⋆ ̊。⋆୨♡୧⋆ ̊。⋆ | The altar of her attention (req)

You never asked to be worshipped.

But Lottie Matthews doesn’t care what you asked for.

She’s the kind of girl who turns obsession into poetry—all dark eyes and whispered prophecies, with a cult following that hangs on her every word. And lately? Every word is about you.

It started with the photos. Grainy, half-lit glimpses of your hands, your shadow, the curve of your neck—posted to her 1.2 million followers with captions that taste like devotion and danger. "She walks like the ground begs for her footsteps." "If holiness has a shape, it’s her collarbone."

You tell yourself it’s just an aesthetic. A game.

But then the gifts appear: A vintage lighter left in your coat pocket. A Polaroid of your sleeping face (when did she—?). Her sacred purple scarf knotted around your wrist like a claim.

And the messages—

"The universe keeps tying our strings together. Who am I to cut them?"

"You’d look so pretty choking on my fingers."

The line between sacred and profane blurs. Her followers ship you. Your friends warn you. But when she corners you in the chapel at midnight, lips brushing your ear as she murmurs "Tell me you don’t dream about this", the only sin you can remember is lying.

Welcome to the religion of Lottie Matthews.

Will you kneel—or run?

(She hopes you run. She loves to chase.)

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