imma be very reluctantly under the mistletoe - OPEN

[doggedly]

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE and ANYONE
LOCATION: EVERYWHERE and ANYWHERE there is mistletoe growing!
WARNINGS: lighthearted smooching thanks to some growling mistletoes - if it gets any heavier, mark your comments please!
SUMMARY: in the wake of Space Christmas, mistletoe plagues the hallways of the TQ. the mistletoe is semi sentient. some sprigs have eyes. some sprigs have eyes and mouths with teeth. some sprigs bite, some just growl, some whip tendrils of mistletoe toward you and keep you in the doorway until you get your kiss. this catch-all log is designed to facilitate any mistletoe threads you might want to play out. kiss people! get stuck! rescue people! tag in, tag around, do your thing!


start your mistletoeing below!

Comments

[sweetmotherofgod]

No!

[That's panic rather than anger, although after the outburst her wide, round eyes narrow and her cheeks flush in a way that probably looks very similar to crabbiness.]

God. I spend more than two years here with hardly any fire at all, and now it's suddenly all fire all the time. I'm pretty sure it causes more problems than it fixes, these days.

[fullmoon]

Well, that's— [ dependent on whether or not you can control the fire, easily put it back out, all of that. But he did just say he couldn't do it without singeing her, because he can't. Not while it's wrapping around her like that.

So maybe he'll pick a different situation to argue with someone about how useful fire spells can be. ]

—probably fair.

[ He gives her a quick twitch of smile that's meant to be reassuring, steps closer, and then hesitates again. It isn't a particularly awkward pause, just a second chance for her to tell him to back off. ]

I might be able to petrify it.

[sweetmotherofgod]

You can do anything you want to it that doesn't involve fire.

[...]

Or slugs. I'm not great with slugs.

[She does not harbor any great concern that his solution will involve slugs. Humor's just an easy way to deal with the fact that he's kind of adorable and she's still not sure whether she's mad at him or not over the whole William debacle.]

[fullmoon]

Is anyone?

[ —he is, actually, fine with slugs. In the future he'll keep grindylows in his office, in the present he has a boggart in his bureau, and in the past he was the sort of kid to carry bugs in his pockets. But he understands, is the point. No fire, no slugs. That doesn't eliminate every option, but no option is faster than ducking down (he's pretty tall) to kiss her on the cheek, very quickly.

It might work. ]

you can't have thought i'd go for that

[sweetmotherofgod]

[The good news is that Heather's very accustomed to being kissed on the cheek by someone much taller than her, and she tilts her face up helpfully.

The not-so-good news is that the taller someone is Netherlands, and she continues the movement by kissing Lupin's opposite cheek and doubling back to the first, one-two-three.

The really bad news is that none of that works, and the mistletoe tightens around her wrists in seeming disapproval.]

Dude, weak.

you never know!!!

[fullmoon]

[ This is probably the first time anyone has ever called Remus dude, and that, not the tightening mistletoe, is the source of the baffled/amused smile and lifted eyebrows. The expression only lasts a moment. More pressing concerns. ]

All right. All right.

[ He could peck her on the mouth. They could play the slow escalation game until something worked. They could be here all day. But weak, she said, which is not the sort of thing you can just go around accusing Gryffindors of, so he shifts the datapad and food more firmly into the crook of his arm and leans down again to kiss her like—like he knows her name, at least, if not like he means it. ]

[sweetmotherofgod]

[Good lord.

Heather knows his name, at least, partly because of William and partly due to having met the older Remus Lupin. The combined associations are enough to make her feel both guilty and confused over her appreciation and almost unconscious reciprocation of the way he attends the task at lip hand, and when the mistletoe retreats she still

just

stands

there

for a moment, shifting from foot to foot before she clears her throat.]

Um. Thanks.

[Hrm. Favor for a favor?]

Listen - don't grow a mustache. It's not a good look for you.

[fullmoon]

[ If it's any comfort, he's just standing there, too, teeth tug into the inner flesh of one corner of his mouth while he watches the mistletoe draw back its tendrils and settle down against the door frame with apparent satisfaction. He should leave—no, he should destroy it—but after she's out from under it, probably—

He does not kiss a lot of people.

His attention snaps back down to her face when she talks, though, and he touches his upper lip and knits his eyebrows together for a second before he says, ] Oh.

[ He rubs the skin like he's rubbing off dirt and drops his hand, smiling. ]

I don't think I could if I wanted to, right now. Not a good one.

[sweetmotherofgod]

Okay. Well, if you ever wake up and get the urge...

[Heather, that's very vague, and probably very unhelpful.]

Look, I'm just saying, I don't think it can be that common a name. So if you have, like, a medical - or magical condition, I guess, you know, like - [brief pause while she forms her hands into claws, affects a growl] and maybe you wake up one morning with the urge to wear a cardigan -

just. Shave. You're cute, and you seem nice, and you're a hell of a kisser. It'd be a real shame to ruin that with a pedo mustache.

[fullmoon]

[ There is a lot there that Remus isn't entirely sure what to do with. He needs a few seconds—spent smiling at her in that slightly narrow-eyed way people do when they don't understand but are trying to be polite—while he puts the various pieces of that into place.

She knows him. (He did look back through the network archives when he arrived, if only long enough to be creeped out by the sight of his own face.) She knows the werewolf thing, probably. She disapproves of perfectly serviceable facial hair. All right. He can deal with that. But— ]

What's wrong with cardigans?

[sweetmotherofgod]

They're not very fuckin' punk rock.

[Which is an impression offered based on her perception of how Sirius sees himself and almost nothing to do with Remus, and therefore possibly quite unfair. But.]

On their own they're not so bad? But not with a mustache. Not even ironically.

[Especially not if you're young and handsome and yet you still carry a waft of Mr Bennet about you. But she might be biased.]

[fullmoon]

[ Remus isn't very fuckin' punk rock. Or maybe he's the most punk rock, to be able to pull it off in a cardigan instead of a leather jacket—no. He's just not very punk rock. But he is charmed. It's good that Heather is happily attached and has no designs on building a harem, that anyone is aware of, or else William would be even more out of luck. ]

No mustache. You have my word.

[ He beckons with his wand hand, off to the side—less come here than go there. The mistletoe is still a problem. ]

What's your name?

[sweetmotherofgod]

[The no-mustache word is more than good enough for her, enough to make her break into a broad grin. If only getting her way was always so easy. She picks a rogue severed curl of mistletoe off her wristband, drops it - I am sorry to say - right on the floor, and bobs after him, content enough.]

I'm Heather. Heather Mason, Agricultural.

[She does not finish that off with a salute

which is good because she has a terrible, sloppy salute

and his face is high in the list of least salute-requiring faces she has ever seen

but weirdly, she wants to, and crams her right hand in her pocket in order to suppress it.]