Sorry I haven’t been very active recently, everyone! I’m really pulling my teeth out here trying to find free time in my busy schedule, but I’m weaseling in what I can when I can. But, hey, I’m probably going to be more free this weekend after I finish another segment of my thesis. :’) I’ll tackle more lengthier replies then, alright?

eastgcrman:

He said nothing as he approached her, but the silence was comfortable. They hadn’t seen one another in quite some time, but the separation was inevitable; spies, after all, were always flung to far-off places, busy saving the world. 

“It has been, yes,” Illya answered finally, stopping before her and eyes warm. “But it is always good to see familiar face.” And, most importantly, friendly.

…. …. ….

valentine’s day is another capitalist scheme and proof of american corruption and greed do not fall for it, illya whispers

ofrussiia:

If she stays still, neither of them will. “This will depend on you.” Should it warm her to hear a voice so reminiscent of home, or should it alarm her? Warn her? She must have been properly paranoid to surround herself in the heart of the city, but she is shrewd and careful, would not have survived as long otherwise. “Agent Romonova.”

"You are expecting someone--” As though she’s being chased by her past. It’s blatant now: He is a Russian spy. “Why is that?” Like he doesn’t know.

pcrimeter:

Her frown has given way to a warming smile, one that tugs at the edge of her lips, light and pleasant. For once, Illya seems to have said just the right thing, a miracle given his tendency to inspire frustration - intentionally or not. He straightens himself marginally when she elbows him, stands taller as he looks to her. Big guy was right.

“Depends. They can say a lot about you.” Oh, is that so? And what have her words said to him? Benignly, Illya suggests, “I would be more careful with that mouth.”

Dead? Illya looked to him as though offended, his muscles taut and jaw set. “I would have handled it,” he snapped fiercely. “I do not need your protection.” And Solo should have known that the KGB's best would find this insulting. Illya wore his scowl like his pride, but Napoleon's wounds festered his guilt nonetheless. "You nearly got yourself killed."

pryokinetics:

He’d heard of her in passing whispers, little secrets shared in the dark. She could shine as bright as stars, they’d said, and burn the skin right off your bones. His debriefing said as much, but how true were those rumors? Could the heat of her glares alone really burn a man into ash? Illya hadn’t any desire to find out - not firsthand. 

“Threatening your partner on first day is poor manners.” Now that’s putting it lightly. “And very inappropriate.”

oftwentyeight:

Intelligent? "I would not bet on this,” Illya answered easily, his humor subtle.

She needn’t feel the burden of repayment. Natasha thrived alone, was her deadliest when no one dragged her down, but even shackled to someone, to a liability, she was ruthless. Exceptional. Tonight, with or without Agent Kuryakin, she would have done just fine. Why pay him back for something that was inevitable? 

Hearing her Russian, Illya felt her gratitude keenly, one she favored with a simple touch. “Нет проблем,” he reassured. “We are partners. It was never a choice.” Because helping became an instinct, not an obligation, a gut feeling he had to act on. She owed him nothing. Grabbing some bandages to wrap around her wound, Illya said, “You would have done the same for me.” Either covering him or tending to his injuries - it did not matter. Meeting her gaze, finishing his work, he amiably stated, "This makes us even."

hxwlett:

Gunfire ruptured the silence, its piercing crack rousing the dead of the night. Quickly, Illya threw himself to the ground, expecting a bullet to tear his skin or bore in his bones, but it never came. Couldn’t come. Turning his head, Illya saw her - saw it? - standing above the enemy guard, claws stained red with blood and gore. He stared, paralyzed.

God, standing there, teeth bared and alive, she truly did look like an animal. Would she turn on him? Would it be wise to put her down, to even try?

His thoughts soon died, smothered under the sudden blare of alarms. “We cannot stay!” Illya shouted as he got back up, grabbing the file and rushing to the exit. “I know of shortcut!” Follow me. And they’d make make their way out, but at the turn of a corner, facility’s sirens distant, Illya moved on her, finding her wrists before forcing them both to a wall. He didn’t forget those claws, gun still in hand. “Stop,” he growled, the two just scantly avoiding the sweep of searchlights. But this wasn’t all good intent, was it? “I saw what you did to that man. You are no common mercenary.” His grip tightened, eyes intense. “You should be dead.” He’d heard that ricochet, that clang! of a bullet. “Who are you.”

tinybritishspy:

This was against some rule of nature, Illya was sure, to succumb so easily to someone so much smaller than he was. He dwarfed her, towered over her, and still he rose as commanded, moved as told. What a mystery.

Carefully, Illya straightened his arms, let his hands settle gently on the curves of her waist. “No,” came his reply, short and sweet. “Tonight, we do this properly.” Taking one step to his right, Illya pulled her with him, close, an effortless sweep both fluid and light. He was... Dancing? ”I have learned new moves.” What a delightful twist.

Illya’s Tattoo. In the film, viewers can see Illya has some ink on the inside of his left wrist. You can see it primarily when he is in the plane with Waverly and Napoleon, moving to take a peek at his watch before remembering it’d been stolen (sorry for the horrific quality).

It says Хаммер, which is Cyrillic for Hammer. Now, it isn’t primarily the word for hammer, restricted to name usage (to the best of my knowledge), so why Illya would have Хаммер on his wrist could just be the fault of failing to cover Armie’s ink. 

Regardless, that doesn’t dismiss the fact that film!Illya, though unintentionally, has the Хаммер tattoo (and, to be honest, I don’t want to ignore it because I do love myself the idea of Illya with a tattoo). To explain this, I will say that his mother’s surname is Хаммер, and, as we all know, Illya cherishes his mother greatly (also, irony, because hammer... Illya is communist -- sickle and hammer? Horrible).

ib00-28:

She wasn’t wrong. They were locked in a wicked dance with death, and a single misstep is all it’d take to end the show. It chased their every step, desperate to pull them in and swallow them whole-- That was the nature of the best, and at the curtain call, it’d cradle them in its arms, body bloody and broken, life snuffed out like an extinguished flame. Spies like them knew of this relationship with death; they couldn’t deny its possibilities.

But Gaby did not like the knowledge that they could die, and her weariness hurt him, an ache growing in his chest. “This will not happen.” 

Reaching forward, his hand was a comforting weight on her shoulder. “As long as I am here, you are safe.” Who was he to make such a claim? He said it with such sincerity, however, and, God, it was a tempting promise to believe. But Illya was the best, fearsome and strong, so one had to wonder: Was it him who was more frightening or death? Hunched over, Illya looked kindly to his partner, touch soothing as he rubbed near the crook of her neck. “Do not worry.” The words were close, feathering against her skin. “You'll handle this.” You, because she was stubborn and strong. “And I am nearby.” I, because he’d help if needed, and no harm would come to her. “Always.”

faithfulx:

One had to wonder about her breed of people -- rude and tactless, as infuriating as his patience was thin. Where did she learn her manners? Illya’s attention snapped forward, a pair of hard eyes settling heavily on her, surprise first and displeasure second.

She disliked his quiet fury, stressed and overworked, perhaps, but nothing he was unfamiliar with. Spies. Sitting there, Illya studied her for a beat of a second, managing polite as he explained, “I am meeting someone.” Beside her, he was a fragile cool, a frigid composure against her hot temper. “This should be no trouble.” And it really shouldn’t be, but she’d no problem with disputes, did she? Looking away, Illya ordered his coffee. “Do not make it one.”