#ib0028

          “There’s no way you’re going to get in there tonight,” he had called over to the woman, the street devoid of cars -- but full of people, all lined up to try their luck at getting into one of the most expensive nightclubs in the city. Vital had hovered on the fray, seeming to study those who had fallen into line, as well as those who had gone straight to the bouncers to see if their name might magically appear on the list with the help of some Benjamins. “Not even three hundred bucks and a bit of thigh is going to make those bouncers look away, I bet.” Unlike her, he wasn’t on any mission or had any purpose -- it was exactly the opposite, in fact, just yet another way for him to kill time, most likely on his own it seemed.

The air was saturated with the scent of oil and gasoline, a chemical fume that made his head swim. Studying the garage, Fox moved in deeper, his footsteps slowing only as he reached the car. “They say black never goes out of style,” he began, looking down at the woman tucked under the vehicle. “You think motor-oil's what they had in mind?”

Happy Valentine’s Day ; ).

…. …. ….

“No, that’s not quite true...” he returned in his conversation with the other, leaning calmly upon the doorframe. “Bernini did Apollo and Daphne, you see, but Giuliano Finelli did the laurel leaves, an assistant.” There was a pregnant silence from Napoleon, face pinching momentarily as if he was collecting his thoughts. Words continually escaped his mind, everything distant and hazy as if he had faced a long night of drinking, static dancing on the peripherals of his vision. “Who we now recognize as a master in his own rights, of course, but Bernini was rather narcissistic, just like... a lot of... Baroque...”

Once more he began to trail, voice quieting as if he had too much scotch, but there was no glass in his hand, arms crossed. The American slowly blinked before redirecting his gaze to his companion across the room, focusing intently upon their visage as if the words from their mouth were of utmost importance. But it didn’t sound quite familiar, not in any language he knew, everything muffled. The shapes their mouth was making were incomprehensible -- blurry -- and it only made him focus even more, yet still nothing came of it.

Y’all cruel. I mean, if we’re really going to entertain this idea, let’s entertain this idea. 

I imagine if modern!Illya ever had a tattoo sleeve, it would speak for his personality, or how he makes himself out to be. There would be order in his ink, something clean yet striking and bold all the same. It is effective and says the most with as little as possible, just like him. I envision something all black, a subdued and simple palette as opposed to something grandiose; he is a quiet man and does not draw attention.

With images, I think of stamp-like impression, shapes that are all black (styles such as this). I see animals, and I liken Illya a lot to a wolf, so I envision that on his arm (like this imagery). There can be whole block of black, even images  of snapping tree branches, dark skies, and eerie woods. I imagine a single portrait, an art piece, that says a lot as opposed to many different pieces to convey a story (like this but less detail). The art styles make it look so orderly, but something is restless or chaotic about them–sorta like Illya himself. Also, as a note, I do like Illya in a half-sleeve more, one that predominately rests on his forearm and feathers out just a touch to his upper arm. He only has one sleeve, this one on his right. His left arm is bare save for the Хаммер on his wrist.