I felt strong arms, warming my cold baren shoulders. I must’ve been shivering a bit from the December breeze. Just the thought of who these arms belonged too gave me a sleepy amorous grin fall onto my puffy rose lips.
“I see that smile…” Chris said, kissing my warm-exposed cheek, following it with pecks down my neck which made me giggle, “Stop it,” I said, not even pretending to be annoyed by them. I felt his smile on my neck where he kept his head nuzzled into.
Turning around in my cocoon of sheets and blankets I was met with a Chris in my face. Nose to nose, and eyes to eyes. We laughed when we realized how close our blue eyes were to each other’s. Making us cross eyed in our intimate state.
“I missed sleeping in with you.” He said softly, his hot breathe lingering on my ear. I nuzzled into his neck, wrapping my arms around his warm torso.
“How come?” I murmured, kissing his shoulder over and over which made a deep rosy shade appear on his cheeks.
My head was tucked into the crook of his neck, I had no knowledge of this. Which Chris was thankful for. he hummed into my ear, kissing my curly brunette locks that laid on the top of my ear. He breathed in the scent of my shampoo that made him crave for me even more than he was now. Which was basically frothing at the mouth to kiss my body from top to bottom, but focus on that beautiful bud a little more. When I had to leave for filming and would be away for a while, the scent of my pillow gave him willpower not to quit his job altogether and just fly out to be with me forever.
“Because you are so beautiful asleep. You have these little smiles that form on your pouted out lips, and then you make noises when I talk to you in your sleep.” It was true, I mumbled in my sleep and responded to people in my sleep. Forgetting when I was woken up. “Did you talk to my subconscious last night?” I said smirked, looking up at him in our close embrace. He smirked, nodding and leaning in for a mornings kiss, to which I accepted gratefully.
It was a loving, soft kiss. No pressure in between our lips for more than each other’s lips pressed together harmoniously. That’s one thing about Chris and I that I loved; it was so easy to fall in sync with him. Especially when we kissed. It was a no brainer when our lips touch, like minds were out in the snow and we were stupid with our mouthes speaking a language unspoken of.
Pulling away from Chris I bent my head back kissed his nose sleepily and cuddled back into his chest which for some reason was as hot as a radiator. “Why are you so sleepy this morning?” Chris asked me, smirking knowing exactly why I was sleepy. Because we had barely slept at all with the fact that we had coffee and we were both extremely horny for each other. So we threw the more logical option, with my busy itinerary today, out the window and decided to stay up showing how much we loved each other without speaking. Which was our favorite way of speaking.
I lifted my hand from his peck to give him the finger and then moved it back into the warm cocoon we had made with the sheets. Letting out a laugh he just hugged me closer, kissing my delectable hair and then moving his kisses back to my cold forehead. Heating it up quickly by just his touch of soft kisses feeling like soft pillows, tiny little plush pillows that pressed against my forehead making my stomach drop past my knees all the way to my ankles. “Stop it, I have to get up. I can’t enjoy you in this fine hour of - fuck!” I jumped out of bed and grabbed my shirt off the floor running to our closet looking for something to wear in a run outside facing December air.
“Your contradicting yourself, babe.” I heard Cevans say, sitting up with a unwilling humph.
He didn’t want today to happen. He just wanted to skip too you coming home. It was a fucking press tour that was worldwide for your newest movie. It was amazing that you had gotten this role which was a dream come true to play this character. But he just wanted you coming back to him.
Where he needed you.
But press tours weren’t that fun, either. Just like staying here would be hell, right? She’d miss him as much as he was already missing her?
Looking at her bustling around the room; throwing in makeup bags, shampoo & conditioner into the already mountain pile of clothing resting in the suitcase. Shoving the top down she climbed onto the top of the mountainous bag and Chris knew she was asking for him to zip it for her. Climbing reluctantly out of bed, he bent down slowly to zip the luggage. Just as his fingers grazed the zipper they attacked your sides, making a high pitched scream pop out.
“Christopher Evans! St-” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Chris was relentless, he tickled until it hurt. He wrestled until it turned into steamy sex.
Picking me up, he carried me as my feet dangled, searching for ground. But he had me hoisted up on his left arm just enough that I couldn’t reach the carpet.
“Nooooo!” I screamed, a beautiful smile the sides of my lips up, making those dimples that laid your top cheeks arrive. He loved those two dimples. They symbolized her happiness. She had many smiles, as one celebrity does. But her genuinely real smile was when her cheeks turn flamingo pink, her eyes squeeze shut, and those damned dimples appeared across her cheeks.
The tickling has seized, and now it was just the two of them. Again, tangled in the sheets, neither one wanting to go. As her smile faded, I kissed her lips in a sorrow filled manner. Holding her cheek as we laid on the bed,
Chris’s legs keeping me locked in a unescapable position. I love the way he kissed me when he was sad. As horrid as that may sound, you have to realize the love one puts in a kiss of sorrow. It’s as if they are trying to tell you their love, their endless love.
I hated the realization for this kiss. But I also wasn’t going to let it slip my mind the way he caressed my cheeks, and pushed his lips hard against mine, moving slowly so he could talk with no words. Just kisses. I took my free hands and moved Chris’s head away from me, making both of us realize our lack of oxygen intake. Breathing heavily as we stared at one another, not wanting the moment to end.
“Sleep in, one day more? Say your ill, say I have to have immediate surgury on my… toe- I don’t know!” Chris smiled at the giggles falling from your mouth. But still, he was serious. One more day, he just needed one more day with this woman before she left again. Before the plane took her away. He knew how painful the airport goodbyes were.
Today, Christopher refused for either of them to end up in wishful tears at Logan Airport, again.
Kissing your nose, he pressed his warm, flamed forehead against mine. Helping me warm up from my frozen night’s sleep. Smiling up at him, I saw those eyes.I saw them stare at me in wonderment, lustrous emotions.
For the love of God, this man was going to kill me with those eyes…
“One more day…” He whispered, shakingly. Afraid of my rejection. But to his surprise, I put away all my qualms with leaving late. All my emails I’d receive about being a day late. How it was ‘unprofessional’. To be honest? I didn’t give a fuck.
The only fuck I gave was my boyfriend, the one staring down at me like I’m the most precious snowflake that’s ever fallen from the sky.
In his eyes, I always will be the snowflake he was lucky enough to catch, just in time.
“One more day, but there better be sex, pancakes, and hot cocoa involved in these extra 24 hours mister!”
Chris had no reluctance against any of those things. His angels soared above him in victory of keeping the angel in his arms for one more day.
One day can change it all.
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for the Masquerade prompt from oqweek, a bit delayed but hopefully still readable. au in which regina met robin in the enchanted forest before she became the evil queen.
Their hall tonight is full of pirates and fairies, witches and harlequins, tigers and foxes. The crowd moves under acrobats and among jugglers, dodging the flames of fire eaters and stopping to admire the contortionists the king has brought from exotic faraway lands.
Regina should have known he’d be here.
The king, after all, had announced his intention of having a masquerade costume ball in front of the whole court (he’d announced it to the court and she’d flinched; she had not been given the courtesy of an inkling of his intentions beforehand), and the king might as well have sent a carriage because of course Robin would find a way to be at a ball when it was so indecently proclaimed, so pompously flaunted. When it is such a lavish display, with birds sent out to carry invitations written in golden ink and nobleman coming from far and wide to occupy the many empty rooms of their summer palace.
She’d expected him to be here but still, the sight of him walking in through the main entrance was enough to send her pulse wild. She struggled to keep from fidgeting in her throne, to preserve the illusion of poise even as he made his way across the endless ballroom and bowed low before his king, his princess, his queen.
Feminists don’t challenge radical Islam because real misogynists are terrifying
Phyllis Chesler has a piece up at the New York Post demanding to know why feminists refuse to challenge radical Islam in any of its manifestations.
The Middle East and Western Africa are burning; Iran is raping female civilians and torturing political prisoners; the Pakistani Taliban are shooting young girls in the head for trying to get an education and disfiguring them with acid if their veils are askew — and yet, NOW passed no resolution opposing this.
What is going on?
Chesler diagnoses rampant feminist cowardice, and she is quite correct. Feminists are largely spoiled, privileged, middle-class girls unaccustomed to concepts like accountability or responsibility, and courage is a rare sight with this lot. But Chesler misses just what feminists are terrified of:
Feminists are, typically, leftists who view “Amerika” and white straight men as their most dangerous enemies, while remaining silent about Islamist barbarians.
Feminists strongly criticize Christianity but they’re strangely reluctant to oppose Islam — as if doing so would be “racist.” They fail to understand that a religion is a belief or an ideology, not a skin color.
The new pseudo-feminists are more concerned with racism than with sexism, and disproportionately focused on Western imperialism, colonialism and capitalism than on Islam’s long and ongoing history of imperialism, colonialism, anti-black racism, slavery, forced conversion and gender and religious apartheid.
And why? They are terrified of being seen as “politically incorrect” and then demonized and shunned for it.
Radical Islam is their delusion of “patriarchy” actually coming to life: radical Islam is misogyny personified, and real misogyny doesn’t care how you sit on the subway or what temperature the air conditioning is set to.
What radical Islam does is remind feminists that if patriarchy were a real thing in our culture, if men hated women and wanted them chained in basements we would be chained in basements. In actual fact, Western men are the most indulgent, permissive, tolerant men you will find anywhere on the planet, and in the face of real misogyny, whining feminists end up looking like petulant toddlers tossing expensive toys out of their designer prams complaining they are oppressed.
They’ll never criticize radical Islam because that would require courage and the willingness to face down men who haven’t been steeped from birth in the “our women are precious, precious snowflakes who must be protected at all costs” brew of feminist of Western culture. Radical Islam doesn’t care that you’re a little brave feminist woman with your Macbook and Gender Studies degree who sticks up for Muslims. That doesn’t spare you as much as you’d like to believe.
Feminists are cowards. They are pampered, privileged women who have never worked a day in their life at anything truly challenging or difficult, have overcome no hardships more severe than a spilled latte, have triumphed over no adversity greater than running out of Play-doh in their safe space. Feminists can barely muster the intellectual stamina to fight with words, and generally resort to name calling and shrieking for a dictionary when challenged. They prefer to silence critics by using false claims of harassment. They would rather appeal to authority than take personal action or assume personal accountability.
Radical Islam frightens feminists because it makes it just so clear how very privileged, revered, fortunate and favored Western women really are. If and when push comes to shove, feminists are going to have to swallow every hateful word they have ever written about the men in their own societies and plead for their protection.
Let’s hope that day never happens. But if it does, then at least they won’t look quite as insane when crying over being oppressed by the patriarchy. It’ll for once be a reality.
She would have known Robin in any costume (his very presence pulls to her like a magnet), but he is hardly even making an effort with his disguise. His mask is a flimsy, metallic strip of a thing that covers some of his cheekbone but not all of his nose and it may be that she is biased, but the silver of it only serves to emphasize the blue of his eyes. As if that weren’t enough, he’s come dressed as a mummer and has brought the whole of his motley crew behind him as his mummer’s troop.
It is a wonder, or perhaps a testament to the intelligence of the king’s men, that no one has recognized them for who they are.
Snow, as if her existence were daring her to grow ever more precious, is dressed as a snowflake. Meanwhile Leopold has the look of the land’s most extravagant genie. The spectrum of ladylike costumes is not very liberal, and so Regina has chosen to be an angel, finding satisfaction in it by tricking herself into believing that underneath all the white silk muslin there is a surging valkyrie.
Robin had smirked as he bowed and Regina could tell he’d noticed the feathers.