,” he said softly, “why you kept trying to run. Even after I gave you the twins. Even after I gave you a purpose. A family.”

He tilted your head back. A trickle of blood slipped down your nose. He didn’t wipe it away this time. He watched it.

“You were just scared, weren’t you?” he whispered, nearly too soft compared to the ringing of bells in your ears. “Still clinging to the old world. But that world is gone, my love. I burned it down - for you.”

You remembered the smell of it. The fire. The smoke. The wet, coppery heat of your mother’s blood soaking into the hem of your pajamas.

You remembered him cradling your body as your knees buckled, stroking your back as you retched. Whispering into your ear like a lullaby, “Don’t cry, little lamb. They were wicked. They would’ve turned you against me.”

And then he had carried you through the carnage like a bride.

He took you into the cult’s sanctum and gave you a bed, a brush for your hair, and two scared children who clung to you like reeds in a storm. Girls whose names you didn’t even know until they started calling you mama.

He carved a home from your prison - a gilded cage lined with velvet and rot. Kissed you goodnight like a good husband would.

He called you blessed. In front of his followers, he praised your existence like a miracle, declaring it a divine mercy that a non-sorcerer like you still drew breath within his arms.

As if your survival was a gift. As if your captivity was sacred.

Every time you fled, every time you clawed your way toward freedom, gasping for air outside the pretty cage he built - he found you. Forgave you after he had the luxury of breaking you.

With the kind of love that tasted like blood in your mouth. The kind that turned screams into moans as he dragged you to the dirt, pinning you down on cold, splintered floors in whatever half-lit corner you thought might hide you.

With chains that bit deep into your wrists as he forced your legs apart, lapping at you like a beast in heat - obsessive, starving, single-minded - until your cries melted into gutted whimpers, soaked in shame and submission.

With arms that clamped around you as he rutted into your limp, trembling body, whispering filth like worship against your throat. He liked to hold you close while he took you. Said that’s what good husbands do. Said it made him feel close to your soul.

“I could’ve punished you,” he whispered now, nose brushing yours, dragging you from your thoughts. “I could’ve let them tear you apart. But I didn’t. I saved you. And now, I’m saving you again.”

The needle pushed deeper. A strange warmth bloomed through your skull - thick, slow, unnatural. Then cold. Then silence.

Something vital inside you didn't have the grace of death, instead, the fight in you burned out. It gave up as you tried to gasp outwards. Your chest rose, then failed. Your throat strained, but no sound came, just a trembling echo of what used to be a voice.

The motion hitched halfway through your lungs and collapsed in on itself like wet fabric. Your throat made a sound, but it didn’t belong to you. Not anymore. It dragged out garbled and raw, something caught between a sob and a death rattle. Like your body had already started mourning itself.

“There now,” Suguru sighed, almost dreamily. He sounded like a man slipping into silk sheets, not someone pressing steel into brain tissue. “It’s working.” You felt his breath against your cheek, humid and reverent, as though your suffering was a sacred thing to be exhaled over. His fingers moved through your hair with that same obscene gentleness he used on the twins when they cried. Like he believed he was comforting you. Like this wasn’t desecration.

“You won’t need memories where we’re going,” he whispered, fingers sticky with whatever he’d pulled out of you. “You won’t need thoughts. Or fear. Or doubt.”

You blinked, at least, you think you did. Your eyes were open. Or partly. But the light fractured, soft, too gold, too much. The world stuttered and blurred around him like a fever dream unraveling into a nightmare.

His voice curved into a smile. “You’ll only need me.”

You weren’t sure when it happened. When your eyes dulled. When your breath fell into someone else's rhythm. When the needle slid out, smooth and glistening, red and glinting like something freshly birthed.

You didn’t feel it. But you heard it. A soft, wet pop - like something precious giving way inside your skull. A balloon rupturing in thick fluid. He hushed you as your body spasmed, more out of instinct than resistance.

“Don’t move, little lamb,” he murmured. “Don’t scramble what’s left.”

You couldn’t have moved if you tried. Your limbs had forgotten themselves. Your muscles were pudding beneath your skin, twitching without coordination. Your mouth hung open uselessly.

That was when the drool began. Thick, ropy strings of it, tinged pink and metallic, sliding down your chin in slow, shameful drips. It clung to your lips like it didn’t want to leave. Slid over your teeth. Fell in beads to your collarbone.

You tasted it as the saliva filled your mouth - thick and warm, crawling slow over your tongue like something alive. Copper. Meat. Rot. And something else. Something wrong. Something slick and electric, like licking the edge of a live wire soaked in acid. Your mouth tasted like what you used to be. Like memory liquefied. Like identity spoiled into nectar.

And Suguru… watched. Watched like he was witnessing a miracle unravel. Like your unraveling was the miracle. His gaze devoured you, eyes wide, glassy, rapt. Worshipping the mess of you. The way your lips hung open. How your drool pooled like syrup along your chin. The way your body, even now, still gave. His fingers trailed adoringly along your jaw, collecting the viscous spill of drool-blood-spit that clung there like a sacrament. He brought it to his mouth.

There was no hesitation as he licked the obscene liquid from his knuckles slowly - slowly - as though savoring something rare and precious. Letting the fluid coat his tongue. Letting your essence melt into the heat of his mouth like the candy he used to feed you.

He swirled it across the roof of his mouth like wine, eyes fluttering closed, lashes trembling. Releasing a soft, breathless sound close to ecstasy from his lips as his gaze flicked to the needle. The needle was still warm and glistening, still wet with the remnants of your mind. With a reverence that bordered on religious delirium, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along its length, slow, unhurried, adoring.

Suguru licked it clean the way one might lick honey from a spoon. Red. Silver. Viscera-smudged. He moaned, quiet, breathless. A sound that would be beautiful, if he wasn't such an insane bastard. Oh, how he moaned, like the taste of you, your thoughts and ruin, was from one of his holy sermons. As if your suffering was something sweet.

He lifted the object of demise like it was precious. Sacred. Like it belonged in a reliquary, not his hand. But Suguru never did worship like the others did. No, he needed to taste divinity. To consume it. To consume the fight you're leaving behind.

So he brought it to his lips.

Opened his mouth.

And lowered his head.

His throat welcomed the steel like it was communion. The glinting metal disappeared inch by inch, his lips stretching, jaw relaxing as he swallowed it down. Past tongue. Past teeth. Down, down, until the hilt kissed his lips, and his throat bobbed around it. Pretty, violet eyes that rolled back, lashes fluttering, a soft groan slipping from deep in his chest.

It wasn’t pain.

It was rapture.

He held it there for a moment - the instrument of your undoing lodged in his throat like a holy relic, his breath trembling around it. Then he pulled it back out - slow, glistening, wet. No longer coated with your blood, but his saliva.

Suguru looked back at you with something like ecstasy, and everything inside you screamed to recoil. But your body didn’t move. Couldn’t. You could only watch him watching you. His teeth, once pearly white, were now stained a soft pink as he spoke.

“I’ll always love that little fight in you,” he said, crouching beside your slack, drooling face. His thumb dragged your lip down slightly, just to watch it bounce back up uselessly. He smiled. “But in my new world…”

His voice lowered, thick with affection.

“…pets like you don’t need to fight.”

He cupped your face between his palms, cradling it like a fragile fruit, kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips - smeared in drool and blood, the flavor of your mind still on his tongue.

And then he kissed you deeper.

Your jaw didn’t move. Your lips didn’t purse. It didn’t matter. He kissed you like you were kissing him back. Like your silence was consent. When he pulled away, strings of spit - your spit - clung between your mouths like a web. He licked them away. Didn’t waste a drop of the sweetest nectar known to man.

-----

The air was warm today.

Cherry blossoms fluttered like slow snowfall across the temple courtyard, sticking to your hair, your lashes, the white fabric of your dress. The wind teased them loose from the trees, scattering them like blessings. You didn’t move when they landed on you. Didn’t blink when one brushed across your cheek and stayed there.

You just sat on the stone steps, knees tucked to your chest, head tilted toward the sun. A trickle of drool slid from the corner of your mouth, glistening in the light like nectar.

And you were smiling.

Suguru stood just behind you for a while, watching. Breathing. Listening to the soft rustle of petals and the small, wet click of your throat when you swallowed.

You looked so content. So quiet.

So loved.

He approached slowly, letting his sandals scuff against the stone so you’d hear him. Not that it mattered. You no longer startled when he moved. You no longer stiffened under his gaze.

When he knelt beside you, your head turned - just slightly, slow as honey dripping from a spoon. Your eyes fluttered toward him, soft and unfocused.

And then you smiled again.

That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made something in his chest crumple and swell at once.

You smiled like you loved him.

“Hello, my sweet little lamb,” he murmured, brushing a blossom from your hair. You didn’t react, but you leaned ever so slightly into his palm as it cradled your cheek. The skin beneath his hand was warm. Damp with sweat. Or maybe just the sun.

Your lips parted. “Sun…” you said, voice slow and syrup-thick, your tongue barely moving. “...pretty.”

It nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Yes,” Suguru whispered. “So very pretty. Almost as much as you.”

He sat beside you and wrapped his arm around your waist. You didn’t lean in. You just… folded. Like your body recognized the weight and allowed it, welcomed it out of some primal muscle memory. Like an animal curling into its pen. He pressed a kiss to your temple. The scar was healing. Still red. Still swollen. Still a reminder.

Of what he’d done. What he’d chosen.

Sometimes, he dreamed of the needle. Of how your body twitched when it pierced the soft tissue behind your eye. Of how the drool began, slow at first, then steady. Of how your voice choked itself trying to say his name one last time.

And sometimes, in the rare moments when guilt crept in - when he remembered the way you screamed and kicked and begged him not to - he would look at you now.

Look at this.

The sun glowing on your skin. The way you tilted your face toward the warmth. The way your hand twitched faintly, as if reaching for him. The way you smiled when he touched you.

And the guilt would go quiet.

How could it be wrong, when you were so peaceful now? When you smiled at him like he was everything?

He whispered into your hair, “You’re happy, aren’t you?”

You blinked slowly. Your head lolled toward him. Another strand of drool slipped down your chin, caught on your collarbone. A blossom landed there. You didn’t notice.

“Pretty…” you murmured again, eyes glassy. “Suguru…”

His heart hammered once, twice. Pounding against his chest. The sound of his name - spoken like a lullaby. Like a sacred word. Not with fear. Not with rage. Just soft devotion. He swallowed thickly. His hands trembled as he pulled you closer. Pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much it aches. I’d do it all again, you know that?”

You stared past him.

“I had to,” he said, his voice cracking, guilt peeking through like weeds beneath stone. “You would’ve left me. You did. Again and again. I couldn’t let you. You understand that now, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. But your hand - slow, clumsy - found the edge of his sleeve. Your fingers curled around the fabric and stayed there.

His breath hitched. That touch, that tiny act of agency, undid him. It didn’t matter that you no longer understood who you were, who he was. That you barely spoke, barely moved without prompting.

What mattered was this: you reached for him.

“You love me now,” he whispered, and it sounded like confession. “Even if you don’t know it. Even if you can’t say it. I made it true.”

A breeze passed. More petals fell. Your dress fluttered gently against his leg, and your head dropped against his shoulder.

Suguru held you tighter. As the twins ran around the garden barefoot and full of giggles, collecting flowers for their mama's flower crown. A mama that will no longer run away. You smiled as you watched, and Suguru believed - truly, deeply - that you were happy with this makeshift family.

"I love you," He whispered, pressing another lingering kiss to your temple. Three little words that made his heart swell for his little lamb.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere #jjk geto #dead dove do not eat #yandere geto suguru #yandere geto x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere suguru x reader #yandere jjk #yandere geto #yandere suguru #yandere suguru geto

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aventurineswife · 10 days ago

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oh! Oh! What about a creator for sahsrau and sagau who has these really cool glitchy-like holographic effects (kinda like silver wolf) meaning that creator essentially codes themselves into the game to interact with sagau and sahsrau!!

YES. YESSS. That idea is peak divine techno-deity energy. Like you’re not just some distant god—they see you render yourself into their world, all flickering light and digital seams, bending the boundaries of the game from the inside.

You don’t descend like a traditional god. You phase in—a crackle of corrupted space, code threads trailing behind you, your form warping and stabilizing like a hologram constantly trying to keep up with your divine presence.

Think Silver Wolf’s aesthetic meets cosmic programmer: neon glitch trails when you move, static-y distortion when you speak, and UI-like sigils that hover around you—your eyes scan like debug overlays, like you’re seeing behind the curtain of the world. You’re not from their side of the screen.

You're not playing the game anymore. You are the system now.

SAGAU Characters Reaction:

These are the ones who see you as the divine architect of Teyvat—and now you’re walking around like a living console command.

Nahida is fascinated. She wants to learn from you, watching the code flutter off your fingertips like ancient scripture. “You… wrote this world, didn’t you?”

Albedo tries to understand your existence through science and alchemy, but eventually just surrenders and says, “You are beyond categorization.”

Ei? She's shook. You represent both eternity and impermanence—because you alter reality like it's clay. She becomes obsessed with understanding your form. Are you divine… or unstable?

Venti sings about your glitches like they're divine stutters—“Oh holy one, whose voice is broken only to be heard clearer.” He thinks it's beautifully haunting.

Diluc? Externally calm. Internally: That’s the god? The one glitching in and out of space?? Yeah, he’s processing. Slowly.

Childe is 100% down bad. You made the world and look like a living cheat code? He’s signing up for the cult.

Your glitchiness makes them think: they’re not just visiting—they're rewriting reality as they go.

SAHSRAU Characters Reaction:

This bunch? They’re more tech-savvy. They know what code is. But the moment you code yourself into existence? Their minds blow.

Silver Wolf basically IMPRINTS on you. “Waitwaitwait. You’re the dev and the system and the user?” She's practically vibrating. “You are the game. That's so hot— I mean, fascinating.”

Kafka watches your glitched entrance, smirking: “So you chose to break the rules to be with us? How romantic.”

Dan Heng tries to stay stoic, but his databank starts erroring. You literally exist outside known logic.

Blade thinks you're a hallucination until you patch his health bar in real time. He doesn’t say thanks, but the silence means something.

March 7th is amazed and immediately wants to take holographic selfies with you. “Does your code sparkle on purpose??”

You glitch in, rewrite the world, then ask if anyone wants to hang out. And they’re like: “HOW is this our god?? HOW are they this casually omnipotent?!?”

Your Powers Might Include:

Hovering UI menus no one else can see.

Code strings trailing off you like falling flower petals.

The ability to patch or delete enemies in real time.

Pulling someone’s status screen into the air with a flick of your hand.

Saying "/noclip on" and phasing through walls.

You’re less “chosen one” and more debug mode incarnate.

#x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #sahsrau #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #sagau

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multific · 3 months ago

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Blessed Are the Lovers

Father Charlie Mayhew x Reader

Summary: Torn between duty and the undeniable pull of forbidden love, Charlie resists his feelings for as long as he can.

The first time you saw Father Charlie Mayhew, it was in the dim glow of candlelight inside the chapel.

He stood at the altar, his head bowed in silent prayer, and his presence was commanding and gentle. The moment his eyes lifted and met yours, something in the air changed.

An unspoken pull that neither of you acknowledged, but both of you felt.

At first, it was nothing. A passing moment.

A flicker of something too dangerous.

But then, there were conversations, long walks in the gardens behind the chapel, stolen moments beneath the high arches where stained glass bathed you both in holy light.

Discussions about faith and duty turned into whispered confessions about dreams and regrets.

You told him about your doubts, and he listened as if each word you spoke was scripture itself.

Somewhere along the way, it changed.

He began waiting for you after evening mass, lingering as if prolonging the inevitable goodbye.

You started coming more often, craving his voice, his presence.

The tension between you thickened with each brush of hands as he passed you a candle, each moment where silence spoke louder than words ever could.

Then one evening, it broke.

It was late, the chapel empty except for the two of you.

He stood by the altar, fingers brushing over the carved wood of the pulpit as he exhaled, looking as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, though he made no move to send you away.

“I know,” you whispered.

The air between you crackled with something unspoken, something dangerous. You stepped closer, and he did not retreat.

“Charlie…” You never called him Father, not when you were alone. It had started as an unconscious slip, but now, it felt like an act of defiance.

His breath hitched, fingers tightening around the wood. “Don’t.”

You took another step.

He was so close now, close enough that you could see the way his pulse hammered at the base of his throat, the way his lips parted as if to say something to stop this before it was too late.

But he didn’t.

And when your hand lifted he closed his eyes, as if surrendering.

His lips found yours.

It was soft at first, uncertain. His hands trembled as they cupped your face, fingertips ghosting over your skin as though he feared you’d disappear if he held too tightly.

But then something shifted.

A desperate sound escaped him, and suddenly, he was pulling you closer, the weight of his restraint crumbling beneath the force of his desire.

His hands tangled in your hair, his body pressed against yours as if he could somehow mould himself to you, become one with you in this stolen moment of weakness.

It was everything and not enough all at once.

And then, he suddenly pulled away.

His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with something that looked far too much like devastation. His actions came crashing down on him.

“I-” He stumbled back, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. “I can’t.”

“Charlie-”

“No,” he said, voice raw. “I can’t. Do you understand?”

Your throat tightened. “But you-”

“I swore myself to the church,” he interrupted, running a shaking hand through his hair. “To God.” His chest heaved. “I can’t love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

The words cut deep, sharp as a blade.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, stepping back. The cold air of the chapel suddenly felt unbearable, the space between you vast and insurmountable.

“I understand,” you whispered.

And then, you left.

For days, you stayed away.

You told yourself it was for the best, that he had made his choice. But the ache in your chest did not fade.

Neither did his.

He tried to pretend he was fine, that he could forget the feel of your lips, the way your body had fit so perfectly against his.

But in the quiet of the rectory, with nothing but the flickering candlelight and the distant sound of the wind through the chapel rafters, he knew.

He had already lost himself to you.

He looked at the cross on the wall.

"Forgive me please," Charlie whispered.

It was nearly a week later when you heard the knock at your door.

You opened it, and there he stood, his eyes filled with something raw, something desperate.

“Charlie?”

He stepped inside without invitation, closing the door behind him.

“I tried,” he confessed, voice hoarse. “I tried to let you go. I tried to tell myself this was a test, that I could move past it. But I can’t,” he whispered.

His hands found your face again, just as they had that night in the chapel.

“I love you,” he said, the words falling from his lips like a prayer. “And I don’t care if it’s forbidden. I don’t care what it means for me-what it costs me.” His voice broke. “I cannot live without you.”

Tears burned in your eyes. “Charlie…”

He exhaled shakily. “Marry me.”

The world stopped.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

“I don’t need the church,” he continued, voice urgent. “I don’t need anything else, just you. Only you.” His thumb brushed over your cheek, his expression open, pleading. “Say yes, please.”

Your answer was not worded but the way you threw your arms around him, the way your lips found his in a kiss that tasted of relief.

And when he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes burning with love, you whispered the only word that mattered.

“Yes.”

---

The wedding was quiet, intimate, a moment meant only for the two of you.

Charlie had insisted on something small, something sacred.

There were no grand cathedrals, no lavish crowds.

Just the soft murmur of the wind, the golden hues of the setting sun, and the faint scent of blooming jasmine in the garden where you stood, hand in hand.

A humble priest stood before you both, reciting the vows that would bind you together in the eyes of something greater than doctrine, something purer than obligation.

Love.

Charlie’s hands trembled as he held yours, his thumbs tracing circles over your skin. There was no fear in his eyes now. No hesitation. Only devotion, steadfast and unshaken.

You had never seen him look more at peace.

"I have spent my life speaking words of faith," he murmured, voice thick with emotion. "But I have never believed in anything as much as I believe in you."

Your breath caught, tears burning at the edges of your vision.

"You are my truth, my absolution," he continued. "And I vow, before all that is holy, that I will love you for every day I am given."

The priest turned to you, but the words you had prepared no longer seemed enough. How could you possibly sum up everything that burned inside you?

You lifted his hands to your lips, pressing a reverent kiss to his knuckles.

"I once searched for meaning," you whispered, voice shaking. "I thought it was in the things I had lost. But then I found you." Your throat tightened, but you did not stop. "You are my home. My heart. And I vow to love you with every breath, with every prayer, with every moment we are given."

Charlie's fingers curled around yours, his hold firm, grounding. He blinked quickly as if the weight of your words had settled into his very soul.

The priest smiled, his voice warm as he uttered the final blessing. "By the love that binds your hearts, by the faith that strengthens your spirits, and by the promise you have made here today, I pronounce you husband and wife."

There was no hesitation.

Charlie surged forward, his hands cupping your face as he pulled you into him.

The kiss was soft at first, he was savouring the feeling of you against him. But then, something in him broke loose, and suddenly, there was nothing restrained about it.

His lips moved over yours with a deep, aching hunger, a kiss not just of love but of freedom.

Of devotion.

Of everything you had fought for.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

You felt his hands slip into your hair, holding you close as though he was terrified the world might steal you away.

But there was nothing left to fear now.

Charlie was yours.

And when he finally pulled away, pressing his forehead against yours with a breathless smile, he whispered the words that had once seemed impossible.

"I am yours."

And in the golden glow of the setting sun, with his lips still tingling against yours, you knew, he always had been.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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xechu · 2 months ago

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Dark Requiem

pairing: deity!sukuna x fem!reader wc: 1.9k cw: 18+ mdni. please read my blog rules before interacting. dark themes, power imbalance, near-asphyxiation, implied violence, psychological tension, non-traditional intimacy, forced-kiss scenario tag: drabble-ish, short one-shot, dark fantasy, dark divinity au summary: with no other choice, you turn to a god that was only supposed to exist in bedtime stories. a/n: a tiny spur of inspiration. I've been having writer's block lately. Thank you for reading and enjoy! x

Ask and thou shall receive.

But only at the price of thy soul—willingly offered, never begged for.

He was no saint, no righteous wish granter. He only spoke in contracts and vows.

Time and time again, it had always been the same—humans were proven to be so greedy and fickle. Wanting everything. Sacrificing nothing.

Did they not know? Great things come at an even greater cost?

Sukuna was generous, unlike many other false gods. He had allowed the vowed to revel in their blessings, if only for a while—before coming to collect the price they had dared to forget.

Yet, it was always the same. When it was time to reap—they immediately wallow in regret. Some even try to outsmart their giver and defy the oath they had sworn.

But Sukuna was no fool. He had not endured the turning of millennia by being daft. In the end, he had always found a way to claim what was promised.

And for those who resisted or tried to shirk their obligations, Sukuna reserved a special place in the afterlife for them—condemned to a lifetime of glorious torture and suffering. A place where they wished they had surrendered their soul sooner. Their cries for mercy are a symphony to his ears.

At the sound of the dark cathedral doors creaking open, he watches as his next contract comes through.

A tiny and timid thing: you.

You had heard whispers of a disgraced and banished god—primordial and cruel. Supposedly, he had once dwelled in this abandoned cathedral. For his arrogance and trickery, he was sealed within these thick stones and cold shadows. They said he would pluck children from their homes and eat them, trick fair maidens into offering their purity and virtue, and prey on men for their vitality.

Ryomen Sukuna was described as disgraceful. Deceitful. Glutinous. Cruel. Sadistic.

But it mattered not.

You had not come for salvation, nor redemption.

Only condemnation.

Because it was better to be condemned than to bow beneath a crueler fate.

“I have come to offer myself to you, Ryomen Sukuna,” you said. Despite the grimness of your situation, your voice was soft—but assured.

Standing among these ruins of darkness, rubble, and dust—there was nothing. Only a deafening and oppressive silence. It was quiet, so much so that you could hear the static hum in your own ears.

You wryly scoff to yourself. What had you expected? This was nothing more than fiction. A tale spun to frighten misbehaving children into obedience. And yet, you clung to this bedtime story like scripture. Because what else did you have left?

Then, as hope was about to fade, the moonlight shifted—spilling through the shattered cathedral window like a divine message from the night goddess herself. And there, before you, it illuminated an obsidian statue. Large. Imposing. Watching.

It radiated dark allure, beckoning you to come forth.

To reach out.

Only if you dared.

It felt as though phantom tendrils had begun to snake around your body the moment you locked eyes with the statue—a towering figure, chiseled like a fallen god. Even seated upon a throne of thorns, he felt impossibly tall, impossibly vast. There was a pull. Heavy. Magnetic. Inevitable. Your feet moved toward him, slowly but surely, as if being summoned.

Above you, the long-extinguished black chandelier creaked in protest—its rusted arms swaying with a voice of their own. An eerie warning: Proceed with caution.

You were about to reach a point of no return.

But you steeled yourself, letting instinct guide you, submitting to the darkness before you—for that was what you had desired.

Nothingness. Absolution.

As you ascended, each step reforged your certainty—until at last, you stood before him.

Your mind tells you to not be afraid, but your body trembles, as if it knew you stood before a god. Every fiber instinctively knew to revere, to worship, to submit.

“Sukuna.” His name slipped from your lips, a soft whisper. “I have an offer.”

Once more, you were met with silence. Yet, if this was merely a myth—why did your nerves scream to run?

“Please.” Your voice cracked, laced with desperation. Your heart began to pound. The internal warning becoming louder by each passing moment. “I will give you all that I have to offer.”

Then, suddenly, a crack split the sky. Thunder—loud and rumbling—reverberated so close it felt as though it had struck directly above you. You flinched, instinct to flee immediately kicking in. But before you could run, a large, stony grip closed around your wrist, rooting you in place. Your breath caught in your throat.

Stone became flesh.

And staring back into your wide, terrified eyes were his—crimson, burning with the intensity and heat of hellfire.

His touch seared into your skin, a brand scorching into you. Around you, the long-dead candles of the cathedral simultaneously blazed to life. But they did not burn with their usual amber hues.

Crimson like blood.

It was the embers of hell.

“Have you suddenly lost the tongue to speak?” His voice boomed.

“I—” The words elude you. Fear gripped at your throat, as you come face to face with Sukuna himself.

“I implore you to find your words promptly,” he hissed, his grip tightening. “Before I silence you for good.”

“I-I have an offer to make with you, Sukuna.”

“Yes, and I have heard that one too many times from you. Are you broken?”

You shook your head. But it only seemed to enrage him further.

“So then speak,” he growled. Impatience lacing his voice. “What is it that you have to offer me?”

You met his burning gaze.

“I shall give you my soul—in exchange for nothing.”

For a moment, he fell silent.

Then he released your wrist. To your surprise, he left no marks behind—no burns, no bruises, not even a trace. Around you, the flames in the cathedral calmed, flickering softly back to their usual amber glow.

A low sigh rumbled from his chest, as if completely underwhelmed and disappointed by your proposal.

“Leave,” Sukuna said coldly.

It was part of the divine restriction. A strict decree written into the very laws of his existence. He could not ask for a soul outside the bounds of a contract. He could not take without giving something in return. Death was not an acceptable clause. And above all, he was forbidden from ever mentioning the restrictions. To do so would be seen as influencing choice and corrupting the offering.

You blinked a few times, eyes wide in disbelief.

He rejected your offer.

Was that possible?

You had thought your offer would be rather appealing. But more importantly, your life had depended on him taking you. Walking away was not an option.

“N-no!” You collapsed to your knees. “Please, take me…if not my soul.”

He stared down at you, expressionless.

“You are a rather dense and insolent little thing,” he snarled.

In a flash, his hand wrapped around your throat, harshly pulling you upward until your gaze was locked with his. Dark violence surged through him—to crush, to silence, to smother the defiance trembling in your voice.

You gasped for air as his hand constricted your airway unable to speak, unable to voice your defense. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as your comparatively small hands clawed feebly at his—a silent, instinctive plea for mercy.

A chill of excitement ran down Sukuna’s spine, at the sight of your struggle. The way you callously sign away your life…only to claw at it now.

Desperate. Pathetic. Human.

That selfish desire to live. To survive. It was the very trait he had come to despise. But in you…it intrigued him.

“Do not play me a fool. No one gives up their soul for nothing,” he said lowly.

You couldn’t answer. Your throat burned, your mind slipping into static. The world around you spun, and the corners of your vision began to darken, collapsing inwards.

Just as you thought he had granted you death—his grip released. Air. He drops you onto the stone cold floor by his feet. You crumple up, as your lungs violently convulse in broken gasps for air. But no matter how you fought to breathe, it seemed your lungs had forgotten how. Your breaths shallow and irregular. Failing.

“Weak,” Sukuna muttered, irritation lacing his voice.

Without warning, he scooped you up like a ragdoll, your limbs limp in his grasp. He sat down with you sprawled across his lap, one hand tilting your chin up.

And then, he crushed his lips to yours. Not in hunger. Not in lust.

But to breathe air into you.

Life flickered back into your eyes. As your gaze met his, Sukuna felt something coil dark and low in his gut. A sick pleasure. A thrill. A hunger.

But his hubris would never allow him to beg—divine restriction or not.

So instead, he would plant the seed. Water the thought. Nurture the desire. Until you were the one to offer it. Willingly.

“You should have let me go,” you whispered. Those were the first words you managed to speak.

Sukuna tilted his head, eyes glinting.

“But that is not what your body says.”

His sharp black nails scrape across your pulse—strong, alive.

“So tell me,” he purred. “What is it you truly desire?”

You did not hesitate. “I desire the freedom of death.”

Sukuna scoffed.

“Not good enough.”

Again, for the small and insignificant thing you were, you were irritatingly persistent. Had he not been bound by the laws of the universe, he would have claimed your soul long ago and savored the ruin of it.

He would have made you scream.

Beg.

Break.

And just as death reached for you—when that final stillness settled in your gaze, and you thought you had earned peace—he would have taken it all away. Simply because he could.

He wanted your pain. Your desperation. Your submission to your own hypocrisy.

He wanted to see you unravel. To witness the exact moment you realized you had betrayed your morals, your body, your heart, your dignity.

Even now—barely breathing—you wore that pathetic mask of defiance.

“If you cannot take my soul…then allow me to stay here. That is all I ask,” you said softly.

“That is all you ask?” he repeated, voice curling into a mockery.

“Please,” you breathed. “I have nowhere else to go.”

Sukuna regarded you in silence for a moment, his expression apathetic.

“I am no charitable god,” he said. “What will you offer me?”

Your eyes narrowed. If he did not want your soul, what else did you have to offer?

You felt pathetic. Your dignity shattered. You had walked through the doors thinking your offer would be enticing. That Sukuna, of all beings, would accept it without question.

Alas, your wretched soul was not even worthy of condemnation.

“Then tell me—what is it that you want?”

“What will you offer?” He asked again, voice low, quiet, and insistent. Yet, you still could not understand why.

“Please,” you whispered. “Reconsider it, Sukuna.”

You swallowed hard. Your body screamed to run—a final warning that you were treading dangerous waters. But you did not listen.

“My soul…for your shelter and protection.” Your trembling hands rose to his chest, fingers barely brushing the stone-cold flesh. “Please.”

His eyes darkened.

“Then let this vow be binding,” he said.

And then—he crushed his lips onto yours once more. Not to save. Not to silence.

But to bind.

Graphic divider source: here via @/troublesomesnitch

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hermajestyimher · 26 days ago

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Redeeming the Law of Attraction: A Believer's Guide to Manifestation in Alignment with God

I receive a lot of questions from you guys regarding how to reconcile the LOA and your faith at the same time. Or whether that's even possible. I fully agree that as a Believer, it can be confusing to navigate the concept of the Law of Attraction (LOA), especially given how closely it mirrors some Biblical principles, yet how deeply it has been distorted by New Age ideologies. While many LOA teachings emphasize personal power, manifestation, and relying on "raising your vibration," the Bible teaches us that all good things come from God (James 1:17) and that He alone is the true source of our abundance, protection, and fulfillment. So how do we reconcile this principle with our faith without veering into pride or idolatry? My opinion is that the answer lies in understanding LOA as a created principle that's part of God's divine order and not a substitute for God Himself.

1. God Is the Source, Not Us

Deuteronomy 8:17–18 gives us a direct warning against self-idolatry: “You may say to yourself, ‘My power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me.’ But remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you the ability to produce wealth.” The core issue with many LOA teachings is the belief that we can bring things to pass through our own will or energy, independent of divine grace. But Scripture reminds us that every ability, every blessing, and every outcome we achieve ultimately comes from God.

When we remove God from the equation, we risk elevating ourselves to the place of the Creator. This is the same pride that led to the fall of Lucifer and the rebellion of Israel. We see it played out in the consequences of Israel's disobedience and reliance on their own understanding, leading to exile and suffering (Isaiah 30:1–2; Hosea 4:6).

2. Pride Destroys, Alignment Protects

Manifestation without humility is a spiritual trap. The more we insist on controlling outcomes, the further we drift from the protection that comes through surrender to God. Proverbs 16:18 says, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” Even when we are pursuing good things, if we do so without seeking God, we step out of alignment with His covering.

In the New Age framework, the LOA often becomes a form of self-worship. But for the Believer, true manifestation is not about making ourselves gods, but about aligning with the will and timing of the one true God. The difference is critical. God’s protection, insight, and timing are what shield us from attracting things that may look good but ultimately destroy us.

3. We Are Co-Creators, Not Sovereigns

The Bible tells us in Psalm 82:6, “You are gods; you are all sons of the Most High.” This doesn’t mean we are divine in the same sense as God, but that we are made in His image (Genesis 1:26–27), given creative power through our words, thoughts, and actions. Proverbs 18:21 says, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue,” and Jesus Himself said, “Whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours” (Mark 11:24).

We are, in a sense, spiritual creators—but under divine authority. The moment we see ourselves as sovereign over our lives without God’s governance, we step into dangerous territory. We may manifest what we think we want, but without discernment, we often call in things rooted in trauma, pride, lust, or broken ambition.

4. The LOA Is Real, but Fulfillment Comes from God

We should not deny that there is truth to the Law of Attraction. Our thoughts, emotions, and spoken words have power. But that doesn’t mean we are the ultimate power. God created the universe to operate on spiritual principles: sowing and reaping (Galatians 6:7), asking and receiving (Matthew 7:7), faith and expectation (Hebrews 11:1).

Non-believers can and do use these principles to gain success. But without God’s direction, success can become a snare. People can attract toxic relationships, wealth that isolates, or fame that destroys. Only the Lord gives true fulfillment. Proverbs 10:22 reminds us, “The blessing of the Lord makes rich, and he adds no sorrow with it.”

5. Faith = Surrender + Expectation

Where LOA emphasizes belief in self, biblical faith emphasizes belief in God. Psalm 37:4 says, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” This isn’t a mere transaction; it’s also a transformation. As we align our heart with God, He plants His desires in us, but also delights in giving us the things we've longed for that are for our good.

Prayer and faith are not passive, they are bold, expectant, and active. Yet, they are also surrendered. We ask in full belief (James 1:6), but trust that if something doesn’t manifest, God has something better, or is protecting us from something we cannot yet understand. Romans 8:28 assures us, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

Final Reflection: Manifestation Under Lordship

Ultimately, the Law of Attraction is not a rival to God; it is simply one of the many principles He put in place to govern His creation. Like gravity, it works. But like any tool, it can be used righteously or destructively.

When we manifest under God’s Lordship:

We invite the Holy Spirit to shape our desires.

We allow God to filter our intentions.

We steward our thoughts, words, and energy in a way that honors Him.

We relinquish the outcome to His perfect will (to prosper us and not harm us, to give us hope and a future, Jeremiah 29:11).

We are not victims of randomness, nor are we gods unto ourselves. We are image-bearers of the Creator invited to co-create with Him in trust, humility, and alignment.

So yes, believe. Visualize. Speak life. Walk in expectation. But do it all from a place of surrender, knowing that the One who holds the universe also holds you, and He has the final say and that is a privilege for you! Because in the same way a loving parent would never allowed their children to blindly get harmful things due to lack of understanding, neither does He want us to suffer because we aren't fully aware of the negative outcomes that some of our selfish manifestations may carry with them. God is not an authoritarian figure, but a protective and loving one. Remember that.

#spiritual growth #spirituality #things ive learned #growth mindset #LOA

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alwaysrememberjesus · 17 days ago

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Used By God

“The Scriptures point to me!” John 5v39 NLT

If you want to be used by God, really used by Him, you’ve got to know two things deep in your spirit: who He is and who you are.

Jesus said to the religious leaders, “You search the Scriptures thinking they bring you life, but the Scriptures point to me” (John 5v39 NLT). He was saying, “You’ve been studying truth, but missing the Truth standing right in front of you.” So many of us are busy doing church, quoting verses, checking devotionals off our list, and yet missing the God those Scriptures are calling us to know.

To walk in your calling, you don’t need more information, you need revelation. And that only comes from intimacy, not drive-by prayers or leftover minutes. You have to give God your time, heart and full attention. When you really know Him, not just know about Him, something shifts. You begin to carry His character, presence and voice. The only God some people will encounter is the one they see shining through your life. So, let them see a God who is alive, powerful, loving, and close.

But that’s just the first part. You also need to know who you are. When God called Moses, Moses did what most of us do, He questioned his own worth. He said, “Who am I to go?” and “What if they don’t believe me?” (Exodus 3v11 and 4:1 NLT). And God didn’t try to flatter Moses or give him a pep talk. He simply said, “I Am has sent you” (Exodus 3v14 NLT). In other words, “It’s not about who you are. It’s about who I am in you.” Then God asked Moses, “What’s that in your hand?” A simple staff. Nothing flashy. Just something ordinary. But when Moses laid it down in obedience, God made it extraordinary. It turned into a sign, a wonder, a demonstration of divine power (Exodus 4:2–5 NLT).

Always remember… you already have what you need. God isn’t looking for perfection, He’s looking for surrender. Stop waiting to feel worthy and stop second-guessing your gifts. When you know the One who called you and you trust what He placed in your hands, you will walk in divine authority. You will be used by heaven to shift things on earth.

So open the Word, not just for knowledge, but to encounter Christ. Seek Him until the Scriptures stop being ink on a page and start becoming fire in your bones. Then look at your life, your hands, your story, your gifts, and know this: God already gave you everything you need to walk in purpose and power.

#god #jesus #christ #holy spirit #bible #scripture #christianity #faith #prayer #biblical encouragement #biblical inspiration #biblical truth #biblical wisdom #christian living #faith walk #devotional #daily devotional

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feminineantifeminist · 6 months ago

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Submission and Surrender

As a Christian wife, I have come to realize that the concept of submission in marriage is often misunderstood and misrepresented. Many view submission as a form of oppression or inequality, where the wife is relegated to a subordinate role and forced to acquiesce to her husband's every whim. However, this couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, biblical submission is a beautiful and empowering concept that allows wives to flourish in their roles and experience a deeper level of intimacy and connection with their husbands.

To understand the biblical concept of submission, we must first examine the scriptural context. In Ephesians 5:22-24, Paul writes, "Wives, submit to your own husbands, as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife even as Christ is the head of the church, his body, and is himself its Savior. Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit in everything to their husbands." This passage is often misinterpreted as a call to blind obedience, but in reality, it's an invitation to surrender to a higher authority and to trust in the Lord's sovereignty.

So, what does it mean to surrender to a husband's desires and needs? It means trusting that he has your best interests at heart and that he is seeking to lead and guide you in a way that honors God. It means being willing to lay down your own desires and preferences in order to prioritize his needs and desires. And it means communicating openly and honestly with him about your own needs and desires, so that you can work together to build a strong and healthy marriage. This is why you marry a man who has earned and deserves this kind of respect. Not every man is worthy.

Communication and mutual respect are essential components of a submissive relationship. When both partners feel heard and understood, they are more likely to trust and surrender to each other. This doesn't mean that the wife becomes a doormat or loses her own identity, but rather that she is able to find her true identity and purpose in her role as a submissive wife. By communicating effectively and showing mutual respect, couples can build a strong foundation of trust and intimacy, which is essential for a healthy and thriving marriage.

In my own marriage, I have experienced the beauty of submission and surrender. By trusting my husband and surrendering to his leadership, I have found a deeper level of freedom and joy. I am able to focus on my own strengths and gifts, while also supporting and encouraging my husband in his role as leader. And as we communicate openly and honestly with each other, we are able to navigate the ups and downs of life together, as a team.

Of course, submission and surrender are not always easy. There will be times when we feel resistant or hesitant to surrender to our husband's desires. But it's in these moments that we must remind ourselves of the biblical mandate to submit, and trust that God is working all things together for our good. By surrendering to our husband's leadership and trusting in God's sovereignty, we can experience a deeper level of intimacy and connection in our marriages, and find true fulfillment in our roles as wives.Ultimately, submission and surrender are not about oppression or inequality, but about trust, respect, and mutual submission. As Paul writes in Ephesians 5:21, "Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ." This means that both husbands and wives are called to submit to each other, each in their own unique way. By embracing this concept of mutual submission, we can build strong and healthy marriages that honor God and bring joy and fulfillment to both partners.

#submissivewife #christian living #christian family #traditional femininity #P

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queerprayers · 8 months ago

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I'm a lifelong Christian and I've been struck with fear recently because I've never feared God. I love God so much, but I cannot fear anyone whom I love. Those two things can't go together in my mind. I think of 1 John 4:18 and I justified, but then I think of all of Proverbs (wisdom is the fear of God) or even some of Jesus' sayings (ex. Luke 12:5)... and I start feeling like a horrible Christian because I just can't imagine loving someone that I'm afraid of. I guess I am afraid sometimes of God showing me my guilt when I sin, but I'm not scared of God sending me into eternal hell or anything, because I wouldn't be able to believe in a God who'd do that to anyone. Is there another way to think about "fear of God"?

What a great topic, beloved! The answer is yes, there are many ways to think about the concept of "fear of God!"

The first thing I want to bring up is that we have to be careful about moralizing emotions. As someone with a mood disorder, I know all too well that when we do this, we alienate people with emotional differences, and we also fundamentally misunderstand a lot. We cannot control our emotions. We can choose between reveling in them or moving on from them, we can learn ways to process them, we can identify whether they're helpful, but we cannot control them. Because of this, we cannot require certain emotions as a virtue. It's not realistic or helpful.

Fear, the way we usually talk about it, is an emotion. It can be a logical response or a completely illogical one. Someone with an anxiety disorder may experience fear in perfectly normal situations; someone with paranoia or a phobia may be afraid of completely safe situations. We may not feel fear in an unsafe situation because of recklessness or ignorance.

Emotional responses to God are varied and uncontrollable—although with religious education and emotional intelligence, they can be useful. We can process our guilt to decide whether it's pushing us to change or keeping us trapped. We can process our joy and cherish when it is a response to holy things. We can let anger lead us to work for justice. We can honor our grief at injustice but work to not let it paralyze us. We can love worldly things or eternal things. Again, I don't want to moralize emotion, but rather honor it as a part of the human experience and use it to serve God.

You're afraid because you don't fear God—this comes out of a desire to be a "good Christian," to cultivate in yourself what is holy. Ironically, your fear is leading you to God, the kind of fear you were afraid you didn't have. Now if fear of being a horrible Christian traps you, if it causes you not to care for yourself, if it keeps you from experiencing the joy of Christianity, we know it isn't serving you. But it can, and it may be doing so right now, pushing you to think further about this.

To see fear as a virtue, though, we have to look beyond uncontrollable emotional responses. We have to see it in Scripture in all its many facets. You have identified two completely different verses on fear—showing us that fear can be can be the enemy of perfect love, and also a logical response to a God that has ultimate power. Fear can prevent us from reaching out (being afraid), or it can be an awareness of our own lack of power, our dependence on God, and result in surrender. Anxiety is a shutting in; reverence is a reaching out.

I cheated and used the Wikipedia page to find this, but Pope Francis said that

The fear of the Lord, the gift of the Holy Spirit, doesn’t mean being afraid of God, since we know that God is our Father that always loves and forgives us,...[It] is no servile fear, but rather a joyful awareness of God’s grandeur and a grateful realization that only in him do our hearts find true peace.

We don't fear God because we don't trust him—we fear offending God because we love God, we fear losing God because we are completely dependent on God, we fear forgetting God's love because that's the only meaning in the universe.

I've really valued C.S. Lewis's perspectives on fear—I don't have The Problem of Pain with me right now, but the Wikipedia page for "numinous" helpfully quotes it:

Suppose you were told there was a tiger in the next room: you would know that you were in danger and would probably feel fear. But if you were told "There is a ghost in the next room," and believed it, you would feel, indeed, what is often called fear, but of a different kind. It would not be based on the knowledge of danger, for no one is primarily afraid of what a ghost may do to him, but of the mere fact that it is a ghost. It is "uncanny" rather than dangerous, and the special kind of fear it excites may be called Dread. With the Uncanny one has reached the fringes of the Numinous. Now suppose that you were told simply "There is a mighty spirit in the room," and believed it. Your feelings would then be even less like the mere fear of danger: but the disturbance would be profound. You would feel wonder and a certain shrinking—a sense of inadequacy to cope with such a visitant and of prostration before it—an emotion which might be expressed in Shakespeare's words "Under it my genius is rebuked." This feeling may be described as awe, and the object which excites it as the Numinous.

Proverbs states multiple times that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom—not guilt, not an eternal state of being afraid, not self-hatred, not doom. When it is an understanding of our dependence on God, our recognizing how small we are and how much power God has, when we realize that everything real to us is a pitiful reflection of what is in store, that is where we find wisdom in this life.

Proverbs also tells us that to fear the Lord is to hate evil (8:13). 16:6 says that evil is avoided through the fear of the Lord. Job 28:28 tells us that the fear of the Lord is wisdom, and to shun evil is understanding. We see here fear of God leading us to good works and obedience—if it's not leading us anywhere, it's stagnation. (The same with guilt.)

Another place fear of God leads us is life and rest (Proverbs 14:27; 19:23). Fully understanding and submitting ourselves to God, knowing how afraid we would and should be without that rock, we can rest knowing that we have God, the fountain of life.

Another interesting thing besides evil that fear of God is set against is arrogance/pride. Romans 11:20 says, "Do not be arrogant, but tremble." Proverbs 22:4: "Humility is the fear of the Lord." When we set ourselves as the center of the universe, when we think we're in control, when we cling to earthly things, we are not in that state of reverence.

Fear of God is holy—but over and over, God tells us to not be afraid. So what's the difference between these fears? Fear of earthly things (the emotion) is a logical response to the very real dangers we experience. But when we make that a state of being, when we don't move anywhere, we're not trusting God. Fear of God, on the other hand, is that ultimate trust and awareness. "Fear of man will prove to be a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is kept safe" (Proverbs 29:25).

Fear keeping us safe seems an oxymoron if we define it as an emotion, which is an earthly experience. We have to look further. We have to understand that the logical response to an all-powerful God is being afraid, but the first thing an angel meeting us would say is, "Be not afraid." Fear the one who has the authority to throw you into hell, yes, but worship the one whose love drives out that fear.

You may have skipped the first step—your love of God is admirable. But leave some room for awe, for the strangeness of religion, for the reality of your lack of power. If fear comes up, let it lead you to Life. Don't try to control your emotional responses, but cultivate a spirit of reverence. And keep thinking. Keep finding seemingly conflicting Bible verses. You're not a horrible Christian—you're just a Christian. Not to be a Lutheran, but you cannot by your own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ or come to him—but the Holy Spirit has called you, and will not meet you in the middle, but rather make all the steps and land where you are. And the only response that I have ever found is to surrender.

<3 Johanna

#asks

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lilianasgrimoire · 1 year ago

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Witchcraft 101: An Introductory Post

What is Witchcraft?

Witchcraft is the practice of magick. It's a series of techniques one uses to harness and/or manipulate energies externally or internally to change one's surroundings of circumstances as well as themselves. This can be done through using herbs, stones, crystals, and other materials.

Witchcraft can, and is, performed in a plethora of ways. It can be done through meditation, spell work, rituals or even baking and cooking. Witchcraft is as unique as you are. To practice witchcraft you do not need a religion, however most people practice witchcraft to feel more connected to their chosen religion. Witchcraft is as unique as the individual demonstrating it.

What makes someone a witch?

A witch is a person who practices magick. Witches can come from any background, any age, race or gender and religion. The term 'witch' is a gender-neutral, universal name. A being who claims the title may do what they desire with the craft. There are many types of witches, all of which are nature based. Not all witches are interested in the same type practise, however. One may prefer the study and use of crystals, and another being drawn to divination or even one of the elements.

A witch is neither good or bad, as they are only human.

There aren't any rules to being a witch (unless your religion states otherwise). Whilst you don't have to be religious to be a witch, most witches who practise, are most commonly Wiccan.

What is Paganism?

Pagan is an umbrella term for the many non-Abrahamic religions. This included Hinduism, Wicca, Buddhism, Sikhism, etc. However, not a lot of people fall into a specific type of religion that comes under paganism but still believe in & worship more than one God/Goddess or Greater being such as the elements, for example. Many, if not most, witches, fall under the Wiccan religion.

Paganism, across all sub-genres, follow holidays/festivals, and in many religions, many they follow The Eight Sabbats, or Wheel of the Year. The Sabbats, depending on the religion, have slight variations in terms of rituals, timing and practicing of the holidays i.e. which God/Goddess is associated, traditional colours or foods. It also is up to the individual as to what they do and don't want to celebrate.

"All Wiccans are witches, but not all witches are wiccan. All Wiccans are Pagan, but not all Pagans are Witches."

Religion VS. Spirituality

Religion and spirituality are often meshed together and difficult to differentiate the two. Some people believe there is a blurred line between them, whereas another may believe they are two completely different topics.

So, how can we tell the two apart?

Religion is an institutionalised system of certain attitudes, practises and beliefs; often the service or worship of a greater being than ones self or the supernatural. A religion is often based upon life lessons and teachings of a historical or archetypal figure. Typically, there is a place of worship, such as churches, temples, mosques and cathedrals. Religion is a structured organised system that is heavily rule based with it's main focus on the faith of the religion (scriptures of being infallible and ultimate or truth. Acceptance and the surrender to the Divine are taught as the path to complete and ultimate salvation. Religion is one path for all to follow.

Spirituality is a connection that one has to something that is much larger than yourself. Spirituality is an aspect of humanity where an individual seeks and expresses meaning and purpose through the connection they experience to a moment. People who are spiritually awakened liv4e life in a reverent and sacred manner. Yoga, meditation and contemplation all help a person to start, progress and explore their journey. Many use these practices to reach out to their spirit guides, past lives and even advice from outside forces. Each journey is unique. Spirituality is often referred to as a "pathless path". Spirituality is about following your own path and learning, growing, loving and acceptance on a more personal level. Unlike religion, spiritualists do not follow a set of rules n regards to their inward journey but, faith is not dismissed and entirely acceptable to incorporate with spirituality.

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