sticky-jumper

anonymous asked:

I feel like Illya is not only kind to old women but probably also children bc they're so innocent and they don't have any alterior motives besides being kids and I would like to prompt Illya on a mission or something where he's in a public setting and a tiny little girl wanders up to him lost and crying and you bet your ass he'd pick her up so she can see over everyone from his height and ask if she sees her mother and I feel like it happens a lot and Gaby (& probs Solo too) thinks it's adorable

The drop goes down in about twenty minutes and the team is already in position. Illya’s newspaper is firmly set in his hands as he reclines on the park bench, blonde hair covered by his trademark hat and set jawline. His sunglasses are pushed high up the bridge of his news, letting him scan his surroundings while they wait for their information trade off. Gaby’s not far from him, perched up high in a tree, hidden from sight with a set of binoculars strapped around her neck. Solo is several hundred feet away, pretending to be a vender for the afternoon, selling sweets that no one is really buying. They blend in so well in such a crowded place. The sun is shining and the Paris weather is holding up well. Spring is definitely in the air with the sickly sweet scent of flowers blooming across the walkways that all lead up to the playground not far from his bench. The sound of children shrieking with loud laughter unnerves him a bit. He doesn’t trust anyone who wants to meet around so many innocent lives. He adjusts his long legs, stretching back out and then crossing his legs once again. He makes a show of turning the page of his newspaper and a small voice in his ear brings him back to attention.

“Quit moving Peril,” Solo’s cool crisp voice sounds in his ear-com and Illya makes a small noise of disapproval as his comrade carries on, “You’re going to look like a KGB agent if you keep moving around.”

Illya scoffed flicking his paper again, “I am a KGB Agent.”

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to look like it.” Gaby informs softly in his ear. They are all wired up to one another on the same frequency on small devices that hide so easily in their ears. It’s the latest technology from U.N.C.L.E. and only works when they’re far apart. If they’re too close together, feedback picks up and threatens to deafen the trio. Gaby’s perch is not really comfortable, but she makes the best of it, leaning across a thick branch and holding still as she pulls the binoculars up to her brown eyes. From her position she can see most of the crowded park. There are children everywhere with parents not far from them. A kite flies not far from her, it’s a bright flash of red in a sunny sky which makes her relax for the first time in what feels like forever. As a child she never got the chance for such pleasantries. When the wall went up, the world went grey for her. Pushing those feelings aside, she adjusts her view on the binoculars and zeros in on Illya.

Illya is uncomfortable but quits moving on the advice of his partners. He’s not reading a word of the newspaper in his hand, his eyes are too busy scanning the area looking for their drop. His attention is elsewhere when the first sob hits his ears. A small hiccup and then another sob before a small hand is pulling at his pant leg. Bending the paper down, Illya looks over the rim of his dark glasses, confusion landing across his features as a small girl pulled at his pant leg again. Her small hand barely covered part of his knee as she said her first words to him in a shaky tone.

“E-e-excuse me,” She hiccuped again, blue eyes rimmed in red from the steady stream of tears streaking down her round cheeks. The little girl’s hand never left his knee as she let her small fingers clench in the soft fabric of his pants. She clung to Illya’s leg while trying to find her words for him, “I-I-I…” She stutters along, flustered.

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Fell in love with this new Blake Steven photo he posted on his Instagram and had to Drabble it so behold an Auror partner Drabble featuring muggle clothes and a decidedly in denial but smitten Draco.

Tagging @sprout2012 who helped me come up with the idea and a few people who I think might like it. @julietsemophase @justanotherdrarryblog @the-green-quaffle, @gloster, @drarrysgirl, @shewhomustnotbenamed, @grossnerdsinlove, @pasttarc


Draco had just known today could not possibly be a good day.

It wasn’t even being partnered up with Potter for this ridiculous mission, though truth be told he’d had quite enough of this small tourist town and the nosy residents and shop owners they’d met over the last few days.

And it wasn’t even the fact that they were expected to wear muggle clothing for this, because if he were being honest, Draco was finding his jeans and t-shirts far more comfortable than he would ever admit to anyone.

No the real problem was Potter.

Always Potter.

It was the way Potter had somehow managed to make his hair look slightly less ridiculous lately, and the way he ate his morning apple turnover with little crumbs falling onto his jumper and sticky sweet apple filling always sticking to his fingers and then the way he would sheepishly look at Draco before shrugging and licking them clean, or even the way his hands look wrapped around a cheap takeaway cup of tea as they walked the streets when all Draco could wonder was what those hands would look like wrapped around something else.

And yet despite all that the biggest problem, at least as far as Draco was concerned, was the way Potter looked in muggle clothing.

Draco remembered him from school, with his muggle clothes far too big and his plain school robes so simple and unassuming. And while Potter had certainly been attractive enough then his clothing had definitely not done anything to help.

Which is why Draco found, several years later out of school and suddenly paired with Potter in the Auror program, that it was a damn good thing they wore robes all the time.

Potter had aged well, the youthful look still on his face, but his features more defined, and the few times Draco had seen him out of his Auror robes he’d found it hard not to be fixated on the way Potter had grown into his body with a sort of confidence and power that nearly made him weak in the knees.

Which is exactly why the moment Draco had read the bottom of the memo that read ‘uncover assignment - muggle clothing necessary’ he’d known he was a goner.

The last few days had been bad enough with Potter’s well fitting jeans and his soft looking assortment of thickly knit jumpers he wore each day, but the cold weather had meant he’d been at least covered up enough each day that Draco could pretend not to notice certain things like the curve in his spine, or the long line of his neck when he threw his head back to stretch.

But today had been unseasonably warm, with the sun shining the moment they awoke. Which meant Potter was dressed in nothing more than a well fitting, worn pair of jeans and a soft looking grey shirt that was thin enough and tight enough to cling to the flat lines of his stomach and the ripple of muscles in his broad shoulders.

Potter had already caught him staring several times, blinking in confusion the first time and then blushing and tugging on his shirt awkwardly the next few times.

Draco had sworn he wouldn’t do it again, until he looked up and saw Potter walking toward him. He was looking at something in the distance, smiling in a way that made him look even younger and he hadn’t seemed to have noticed that his shirt had ridden up just enough to reveal just the smallest sliver of skin above the waistband of his jeans, but that was all it took for Draco to need to lean back against the wall, his heart racing, his pants suddenly too tight, and Merlin did it feel far too hot all the sudden to be a Spring day in England.

“Look I know it’s too small,” Potter tells him helplessly as he tugs on the hem as if that will help. “Hermione bought it for me, she insisted I bring it.”

It occurs to Draco quite suddenly that Potter has been looking awkwardly at Draco not because he realizes he is checking him out, but because he is unsure of the way he looks. It makes a knot form in the pit of his stomach as he thinks of Potter, so handsome and powerful, still so easily assuming he is unworthy of being looked at.

“Listen,” Draco says with a smirk, walking towards Potter until they’re just a few inches apart. “I think I have an idea that will remedy both of our problems with your muggle clothing.”

“Both our-” he starts, but stops, swallowing loudly and looking at Draco with wide eyes as Draco places one hand on the small of his back and the other on his hip, sliding his thumb just underneath the soft shirt to rub small circles along the warm skin at his hipbone.

“Yes, you see I’m having this horrible time concentrating while you wear this, and you seem to be under some strange delusion that half this barmy town has been staring at you because your clothes are too small when in fact I’m quite positive every single one of them has simply wanted to, how shall I say - get you out of these clothes.”

“And what’s your solution?” Potter asks, his breath speeding up rapidly.

“We go back to our hotel room and you let me get you out of these clothes.”

“And how does help me?”

At this Draco smiles, though he thinks it must look decidedly wicked if the way Potter’s eyes flutter shut are any indication.

“Well I was going to help you with this,” Draco whispers, sliding his hand down until he’s got Potter’s hard cock cupped firmly through his jeans. “Unless you don’t want my help.”

“Oh no,” Potter groans, clearly trying not to press himself into Draco’s hand but failing. “I want help. Loads of help. Might need help all night.”

“Excellent,” Draco whispers, pulling Potter closer and apparating them straight into their hotel room.

It isn’t long before Potter’s clothes hit the floor with a dull thud, as Draco crawls across the bed, dragging his hands across Potter’s warm skin delighting in the way he arches and whimpers, and he thinks that perhaps today hasn’t turned out so horribly after all.

But it’s definitely still Potter’s fault.

Always Potter.

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I Will Go Sticky Jumping No More [SFM] uploaed by Philip OnBread

I still long for the days of the 8-bomb sticky jumper……

Happy 20th Anniversary Toy Story! ❤

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THEY BUFFED THE STICKY JUMPER SO THAT IT DOESN’T MAKE YOU DIE SUPER FAST TO THINGS NOW

NOW I CAN BE FLYING CABER DEMOBIRD

YES

'Have I Told You Lately?'

NOTE: THIS ONE SHOT IS IN HARRY’S POINT OF VIEW.

Have I Told You Lately?-One Shot #197

LINK TO PAST ONE SHOTS

Sometimes, I’d drive by my old house a few streets up from the new one that we’d bought just a few months before we’d gotten married. And you didn’t know that I did this, but I did. Because it was on my way back to you from the other side of the city where the studio was, and I liked to park on the other side of the street, so the new owners wouldn’t be suspicious of a sturdy, black SUV rolling into the drive. It wasn’t always on the way back from a session; sometimes it was when I was coming back from the supermarket or picking up dinner.  And I’d yank the gearshift into park and flop back in the driver’s seat and just let myself look at it. It was a quiet street, so no one ever seemed bothered by my stopping there. It was a house that wasn’t easy to forget, because you and I were etched into every piece of it. I seemed to be doing it a lot more lately with my life about to get a little different.

The first ‘I love you’, on the kitchen floor, covered in the makings of a cake batter that hadn’t quite made it all the way to the oven. Mum hadn’t been too pleased when we turned up to Sunday dinner empty handed, but the smile that touched her eyes said that she already knew the real explanation behind the one we’d tried to mumble our way through, with averted eyes and crooked smiles, meant only for each other to see. Flour stuck on my lips and egg congealing in my hair, you’d had a smear of cocoa powder on your left cheek. Bits of eggshell crunching beneath us, a soppy mixture of milk and soft butter spread along the hardwood in globs. You’d had sugar pressed onto your eyelashes and you’d giggled, as you tried to blink it away. My favorite giggle, the one you did that made your nose wrinkle, and your eyes squint, and sometimes, when you’d really giggle, a snort would escape, and even though I always teased you about it, I thought it was cute. Because you would blush and hide your face in your hands and swear that you didn’t. We’d sank to the floor, in a sticky, flour coated heap, giggling between panting breaths, and as I swiped the streak of cocoa from your cheekbone and interlaced with the heaving breaths and throaty laughs it had floated through the miniscule space between us, washing over your lips as it passed mine, noses almost touching, and both sets of eyes, nearly molten, they were so soft. ‘I love you.’

It was the house to which I’d had a key made for you. Hidden in your morning tea mug next to the kettle one morning, before you’d descended the stairs, in one of my jumpers. A sticky note pressed into the face of the fading mug in my handwriting. ‘Would you like to stay awhile?’

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Demoknight is shit, Sticky Jumper best gun

That was legitimately terrifying.