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@lambient

18,358 粉丝

注册时间 2025年9月11日

Pretty in Pink ♡

A Note From the Cottage

welcome to my little corner of the garden! my name is bri. i am currently very active, and post frequently. i like dark romance, desperate emos, and loser guys.

Cottage Post

The Berry Basket

Gallery Friends

Friend Name Friend Name Friend Name Friend Name

The Recipe Box

Riverbend

riverbend, missouri was not a violent town. nobody locked the doors, people didn’t go missing - kids didn’t go missing.

yet, six months ago june anderson never came home, a month after that her body was found stuffed in a graffitied oil bin, and three weeks after that her death was officially ruled a suicide. but, that wasn’t a proper reflection of riverbend. just really bad luck. everybody knew june was troubled, that she was going nowhere fast.

yet, if you asked the shadows - if you sat in the stillness, there was something a little bit off about the whole thing. like the way sound misaligns itself everytime you go under water. but, nobody ever did ask the shadows.

Redwater

redwater.

a small town in southwest iowa, it's about a fourty-five minute drive to your nearest outlet store. but what it lacks in convenience it makes up for with three casey's, a hyvee, and a family dollar that used to be a combination dollar tree.

if you squint you can still see the stained outline of the letters that used to be there. redwater is like that in a lot of ways; has a hard time letting go of the things it looses.

Waverly Manor

waverly manor.

the ancestral seat of the duke and duchess of westmoreland and the six incorrigible children who carry their tarnished name. once the beating heart of a dozen counties, the estate has withdrawn into itself, maintaining its marble halls and velvet-draped chambers while only employing the skeletal remains of a household staff. the doors remain barred to callers; carriages are turned away at the gates, and the family eats by candlelight in rooms meant to host two hundred guests. grandeur persists in the architecture, in the fluted columns and gilded cornices, but the silence between those walls has grown oppressive, haunted by a decay that no amount of inherited wealth can quite conceal.

at the center of this isolation stands the heir, hideous in both face and temperament, who has announced his intention to take a wife. he is not the only blight upon the family name: his younger brothers have cultivated their own reputations across London and the countryside, marked by the telltale stains of gambling debts, brothel scandals, and spectacularly ill tempers. there is even mention of a bastard child or two. yet it is the eldest who presents the most dreadful proposition—a husband wealthy and well-bred on paper, but monstrous in the flesh. no lady possessed of her wits, however desperate her circumstances, could look upon that lineage of ruin and accept his hand.

ClearCreek

clearcreek, kansas.

deep in the suburbs, past the driveways with basketball hoops, and the strict HOA is a cul-de-sac, home to five undercover fbi agents pretending to be suburban dads. except none of them have wives. or kids.

enter the five women who agreed to fill that role, and partake in very real, very legally binding marriages.

The Black Cypress

nearly a century past, as the outer world unraveled into decadence, the matriarch planted a sanctuary meant to outlast the rot. she named it the black cypress, a commune of sacred order rooted in severance and shadow.

to the careless eye, it thrives. to the watching one, the word cult clings like moss to what grows there. within its walls, hierarchy breathes. the mother speaks the law; the father enforces it with his hands.

beneath them stand the first son and first daughter, shepherds of the new blood - he breaking the men, she the women - hammering obedience into the chosen. If any stray, it is the teachers who bleed.

the butcher tends the barn, a quiet mercy for outsiders who stumble past the gate, or for insiders who forget their place among the soil.

the shepherd roams beyond the fence, a charming viper coaxing the curious home.

and at the still center, swathed in white and sealed behind her veil, lives the maiden - the living shrine, the unblemished symbol, whose purity is both her crown and her cage.

Rustwood

in rustwood, tennessee, where the corn grows tall as grave markers and the summer air hangs thick with cornstock and rot, the mulligan farm sits at the edge of forgetting; a rusted kingdom of dirt and secrets. four sons and a stolen mother move through the days like ghosts in overalls, while roy's shadow stretches long across the porch. they pray before meals. they share blood at the table. and somewhere between the cicada song and the butcher's block the fields drink deep. and the family- oh, the family - never stops hungering.

Riverbend Redwater Waverly Manor ClearCreek The Black Cypress Rustwood

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