The thing about Cottagecore is that is a fetishized aesthetic of country life, divorced from labor and idealized by a primarily urban audience with a backward looking ethos of tradition. They are not prepared for the stresses of a rural life: farming; harvesting; tapping pumpkins to ensure none of them have been replaced with flesh; losing out on income by having to use one of your pigs in a blood sacrifice to paint protective sigils over your doors and windows; checking cracks and chimneys for the flesh-vines of the Pumpkin Lord; having to decide, before the Growth is complete, whether that's really your tradwife or an amassment of vines, leaves, and blood in the shape of your tradwife; ignoring their desperate pleas that "I'm me! No! No!" as you burn them alive, realizing too late you picked wrong; and the exploitative corporate nature of commercial farming in 2024. All seen through a deeply colonial lens, of course
I finished The Fragile Threads of Power a couple of nights ago and I have to confess, I absolutely hate Lila Bard. She's a bully with very little character development for four books now, and what she has had mostly seems to consist of 'might makes right'. She keeps running off on her own without notifying anyone (including the people whose actual lives are at stake in a given situation) and needing to be rescued (sometimes by the very same people). I'm kind of hoping she'll end up losing her power at the end of this series, for the sake of all the Londons.
Besides, she was mean to Nadiya Loreni. Nobody should be mean to Nadiya Loreni.
i heard you like halston mommy kink. WELL. do i have something for you, sir.
Mommy gets mad when he comes home and Anakin isn’t there to greet him by the door. He gets mad when Anakin is late, when Anakin hasn’t washed himself for days but expects to be invited to his bed, when Anakin comes too soon or fucks too slow, when Anakin is not the perfect well-trained boy he had plucked from obscurity and shaped into the promising young man that he is now, with a bank account and a college degree, and his own car that he drives around the city with the windows down so that everyone who thought he might never amount to anything could see him now.
Anakin’s new life affords him luxuries, but there are also rules he has to live by. Mommy says it’s how he became a self-made man himself: through hard work and discipline, and now he reaps the rewards of a whole life spent toiling. Now he has Anakin to rub his feet at home, and massage his aching shoulders. Anakin knows how mommy likes to be fucked, on his back, with his knees pinned up his chest, because face to face is more intimate and he likes to stroke Anakin’s cheek and call him his good boy when Anakin is pressed to the hilt and holding himself still, trying not to fuck mommy rough and fast because he knows he’d blow his load too soon otherwise.
Mommy has taught him everything he knows: he bought him clothes, and dressed him so Anakin didn’t look like a vagrant, walking around in hole-ridden shirts and shoes that have seen better days. He would sit on Anakin, just sit on him, fitting their bodies like lock and key, instructing him to calm his mind, teaching him how to breathe, and breathing along with him, though his meditation techniques only made Anakin burn hotter with the desire to flip him over on his back and fuck him.
Sometimes mommy would have Anakin kneel on the floor, at his feet, worshipping him with his mouth, if Anakin did something bad like drink straight out of the milk carton or forget to do the washing up, or was late to a dinner date because he couldn’t find parking. Anakin would write his apology with his tongue, mapping every inch of him from ankle to thigh, while mommy made appreciative noises and smoked his cigarette with a smile, opening his legs up for him so Anakin could see how hard Anakin made him.
Anakin had not sucked cock until he met mommy. Back then mommy was simply called Ben, and they didn’t have all these complicated rules. Anakin was eighteen, cruising the bars for a quick fuck, and Ben had been a means to an end: he scratched the itch, was looking for a young man to pass the time with, sitting there in the dark nursing a gin and tonic, looking as morose as Anakin preferred his men. And Ben liked taking it up the ass, which was perfect, though he had a weird rule about sucking cock. Prim, and proper, until you plied him with enough drinks and he was prostrating himself on all fours like a cat in heat, begging for Anakin to make him come like that—but you would have to get him even drunker, or put a gun to his head before he ever put his mouth on Anakin. He never said why: something about hygiene, Anakin wasn’t sure, though he had no compunction kissing Anakin on the mouth seconds after Anakin had slurped come from his ass.
Ben preferred being acted on, which was why Anakin often did most of the work. He didn’t mind it, minus sometimes the cock-sucking, which he was still getting used to, though after nearly four years of practice, he was getting better and had refined his technique: licking and lapping at the hang of Ben’s balls, nuzzling his taint until his thighs twitched farther apart and his breath hitched a lovely cadence.
Ben—mommy— likes to wear his damn robe all the time. As if it even mattered: he was completely naked underneath. He walked around the house in the robe, going about his day: doing his taxes, taking calls in the living room—he was the only person Anakin knew who still owned a phone—and occasionally he’d let Anakin slide his fingers up the hem to fondle him, or Anakin would shove his face under there and kiss his trembling thighs, running his fingers up and down the coarse hair furring his legs.
The robe would end up on the floor before the night was over, sometimes in shreds depending on how eager Anakin felt that day. Those first few semesters in college were the worst, because they were apart for months at a time. Ben would fly to see him during break, book them a hotel for the weekend where they spent hours fucking on every flat surface: the bed, the minibar, the clawfoot tub. It was around that time Anakin had started calling Ben mommy. It just made sense, when Ben got him everything, fulfilling both need and want: a roof over his head, an education, a warm hole to put his cock. He was mommy when he was mad, his face creased in frustration, fury writ in every line of his face. Mommy when he had leapt in happiness after finding out Anakin had finished at the top of his class. Mommy when he sat on his favourite chair with his legs unfolding like the pages of a book, showing Anakin where he wanted him, and needed him, where Anakin would be held, loved, and cradled, where he would always be welcomed: home.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
