Completely stolen from prometheusrise

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Because there needs to be something fun among the angst...



Because kissing under the mistletoe is an ancient and festive tradition... and because I feel there can always be more kissing about.

Two ways to play:

Request kisses.
If there's someone you'd like a kiss from, repost the picture above in a comment. Please be considerate--tag the muse's in-character contact post, or an old meme post, something like that. Don't tag a prompt response, a fic, or an RP thread. You may also post the picture to your journal, and mark the entry locked to whomever you want the kiss from.

Offer kisses.
If you're feeling particularly bold or adventurous, post the picture in your journal, note that it's open to all, and let people ask for kisses from you. Give them at least a sentence or two in response, though--none of this "*kiss*" nonsense, that's no fun.

When you post, kindly either repost these rules, or link to this post of Shelley's.

Consider this an open offer for kisses to anyone who would like them from me, and utterly and totally meta with no binding on either muse without full consent of both writers involved.

Comments

[mortgaged-soul.livejournal.com]

For old time sakes?

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He shouldn't be in New York. He knows that, but here he is, in the middle of a gala affair on New Year's Eve. It's a masked affair, at least, and the black silk mask is firmly over his features before he slips in. The way he watches, eyes missing nothing, it isn't hard to find her, even through the disguises. She always wears them, after all. This one is just more ornate and obvious, but even after 30 years he can recognize the tilt of her head, the way she holds herself a little apart.

With the boys missing, with everything in shambles, he knows she cannot want to be here. But she is Angela Petrelli, and that means something even now with her world at her feet. After all, to stay home would be to hide, to lick her wounds, to be seen as cowardly. And, Adam knows, she is never that.

Still, she is apart. People seem to break in a stream around her, stopping, talking, never touching, always moving on. He watches her all night, nursing one glass of whiskey--just one. When midnight approaches, he switches to champagne, taking a glass from a passing waiter as he moves through the crowd like a shadow, pacing her, tracking.

When she is near a curtained alcove, making an exit he thinks, retreating now that the moment has come, he makes his move. With a warrior's grace his fingers find her wrist, pulling her from view of the room, behind the drape in one fluid moment, trapping her between his body and the wall. He keeps the mask on, though there's no need for it here where they both see through everything.

Taking advantage of her surprise, he slides one hand around the slender column of her throat, taking in the changes time and age have wrought. But her eyes are still his Angela's, and his lips curve in a smile that almost makes it to his eyes.

"As easy as that," he whispers, fingers tightening just for a moment, before he releases his hold and slides them to her jaw, cradling it as he tilts her head up. Thirty years is a very long time, even to him, but it could have been yesterday from the way his lips find hers, moving against them in the same way they did the first time he kissed her, just as furtive and concealed, and for a moment it's as if all the time and betrayals in between are gone, and it is just them, and their dreams, and the world they'll build together with nothing standing in their way. Somewhere on the other side of the curtain, the countdown begins and the clock strikes twelve.

[mortgaged-soul.livejournal.com]

((I so amazingly love this. Thank you. So does Angela but she'd never admit it.))

[changehistory.livejournal.com]

((Yay!! I'm so glad! I was flaily! lol)