{Engin Öztürk, he/him, 33} We just saw BORA DAVUTOĞLU entering ONE MAN’S TRASH. I heard through the grapevine that his loyalties lie with the JOLLY ROGERS, and that he also goes by SHADOW / THE CROOKED HAND. Be careful, he works as a CONTRACT KILLER MOB BOSS and is known to be RUTHLESS, CALCULATING, or COMPLICATED. However, he’s also known to be PROTECTIVE, FAMILY-ORIENTED, and A GOOD LISTENER. – {K, she/her, EST, no triggers}
Bora's tried to be annoyed about this. At his mother giving out keys--to anyone, but especially outside the family. At Yelena showing up whenever she wants, and helping herself to whatever he has.
And yet, when he opens the door to find her boots and coat in the entryway, he’s happy about it. And when he sees Yelena herself, sitting on his couch like she belongs there, his heart surges, and he automatically returns her grin. There’s so much he has to think about these days, to analyze and calculate and do everything he possibly can to make the best choice for his family.
But with Yelena, it’s easy. At least for now.
“Good morning,” he answers, leaving his own boots and coat next to hers and stretching out next to her. He’s moving a little stiffly—he’d had an uncooperative target the night before and come away with a slash down his ribs, which Sabahat had stitched up before sending him home in Emir’s borrowed clothes while she tried to salvage his bloodstained ones. But once he’s next to Yelena, his head resting on her thigh and her warmth easing the tension from his neck and shoulders, he’s suddenly comfortable. Holding a hand out for a piece of baklava—and cutting a brief look up at her as he realizes how little is left—he says, “Guess how long my mother complained about my tattoo today.”
But the grin from a moment before hasn’t really left his face, and he can’t be annoyed right now—not with Yelena here, so close he can pull her down to kiss him. “Where’d you come from?” he murmurs, still smiling against her lips. "Have you been here long?"
It's an unspoken thing, Yelena doesn't even think about it, as she pries of a corner piece with her thumb and fore-finger and hands it over, grinning down at him. The carefree little waggle of her eyebrows a confirmation that while she was aware he was unhappy with her thievery, she was also aware that he wasn't likely to do anything about it. His weight is a comfort though, as it settles upon her lap, and she can not help but let her free hand drift to card through his hair. A touch that is all gentle affection.
"Hmm-" Yelena reclined back on the sofa, lifting her legs to rest her feet on his coffee table. Her other hand reaches down to ghost along the bicep she knows bares all the ink. "-knowing Sabahat, and knowing how much she hates it-" Yelena grinned at him, giving the bicep in question an affectionate squeeze "-Ohh....I'm going to say an hour straight." Her grin is unflinching as she stares down at him "-No breaks."
She crosses her ankles but is careful not to jostle him. Bora looks tierd, but comfortable, so she does all this slowly. When she looks at him again, it is with a smile so sweet it could crack a tooth. He kisses her then, and even after all this time, Yelena still can not help the giddy surge that makes her heart thunder in her chest.
She kisses him back, and its all sweet edges and the lingering taste of honey from the food they shared. There is the electric lick of smoke too, from the cigarettes he likes, and when he pulls away, Yelena is almost laughing aloud with the delight of it all. She is so happy with all this domesticity, she could burst.
"-from Soho." she mumbled against his mouth, the hand she had bore into his hair, coming to rest along his jaw, stroking softly. "-you are not the only killer out there at night-" she kisses him again, only just "-Hmm, No, not long-" her thumb brushed along the jut of his cheek, the stubble a scratchy thrill under her fingers. "-I had a key, and my flat seemed lonely." Yelena grew almost serious then, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, his cheek. All those sharp parts of him she loved "-I had to see you." The admission is frank and honest and lovely, all at once and when Yelena smiled at him again, it was paired with the sweetest of sudden kisses.
Who: Yelena & Bora (@shadowdavutoglu)
Where: Bora's Apartment
When: After the Event
She lets herself into his apartment with the key his mother gave her. It's early morning, she hasn't looked at the clock but the sun is cresting just so over the adjoining buildings and it makes Yelena think it is 6, maybe 7am. He's left the curtains open over night and sunlight spills onto the wooden floor of his living room. It's warm. Yelena smiles to herself and shuts the door.
She kicks of her boots and shrugs out of her coat, a heavy brown Barbour with a hundred pockets. Her gun is in there somewhere, and so it a healthy array of switchblades. Just encase.
It's not so much that she makes herself at home, but more takes up space in his apartment until Bora politely askes her to leave, be it for job or something else. Yelena always does as she's asked, because it's Bora and she owes him, and usually she's gone with an armful of his mothers Baklava for her troubles.
Speaking of which, when the door finally opens again a while later, Yelena is sitting in his living room, and is half way through her second helping of it, stolen from a Tupperware box in his fridge, that she had dug out of it's hiding place.
Yelena smiles at Bora when he appears and it is so warm and so genuine, that is morphs into a grin half way to her ears. She flashes her teeth at him and squirms slightly under his gaze. It was crazy, the effect he had on her. Just a look was enough to have her spiralling sometimes.
"Good morning." she says gently, almost sweetly as she licks filling from the back of her spoon. She tilts the little plate in her hand from side to side "-want some breakfast?"
Bora's tried to be annoyed about this. At his mother giving out keys--to anyone, but especially outside the family. At Yelena showing up whenever she wants, and helping herself to whatever he has.
And yet, when he opens the door to find her boots and coat in the entryway, he’s happy about it. And when he sees Yelena herself, sitting on his couch like she belongs there, his heart surges, and he automatically returns her grin. There’s so much he has to think about these days, to analyze and calculate and do everything he possibly can to make the best choice for his family.
But with Yelena, it’s easy. At least for now.
“Good morning,” he answers, leaving his own boots and coat next to hers and stretching out next to her. He’s moving a little stiffly—he’d had an uncooperative target the night before and come away with a slash down his ribs, which Sabahat had stitched up before sending him home in Emir’s borrowed clothes while she tried to salvage his bloodstained ones. But once he’s next to Yelena, his head resting on her thigh and her warmth easing the tension from his neck and shoulders, he’s suddenly comfortable. Holding a hand out for a piece of baklava—and cutting a brief look up at her as he realizes how little is left—he says, “Guess how long my mother complained about my tattoo today.”
But the grin from a moment before hasn’t really left his face, and he can’t be annoyed right now—not with Yelena here, so close he can pull her down to kiss him. “Where’d you come from?” he murmurs, still smiling against her lips. "Have you been here long?"
On one hand, Bora thought the idea of a masquerade party was stupid. It was an excuse for the rich to buy even more outlandish outfits, to pretend that any attempt at covering their faces would be enough to disguise them (and then there was Charlotte, who was baring more than her face), and of course to flash the diamonds and gold that with any luck would be going home in some JR's pocket.
But, on the other hand, if the masks did their job, it'd cut the risk of getting recognized, and especially for a job like this, Bora would take any help he could get. Besides--there was something about seeing Yelena dressed like this, the red suit and tusked mask so unapologetically her amid all the glamour, that might even have made attending worth it on its own.
Anyway, she seemed to like what he was wearing, too. Standing so close to her, he could almost pretend they weren't surrounded by people, and forget about work for just a moment. After all, they were just killing time until Elias gave the signal, right? Smiling at her words, not quite aware of how much his eyes softened as he looked at her, he said, "You should come out to the barn again. He likes you." Bora liked the light tug of her fingers in his jacket, carelessly intimate, although he wished he didn't have so many layers between her hand and his skin. "I thought he might forget he's retired and try to take off when the races started." It was mostly a joke--but this was the first time Bora had ever put Tulpar back in a racing environment, and it had been impossible to know what memories would kick in.
Echoing her quiet laughter--it was so easy to influence each other's mood, and maybe he should have been suspicious of that, but he wasn't--he said, "Well, maybe they've seen you spilling wine. Or maybe it's the tusks." A light touch with his free hand to straighten the mask where she'd shifted it picking at her cut--and then, as her fingers trailed down his arm, he turned his palm over slightly, catching just her fingertips in his own. "I don't know," he murmured, "Maybe I can find someone to go home with me. Know anyone who might be interested?"
Grey swirled the colours around her into something boring. Bora was still there, shining like a gem in all that fine blue silk. It was an anchor, almost and behind his mask, silver as a switchblade, his eyes shone blue as the sea. The warm kind. The kind she had only ever seen in photos. Bora was her warm, summer sunshine ocean. She thrived in that gaze.
"The Barn-" she echoed him with a happy bemusement, her face wrinkling into a laugh under her mask "-I really like it out there by the way, it's so far away from everything else." She chuckled again. She had never really been an animal person, they usually gave her a wide birth, but Tulpar she liked. He was like his dad, in a way, calm and honest. He seemed to like Yelena best when she had a carrot in her hand, so she rarely made an appearance around him without one. "Hmm, well if he ever does get back in the game, I would be lying if i said I said I wouldn't want to see you in one of those little jockey outfits." He grinned then and she laughed again "-those tight white pants? oft...very sexy." She waggled her eyebrows at him under the mask and idled a little closer to Bora.
If she could've gotten closer to him, she would have. She was, however, was forced to settle for a barely there touch of his hand. It was skin to skin though, she supposed after half a moment. It was still his skin on hers.
Yelena almost hummed her delight then, and her eyes remained solely fixed on his face as she traced the pulse point on his upturned wrist. She felt his heart thrum under her touch and it almost sent her feral. She longed for him. His touch. His kiss. Just him, because even the slightest bit contact was enough. It sated her. Then, she threaded her fingers through his, just for a moment. Just long enough for it to be a reminder. His other hand readjusted her mask and she grinned at him, lips red and wanting. Everything she did was in direct need of him. Every touch was a shock to her, even after all this time.
"Thank you." she mumbled, eyes dipping to his mouth and then back again. "-well, seeing as I'm free and tragically, un-fucked at this function-" Yelena slipped her hand free of his and reached up to give the end of his mask a slight, playful tug "-looks like you're the lucky guy that gets to take me home." Yelena grins at him again but longs to kiss him, to feel him truly against her. She wonders would he taste of the Liddell wine, or of something else. Yelena licks her lower lip, biting down then suddenly when his gaze dropped. "-Find me after you've saved the World, handsome. I'll make tonight worth your while."
Yelena gives Bora one last, lingering look as he her hand slips into his a final time. SHe squeezes softly, a reassuring little touch that lacked all the heat from the their verbal exchange. It was just a touch.
Be safe, it said. For me.
Then she was gone, a black and red blur that, with one final smirking glance over her, told Bora exactly where she would be waiting for him, when this was all done tonight.
Yasmine stormed into the chicken shop about fifteen minutes late, annoyed expression on her face as she looked around searching for a familiar face, sighing as she slid into her chair across from them. She only wanted to make a small stop before they met up but the small stop turned into a thirty minute argument with the 75 year old cashier at the liquor store. "Sorry I'm late, but this one's not on me. I was just denied buying a a bottle of whiskey because the guy was convinced my ID's fake and that I'm actually underage. Don't you dare laugh or say not to take it personal. I'm taking this very personal. I don't care that he doesn't have much time left to live, I'm ready to make his time even shorter."
Bora didn’t mind that Yasemin was late—he’d brought along a little light reading to pass the time, an exploration of goddesses’ roles in Greek mythology—but he’d worked up an appetite digging a grave earlier that evening, and so by the time Yaz showed up, he was halfway through an order of loaded fries. Marking his page and setting the book aside with one hand, he pushed the fries toward her with the other. “Is it fake?” he asked. “Let me see.” She wouldn’t have to lie about her age anymore, but if she was using a fake name or credentials, they’d better be realistic.
Other than that, though, he just kept eating and let her rage—he’d found with his siblings that it was usually best to let them vent. “So, what was your plan with the whiskey?” he asked after her initial outburst. “Shots with your chicken, or are you going somewhere after? —After you kill this guy, of course.”
It was rare for there to be an event that Sofie didn't in some way dread to go to. Dread was a bit of strong word, if she was honest. She minded the galas and political soirees less when they had their uses. When the energy to put on that perfectly calculated mask was an easy trade for the secrets she could glean, when that bit of power she could earn beat down the exhaustion she felt afterwards or the memories that surfaced. For this one however, she'd been looking forward to the horse races for half the week. Any excuse to watch the majestic creatures at work.
Granted the more she watched, the more something seemed off. Her eyes tracked the horses with interest, a slight curiosity wondering if the protest outside wasn't the only thing bringing chaos to the day. Her head lifted as she caught the sneeze, diverting her attention to the horse in question. "à tes souhaits" Her head tilted up to the horse, something oddly familiar, though she had yet to place it. Shifting her attention to his handler. "What is his name?"
"Hassiktir," Bora hissed--which he guessed was probably not as polite as whatever Sofie had said. He and Emir had been so careful not to draw any attention--but of course Tulpar hadn't gotten the memo. And even worse, Bora suddenly remembered that the horse had itched his head on his foreleg a minute ago. He couldn't have smeared the fake white markings, could he? Was Emir close enough to have noticed if he had? He would have warned him, right?
But it was too late to fix it now. And it was too late to find out the name of the horse Tulpar was supposed to be impersonating—Bora and Emir had worked from unlabeled photos of past races, and the stall they’d found the original horse in hadn’t had a nameplate. “—Lucky,” Bora said, the first thing that came to his mind. They’d be lucky to get out of this unscathed. Hoping to distract Sofie from a close analysis of Tulpar, he asked, “What do you think of the races? Have you won anything?”
He was supposed to be keeping an eye on things, mingling, being something to gawk and awe it. Well, that was working. He was almost enjoying himself with the conversations he was having. Some of them were good. Plus, at this point the party goers were getting drunk enough that they were concerned with less of the spectacle of his costume and more with themselves. The level of thinly veiled desperation at this party... grown folks all but throwing themselves at each other.
Bora was a blessed distraction. A small frown tugged at his lips at his message and, he responded, "Party's over, time to get to work." He moved to pull his phone. He was the last man on earth to use a flip phone, but he went about his usual way of T9 that happened quickly to send the message to the rest of the group. Truthfully, the flip phone afforded him more anonymity. It didn't track his where-abouts like the smart phones did. Given that he routinely changed his contact information, it was economical as well.
Looking up, he grinned to Bora, "Shall we?" Head to the stables, he meant. They'd have to exit this area. Elias would head to the bathroom, lose his antlers, and then slip out the side door and lose the rest of it.
Bora had been working with Elias for more than twenty years--since he was a kid, the little lad, shadowing a young man who hadn't yet become the Crooked Hand--and Elias never been anything other than reasonable. But Bora thought he'd been bringing him a problem. He'd expected the frown to be the beginning of more annoyance, or disappointment, or something bad. But instead, after Bora's own phone vibrated as Elias's text came in--and Emir and Zeynep had responded, too, with quick acknowledgements to Bora's warning to get out--Elias grinned at him. Like he didn't mind. Like the risk didn't matter.
Well, it mattered to Bora. Nodding, but not returning the smile, he scanned the room for Jabberwocks or security. "There were Liddells by the piano a minute ago," he said--he hoped they'd stay put there, a few rooms away from where they were standing, and not come out of nowhere. But Doruk seemed to be staying put, too--either that, or he'd just forgotten to text back--and after a followup text that also went unanswered, Bora told Elias, "I think my brother's still out front. Can I meet you there?"
The party was fine. It was only ever going to be fine and Yelena went because it was work, sure she had an amazing new outfit to show for her efforts, but she would have liked to be elsewhere tonight.
A very particular elsewhere, actually. She and Bora had a bottle of vintage shiraz to finish. Could have been enjoying that instead of wandering through a sea of rich folk.
Oh well, she thought, he was here. As long as he was here it didn't matter. There's always tomorrow night. And the night after, and the night after-
He was taller than her by a bit, wider too and the difference in their size sent a shocking thrill right through her when he approached. Under the mask, she bit down on her lip hard enough to mark it. It was a familiar dance by now. Lingering glances, longing filled touches. Yelena often found that it didn't help that she couldn't really do anything about it in public. To her, Bora was just begging to be kissed half the time. Especially when he was grumpy.
In particular, tonight, in his fancy new suit that she was growing very fond of. The colour suited him. It made his eyes shine like sapphires. She hummed softly after giving him a once over, in approval.
"Of course I did." She had reclined back slightly, elbow perched on a chest high barrier that stopped them both from careening out and onto the main floor below. Yelena angled her head up again, body all but caged between his and the glass panels behind. "Tulpar was beautiful. He always is." Yelena reached out and slipped her fingers into his jacket, smoothing her thumb along the pretty black trim of his lapel. Under the mask, her eyes shone for him. "I could watch you train that horse all day, you know. You look so happy on the saddle."
Yelena laughed softly and had half a mind just to take the damn mask of her face so that she could really smile at him, really let him know just how happy his mere presence made her. "-not at the moment. Can you believe I've been at this thing for hours now and no one wants to take me home." she pouted, playfully "-isn't that a shame." Her hand slipped free of his jacket then and she tried not to make a show of it, of how her hand lingered a littler longer on the bicep of his right arm, how it slid down the rest and how her long fingers brushed the back of his hand. The briefest of touches, feather light and teasing. Her voice is low when she spoke then, accent more pronounced "And you krasivyy? what are you're plans after we all eat the rich tonight?"
On one hand, Bora thought the idea of a masquerade party was stupid. It was an excuse for the rich to buy even more outlandish outfits, to pretend that any attempt at covering their faces would be enough to disguise them (and then there was Charlotte, who was baring more than her face), and of course to flash the diamonds and gold that with any luck would be going home in some JR's pocket.
But, on the other hand, if the masks did their job, it'd cut the risk of getting recognized, and especially for a job like this, Bora would take any help he could get. Besides--there was something about seeing Yelena dressed like this, the red suit and tusked mask so unapologetically her amid all the glamour, that might even have made attending worth it on its own.
Anyway, she seemed to like what he was wearing, too. Standing so close to her, he could almost pretend they weren't surrounded by people, and forget about work for just a moment. After all, they were just killing time until Elias gave the signal, right? Smiling at her words, not quite aware of how much his eyes softened as he looked at her, he said, "You should come out to the barn again. He likes you." Bora liked the light tug of her fingers in his jacket, carelessly intimate, although he wished he didn't have so many layers between her hand and his skin. "I thought he might forget he's retired and try to take off when the races started." It was mostly a joke--but this was the first time Bora had ever put Tulpar back in a racing environment, and it had been impossible to know what memories would kick in.
Echoing her quiet laughter--it was so easy to influence each other's mood, and maybe he should have been suspicious of that, but he wasn't--he said, "Well, maybe they've seen you spilling wine. Or maybe it's the tusks." A light touch with his free hand to straighten the mask where she'd shifted it picking at her cut--and then, as her fingers trailed down his arm, he turned his palm over slightly, catching just her fingertips in his own. "I don't know," he murmured, "Maybe I can find someone to go home with me. Know anyone who might be interested?"
