#Your pain has been unpained

[parkersjiggle]

Tony bored at work, and peter right here, looking up at him from his spot between his legs, on his knees under tony's desk and blowjobbing him.

Hey! Hope you don’t mind but I took some creative liberty and made it public blowjobs. It’s my first time writing anything with smut so, hope u like it.

TW: smut, public blowjobs, accidental voyeurism?

———

“Fuck,” Tony sighs, leaning in closer as he grabs Peter’s shoulders and shoves him down on the table in the executive meeting room. His stomach churns with a feeling of arousal and want. “Kid, I know we shouldn’t be doing this in here, but you just look so pretty right now.”

Their bodies are close enough for Tony to feel the heat radiating off of Peter. Tony snaps. He closes the gap between them, kissing Peter harshly. His mouth is hot and soft against his; it’s messy and rough. Just the way Peter likes it. When Peter gasps, Tony licks into his mouth, tasting him, drawing a loud moan from the back of Peter’s throat. Peter’s hands grip at Tony’s hair, pulling him in closer as his tongue pushes against Tony’s.

Tony comes up for air, gasping. Peter’s a little breathless too, pupils blown, lips parted and just the tiniest hint of beard burn on his chin. He takes great pride in the boy’s undoing. If this is the last thing Tony sees, he’s pretty sure he’ll die a happy man.

Tony dips down to kiss peter’s jaw, trailing rough kisses down his neck, scraping his lips and tongue along his throat. He sucks a bruise into the skin above his collarbone and Peter inhales sharply, shuddering. “Please, Mr. Stark, please.” Peter voice cracks over a moan and if it’s not just the hottest thing Tony has ever heard, God.

But as quickly as it started, it all comes to an end when they hear the door creaking open. 10 AM meeting. Pepper. Shit. Why didn’t he lock the door? Tony Stark is so, so, so screwed.

Luckily Peter’s quick reflexes save the day and he manages to hide under the table just in time.

“Tony?” Shit. Tony must look like a disheveled hot mess right now. “What are you doing here already? In fact, what are you doing here at all?” She questioned. “I believe you sent an email yesterday? Something about a meeting discussing the new prototype that I just had to be here for.” He responded casually, clearing his throat. “Yeah I did, but you never listen to me and now you’re not only here, you’re also early. What’s going on?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I’ve been such a good boy this week, Pep. I truly don’t deserve this suspicion. You want me here and then when I show up and do as I’m told you start doubting me? Make up your mind, woman.” Tony playfully rolled his eyes. Pepper looked a little guilty for distrusting him. “Alright then, the rest of the board will be here any second. Sit down while I get you some water. You look like you need it.”

Tony sat down and when Pepper had her back turned, he quickly shot Peter a warning look that said “behave or else.” However, the smug smirk that masked Peter’s face predicted nothing but mischief.

-

“Mr. Stark, I’m so glad you could grace us with your presence.” One of the boardmen said. What was his name again? David? Dennis? Dumbass? It didn’t matter. He seemed a little surprised, as if he didn’t expect Tony to be here. Well, who could really blame him.

“Uhu, I’ve got places to be, people to do so can we speed this up maybe?” He responded with a wink. Pepper just looks at him, with that arch in her brow raised in a way that signifies annoyance... he got that look a lot.

He really really tries to pay attention, but when nimble fingers fumble with Tony’s belt buckle, undoing it surprisingly quickly and hands slowly start to palm the growing bulge in Tony’s pants, his mind goes blank.

Hands immediately turn to the front of Tony’s slacks, tugging at the zipper. Suddenly he feels a warm mouth at the bulge in his briefs. Tony feels his cock twitch. “Jesus,” he says on exhale and everyone turns his attention to him. He manages to recover from his slip as quickly as his hazed mind allows him; “Why are we going on and on about the hardware and software integration? Move on to the next topic, we get it.” It’s not like they weren’t used to him being snarky, it’s all Peter’s fault anyway.

Peter takes his cock out and Tony gets sidetracked by the feeling of cool air hitting his aching cock. And then, fuck, Peter leans forward and softly kisses the tip. He knows he’s doomed, that all semblance of coherent thoughts are long gone. Peter knew just how to touch him, how to pleasure him. They’ve been together long enough to know what makes the other tick, what makes them fall apart into a pleading and trembling mess. Tony puts all his effort into maintaining a stoic expression.

Peter laps at the head of Tony’s cock once it’s pressed against his lips, digging his tongue into the slit just to hear Tony’s breath hitch. Peter pulls his own cock out of his boxers, squeezing it. It’s making a mess in his lap. His mouth stretches around Tony’s cock, sinking lower slowly. His hand, still wet from his own leaking mess, wraps around the part he can’t quite reach, stroking him into his mouth. Tony’s fingers curl around the table and he’s having a really hard time keeping his breath under control and his hands to himself.

Tony couldn’t help it; he let out what seemed like a painful moan when Peter’s tongue was doing something very interesting to the underside of his cock.

Pepper actually had the decency to look worriedly at him “Tony? Are you alright? Are you sick?” He swallows “Yeah actually I think I might be coming down with something. You know what? Meeting adjourned. See you all tomorrow. There’s the door” he waved in the direction of the door. “Leave.”

“But, sir, this is very crucial. We must-“ the boardmen quickly got interrupted “Dismissed.” He gave the man a cruel state that clearly stated “I’m the boss here.”

The second everyone left, Tony yanked Peter from underneath the desk by his hair, not entirely unpainful.

“Up on all fours, slut” Tony demands as he quickly unbuttons his dress shirt, cocking bobbing in the air. He’s dizzy with need, and his lips move of their own accord “You know Daddy’s gonna have to punish you for being such a bad needy boy, right?”

“Please, punish me Daddy.”

[avulle]

A Slow Thing

So I saw a Draco/Hermione pic and thought it was a Ron/Hermione pic with Ron with all of his hair gone white.  So you get this.  Especially @spiralingintocontrol

Enjoy :)

(Also, blame @henrymercury​, who dragged me back into this fandom.)

It’s a slow thing, at first. Ron throws out his knee in a quidditch accident, needs to go into the mediwitch to get his eyes fixed up a couple times a year. Then it gets a little faster, he’s forty-nine years old and his beard is streaked with grey if he doesn’t shave it.  A couple more years and most of the fieriness of his red hair is gone.  His back starts bother him in a sort of insidious way that never seems to go away.  He puts on a couple more pounds every year that he can’t seem to work off. He’d be in good shape, for a muggle.  Excellent shape, in fact.  He can run and he can jump and he can still beat Hermione and Harry in ninety chess games out of ninety-nine. But he’s not a muggle. Hermione isn’t one either, and while time ravages her husband, it seems to leave her completely untouched.  When she is fifty years old, she hasn’t seen a single grey hair, and any wrinkles on her face are relegated to the laugh lines that have folded in around her eyes.   They look less and less like a couple all the time.  Ron’s hair is completely grey by the time he’s seventy, and Hermione has only first begun to find single strands of gray in her hair.  Ron’s extra pounds are starting to show, and wrinkles are starting to distort his face. There is something funny and capricious about magic, Hermione learns somewhere along the way.  It plays favorites, even among the people to whom it gifts its services.  There are strong witches and weak witches, of course, but it goes a bit further than that. Every day, she sees the disparity in how magic feels about her, and how it feels about her husband.   She remembers Dumbledore, one hundred and thirty and still going strong, and she remembers Slughorn, sixty and straining under the weight of his years. She’d always known she was gifted, and she doesn’t really wish she wasn’t, but sometimes— Sometimes. They’re seventy-five when they’re first mistaken for father and daughter.  Not in Great Britain, of course.  They’re famous there, famous as heroes and famous as a married couple.  But America either never knew or never cared, and they’re just some random british magicals there. It was nice, until it wasn’t. Hermione remembers Ron’s face, when the waiter said “you and your daughter, sir”, before she had really processed the remark.  It looked guilty, ashamed, and afraid. When he had first started gaining his wrinkles, all of Ron’s had been around his eyes, from when he laughed, and between his eyebrows, when he scowled.  But now they were showing up in different places she hadn’t been able to understand, until now. Fear.  She hadn’t seen Ron afraid since Rose called them on their muggle telephone from London, sounding panicked and scared.  She sees it, now. They work through it, like they work through everything.  They’ve been together for fifty years, and if Hermione has her way, they’ll be together for fifty more.  Ron’s hair goes completely white, his back bows, his wrinkles multiply, but they get used to it.  It’s a new normal, and they have an awful lot of time to adjust. Or, at least, they did. They are one hundred and twenty now.  Hermione has those aches and pains that won’t go away, pounds that build on each other every year, and her brown hair is now mostly gray. Ron is sick.  Magicals don’t get sick like muggles get sick—no Alzheimers (thank God), no Parkinsons or cancer.  But they have weird magical maladies that you never see in children, when their immune systems and their magic is strong. When they’re older, though, as their magic and immune systems wane, those magical maladies find their way into their system, not one at a time, but two and three and ten at a time. When magicals die, they die from a hundred different little diseases no one thinks about.  Hermione’s never known someone with AIDS, but she learns exactly what it must be like to watch someone die of it. Stupid diseases that shouldn’t even fucking exist, eating away at someone.   She’s all cried out, sometimes in the first year or two of the compounding illnesses.  As always, magical prove themselves more durable than their magical counterparts, and even though she can see the pain Ron is in, Hermione can’t help but be happy about it. One more year, one more month, one more day.  Because she entered into this magical world, she got over a century with the man she loved.  Over a century, and it was a good century, too.  And even after death came to him, she got a couple years still, a couple years with their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren and, in one particularly unique accident, a single great-great grandchild.  Four generations of Weasley-Grangers, all massive in true Weasley tradition, enough they have to magically expand the room not once, not twice, but several times over. One hundred and eighteen, if you count all the new, married additions.  It’s not the sea of orange the burrow was, Hermione’s brown hair eventually winning the battle, but it’s a sea they created, nonetheless. In the center of it all is Ron, weak and flabby and wrinkled and sick against the pillow, against her side.  He looks up at her, in a face so pale and distorted she can hardly recognizes it, and he smiles.  He smiles a huge, unguarded, unpained smile. Look at everything we made, he says to her.  Look at all the people we made. He looks so happy, so ecstatic.  So much like the boy she fell in love with, all those years ago.  The sickness has taken much from him, but it’s never taken this. She smiles as she cries, I love you, she says.  I love you so much. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, he says.  I love you, too. In a movie, that would have been the end of it—either a fade to black, or Ron’s chest suddenly stopping, that last moment as the last moment they share, but it’s not like that. Ron lasts three months more, the illnesses taking him away from her bit by bit until those last days in which he barely knows her name.  (And here Hermione thought dementia was only for muggles.) The last words she says to him are It’s all going to be alright, because he’s forgotten almost everything that’s happened. At the very least, his last words to her aren’t Who are you? Instead, they’re— I’m scared, Hermione. And he dies.  One hundred and twenty-three years old.  If he had been muggle, he would have been the oldest man to have ever lived, but he wasn’t. So she survived him and Harry survived him and so did one or two other people from their rapidly dwindling graduating class.  She cries on Harry’s shoulder at the funeral, Harry, who still has some black in his hair, just like she still has some brown in hers.  The two of them, the remainder of the golden trio, blessed by magic to watch their world slowly decay around them. Hermione eventually lives to two hundred and six.  She doesn’t outlive Harry, because he’s the chosen one and also master of death, but she’s got Dumbledore beat, and she knows Harry isn’t too far behind her.  She outlived a couple of her children, but thankfully not all of them, and, in a minor miracle, she outlived all of her grandchildren.  As she dies, Harry tells her about the train station made of clouds he encountered in his brief brush with death, the same way he told Ron until Ron couldn’t understand, anymore. It’ll all be alright, he tells her, and she doesn’t quite believe him because she was a little atheist of a ten year old before all this wizardly nonsense, but she wants to believe. Hermione elects to end her suffering early, not wishing to go out a forgotten shadow of herself. Give me my wand, she tells Harry, in a moment when they are alone. He gives it to her, Hermione points it at herself, and, for the first and last time, Hermione says— Avada Kedavra.

[shapebodyfaceuae-blog]

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[thoughtaftermind-blog]

Zaida

The first time I thought Mendel Glick, my elter-zaida, would pass away was in the seminary elevator. Mum’s text message was brief: what started as a typical check-up for a ninety-two-year old man turned into a cancer screening. His stomach, hardened from decades of owning a bakery and twice-daily bottles of whisky, was growing a stage four tumor.

He almost-died tens of times before I knew him. That’s what happens when you live through the Holocaust—tales of starvation, gas chambers, frost-biting winters run alongside conversations about challah recipes, pig farmers, and the footie scores.

Everyone rushed to be at the third-floor hospital room, catching lifts, riding the tram, hopping on a bike. Zaida’s room was crowded with his children: my grandfather, the Lubavitcher; Susie, the caterer; Nachama, the phycologist; Miriam, the Gerrer; Nutchy, Zaida’s right hand—even Leslie, the top-order lawyer, had left his offices, still cloaked in the long black robes, the fluorescent lights reflecting off his bald head.

Bubba sat near the bed. She was easy to miss, the only quiet and still one in the room. The loose-knit shawl was falling off her shoulders and the edge was shredding where she kept picking at the yarn. As the siblings spoke and argued and laughed and cried, her fingers twiddled and her eyes locked on Zaida, her partner of sixty years.

They’d met and married in Germany just after the camps were liberated. When Americans freed seventeen-year-old Mendel from the camps, he walked straight out of the iron gates, the shadows of “arbet macht frei” shrinking behind him.

On the streets he passed, smoke rose from piles of rubble. People, lone and alone, backs stooped from the weight of work and death, picked through the pieces. Their blackened faces welcomed sympathy and scared off those who may have some to give.

Each day of the war came with its own easy way to die. Gutt must love me if He let me live, Mendel reminded himself as he wandered. He had nowhere to go. His family gone...their house on the edge of town a smashed pile of tar and hay. It had been a small home, a poor one, filled with hungry children and happy songs. The kids filled their days with games they could play with the muddy sticks and stones from the road. When Shabbos came around, they skipped to the stream to clean their hair and scrub behind their ears. Every time his mammeh was due to birth again, Mendel shifted the rubbish piles for a shoe box to use as a cradle. There wasn’t enough money for cheder, so he learned from the simple stories his father repeated. When the chores were done and Tatteh wasn’t tired, Mendel would sit on the dirt floor near the slatted chair and ask his father to tell the story of Eliezer and Rivkah. It was his favorite one.

The meager life prepared Zaida for the camps. There was no food to be had in Bergen-Belsen; survival meant ignoring the emptiness. On the day that he was liberated, Zaida’s stomach still rumbled. Maybe a kind soul in that building at the corner had a hunk of bread to share. If someone offers me a drink, I’ll offer to marry them, he thought, drawing on Eliezer’s search for Rivkah. His strength the past three years had been imagining the life he would build after the war. He was desperate to create a family so large and so Jewish that the Germans’ failure would be paraded.

The brass handle on the door of the building was covered in soot. Mendel wiped it with his black-and-white striped shirt before turning. The carpet inside withered in dust. The large glass windows were covered in boards that blocked the sunlight; darkness clung to every corner. The flame of a short wax candle flickered and danced on the bottom step of the stairwell, casting a glow on the small area around it. It was the only sign that someone had been through the house recently.

“Anyone there?” Mendel called out, glancing front and back.

A dark-haired girl, our Bubba, stepped down the stairwell. She stopped halfway and leaned over the railing to talk to Zaida. “You look terrible, boy—can I get you a drink?”

Bubba and Zaida married a month after they met in the lobby of the girls’ orphanage. Their first home: a DP camp. Their first child: born in its barracks. Less than a year after the war ended, they were already a family of three. When they crossed to Australia, they were four. In the hospital room years later, they were nine. Grandkids and their babies walked in and out, coming with food, leaving with updates for those overseas. Mum and her siblings called a travel agent to book flights for them to gather around their father in Australia.

“Go home,” the doctors told Zaida when they came for afternoon rounds. “You’ve lived long enough to die quietly.” Their professional opinion was to forgo chemotherapy and live out the time left.

Zaida thought the doctors were right—he should go home. Since the first day of his new life in Australia, he hadn’t missed a day of work—even a child’s wedding didn’t mean he couldn’t work a sunrise shift. First was his job as a delivery man for the bakery, then a cashier, a baker. When he saved enough, he opened his own bakery, the first kosher one in the gold coast. Being ninety-two meant that work slowed, but it hadn’t stopped; it was time to get back to the shop.

I told Basya about Zaida’s diagnosis after I read about it in the elevator up to our tenth-floor dorm room. Israel was just as far from Australia as America was, but in the hills of Tzfat, no one else knew my great-grandfather. It was a pain I couldn’t pass on.

Months later, Basya and I sat at the checkered table in the cheder ochel, picking at piles of soggy vegetables and discussing Shabbat Chafshah plans. “How’s your grandfather, by the way?” The answer—that he was fine and dandy, still working and teasing and catching every minyan—felt like a betrayal of what I’d told her in the jolty elevator. Back then, we thought he was about to go. Apparently he hadn’t been in the mood. Each scan astounded the doctors—this old man had a monster in his belly, and was thriving as though he didn’t. When doctors said two months, Zaida took two years. Gutt must love me if He let me live. He survived hunger and SS guards and forced labor. Cancer wasn’t going to be what killed him.

The next time Zaida almost-died, I didn’t think he would pass away. We’d already run down that path and come back for air. The stoke would just be a day off work. Tomorrow he’d be cracking eggs in the kitchen or bagging someone’s challah. This time we already knew that he was invincible, so Mum didn’t even look at tickets to Australia.

On the second day, Binyamin got off the trolley one stop early so that he could whisper the entire Tehillim in the white room and lay tefillin on Zaida, who hadn't missed a day of either since 1950.

On the third day, someone dipped a cotton ball in whisky and prodded it between Zaida’s lips. No one talked about the alcohol, how he covered his pain in bad, teasing jokes. On his white bed, Zaida became a hurting man, one who reminded himself each day that “Gutt loves me” because if he didn’t, the harrow of his early years would run through him.

On the fourth day, Bubba came to visit. Dementia had clouded her memories and each day she relived a nightmare. Zaida wouldn’t know that his wife didn’t come to his hospital room, and she would be heartbroken to be there. Nechama didn’t agree, “If that were me and Barry, I would want my kids to bring me.” She would forget the hospital visit afterward anyway, she argued. Her daughter Chevy picked Bubba up an hour later.

No one told Bubba why she was there. She sat in her wheelchair near the hospital bed. Her last time with him was the quiet second when she lifted his limp wrist and kissed it. With the gentle silence of a life spent together, she put his hand back on his bed, straightened the blankets to cover him better, and looked to the floor, away from her husband. Chevy paused at the door on their way out, in case Bubba wanted more time, but Bubba had already said her goodbyes. She looked ahead and spoke for the first time during the visit, “please take me home.”

On the fifth day, the teenaged grandkids pulled into the hospital parking lot with a trunk full of sleeping bags, chicken soup, and wine. They were going to spend Shabbos with Zaida at the hospital. Each had their own story to share, the time Zaidy called them his ugly monkey, the days when they worked in his shop after school, how they tried switching his whisky out for water.

On the sixth day, Motzei Shabbos, Nechama was the only one with him. The week ahead would be long; the rest had gone home to clean up from Shabbos and prepare.

“BDE,” she posted on the family chat. No one wrote back.

Mum and I watched the the live hookup of the levaya from her bed. For us in America, it was still Motzei Shabbos, just minutes after we turned on our phones and realized he was gone.

Nutchy’s white knuckles gripped the podium when he quoted on of the few things Zaida ever said: “A man has two names—the one he is given and the one he makes for himself.”

On the ship’s manifesto, Zaida’s young family is listed as Mendel, Sarah, Avraham, and Suzie Unglick, the unlucky ones. When he walked off the ramp with a brown suitcase in hand, he introduced himself to the port staff as “Mr. Glick.”

Zaida made the choice to live the life of Mr. Glick every day—when he shivered on his wooden bunk at the camps, when he walked the blackened streets looking for a wife, when he left the hospital with cancer cells attacking his body, when he fought the terrorized dreams of the war with his glass of whisky each morning.

His life floated through the sunlight in that white hospital room—G-d, his wife, sons and daughters, tefillah, talks of the Mr. Glick’s Bake Shoppe, and the whisky that gave him permission to create a unpained reality. Gutt most love me if He let me live. His soul moved higher on the breaths of his name and what it took to create it continued on.