[ofvolatile]

　#𝙊𝙁𝙑𝙊𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙇𝙀 　　:　　　a private dependent mumu blog affiliated with  𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐟𝐦 ,  penned and adored by veer ( she     +     her )　 a study in a spotlight that burns as bright as it blinds , the hunger for control crashing with the need to be wanted & hands that carve out their own chaos . 

taylan yalçınkaya ,   intro.         pinterest. seong taejin ,   intro.         pinterest.

replies owed : 3 ( 22  . 02 )

[capitclkarma]

5:30pm outside of town hall for yasmine + taylan @ofvolatile

time heals all the wounds . the words that had been repeated over and over as the yorbas mourned the loss of the eldest . empty words carried empty promises . the wound left by fran was covered with a blanket . it would always be there , but they couldn't bear to look at it . the one left by azi was covered with a bandaid . one that had to be changed every day because they kept bleeding through it . now the anger was gone and all that was left was the aching hole .

they approached taylan slowly , hesitantly after the memorial . tapping him lightly on the shoulder , they said , " look , you might not remember me , but i'm sorry . " yasmine took a deep breath , exhaling through their mouth , trying to dispose of their guilt . " sorry because i hit you with my cart in the grocery store . it was on purpose . i was taking my anger out on you for something that wasn't your fault , and i apologize . " perhaps , they should be thanking him for handing them the blade to surgically remove azi from their life and to keep him safe from yasmine's curse .

[ofvolatile]

his  ex-girlfriend's  name  shouldn’t  be  carved  in  stone,  neither should the names of those alive,  but  red  creek  is  a  graveyard  that  never  waits  for  the  grave. the  cigarette  burns  low  between  his  fingers, embers flaring like a pulse. his teeth chatter despite himself as the  cold  seeps  into  him,  like  it’s  got  a  personal  vendetta — finds the cracks in his skin, sinks deeper with each breath. taylan  spent  years  braving  harsh winters  in  canada,  but  this feels personal,  harsher.  like  it  knows  exactly  where  to  sink  its teeth. and then he sees them. his father stands by demetrius kelly's side, all straight-backed and obedient, like a good officer reporting in. but all taylan sees is a hound at its master's feet. trained, waiting, leashed. a pathetic display. their eyes find him even from a distance, the weight in the stares pin him in place, heavy as lead. and suddenly, he's fourteen again. blood in his mouth, knuckles split from another fight. bracing for the next scolding, the next lesson he never asked to learn, about not embarrassing the family. red creek has a way of dragging the past forward, of reminding you what you are. no matter how far you run. he was  supposed  to  be  far  away  from  this  town.    a tap on his shoulder, pulls his attention away . his head turns, recognition doesn't take long in a town this small ; a new face sticks out. “ i   remember. ” for a moment it seems like thats all he'll give them, his gaze drifting back to his father. but taylan doesn't have it in him to hold onto the frustration he first felt toward yasmine. “ i play hockey, ” a drag from his cigarette, smoke curls from his lips a thin ribbon lost to the wind. “ get hits harder than that. its fine. ”

[desbvndar]

he  expected  to  see  dasom’s  name  .  he  braced  for  it  —  the  quiet  collapse  beneath  his  ribs  ,  the  certainty  of  something  he  already  knows  but  refuses  to  name  .  but  then  ,  it  wasn’t  dasom’s  name  .  it  was  his  .  his  own  name  ,  etched  alongside  the  dead  like  a  premonition  .  for  a  moment,  his  breath  is  caught  between  past  and  present  ,  tangled  in  the  years  he’s  spent  playing  by  the  rules  ,  staying  in  the  lines  .  he  barely  registers  the  voice  cutting  through  the  hush  until  it's  too  late  .  too  loud  .  too  knowing  .  taejin  would  fucking  choose  this  moment  for  a  family  reunion  .  something  cold  and  immovable  washes  over  jihoon  ,  but  his  expression  remains  unshaken  —  just  the  slow  inhale  of  breath  ,  the  practiced  stillness  of  a  man  who  had  mastered  the  art  of  swallowing  down  discomfort  until  it  curdled  into  nothing  .  he  glances  at  the  camera  aimed  at  him  ,  a  lens  trained  on  the  shape  of  his  silence  .  this  is  drawing  too  many  eyes  in  his  direction  ,  not  just  from  the  memorial  ,  but  his  own cousin  .  his  teeth  pressed  together  ,  his  steps  cut  clean  through  the  space  between  them  as  he  approaches  him  .  taejin  wants  attention  so  badly  ,  then  jihoon  will  give  it  to  him  .  he  reaches  out  ,  pressing  the  camera  down  with  deliberate  force  ,  forcing  taejin  to  look  at  him  instead  .  “  are  you  out  of  your  goddamn  mind  ?  ”  he  mutters  .  his  voice  is  too  even  ,  detached  ,  like  he’s  already  somewhere  else  .  like  he’s  already  leaving  .  he  steps  back  ,  the  movement  smooth  ,  controlled  .  purposeful  .  like  distance  is  the  only  thing  he  can  afford  to  give  .  but  the  closer  he  is  ,  the  deeper  tae's  eyes  resemble  his  sister's  .  and  the  bigger  tae's  pupils  looks  .  a  sardonic  laugh  escapes  him  ,  and  he  shakes  his  head  in  disbelief  .  “  oh  ,  of  course  .  respectfully  ,  get  the  fuck  out  of  my  face  .  i  have  pressing  and relevant matters  to  deal  with  .  ”

[ofvolatile]

the camera shudders — sharp, like the snap of a too-tight string, a pulse of force threading through his grip. a heartbeat skipped in the space between. jihoon’s fingers press down on it, firmer than expected, attention given in a form thats unfamiliar. blown pupils snap up, forced to meet his cousin, forced to let go of the lens, forced to confront a weight heavier than the one he’s been hiding behind. family is a word that no longer fits his mouth. a ghost of what could have been. taejin isn’t wanted. not by his parents, and certainly not by his cousin who treats him like he’s already dead, buried in the past before he ever had the chance to be seen. cut from the frame before the picture is ever taken. jihoon arranges the scene ; flights, hotels, careful reunions of their parents' in seoul, each choice deliberate, each detail a quiet act of omission. making him feel  the  distance  in  the  sharp  precision of it all,  in  every  unspoken  exclusion, pressing  in  like  the  weight  of  a  shutter  closing  on  an  image  he  was  never  meant  to  be  in. the  breath  leaves  him  slow,  deliberate,  like  taejin  savoring the bitterness rather than swallowing it. tongue  pushes  the  half-melted  lollipop  to one side,   a  candy-coated  cut  fighting the acid in his throat. “ it's easier when i'm not in the way, isn't it ? ” almost conversational, but there's an edge to it. razor-thin. waiting to cut. a dark pit in the confines of his ribcage that's been festering for years. the temptation of doing another line is strong, but the urge towards cruelty is stronger. “ easier when i'm not standing in front of you reminding you of things you'd rather forget. i'm not dasom. you can't burry me like this town has buried them. ”

[outc4sts]

there’s nothing inherently evil  about  wanting  to  torment  an  ex, right ? a hobby  that  brushes against  the  unsettling,  the  strange  …  yet  feels  surprisingly  normal  when  a  certain  young  woman is  involved.  resentment, a  potent  poison,  dangerous  in  the  fearsome  grips  of  some,  and  a  wound  that  still  sits  heavy between  her  ribs and her heart,  ugly and pulsing,  turning  sleep  into  an  impossible  task.  if  she  remains  silent  enough  (  hard  thing  to  ask  of  her  ),  clementine  can  hear  the  echo of the words  taylan  spat during  their  last  fight  —  meant  to  cut,  to  hurt.  she  remembers  the  threats  she  fired  back  just  as  clearly,  drowning,  trying  to  take  him  down  with  her.  a  love  she  foolishly thought  would  last  forever  …  now rotten,  like  a  discarded  piece  of  fruit.  but  for  whatever  twisted  reason,  it’s  impossible  for  her  to  stay  away. stubborn.  she  wishes so badly  to  haunt  him  with  her  presence. just  like  he  once  haunted  her  with  his  cold,  ghostly  absence.   when  he  looks  up,  a  chill  runs  down  her  spine,  eyes  widening  a  smidge,  surprised  that  he  can  see  her  standing  there,  that  she’s  not  completely  transparent  to  him.  used to be that way. buried  part  of  her  soul  sings  at  his  acknowledgement  —  a  nagging  habit  she’ll  argue  with  herself  about  later.  “  maybe  you  haven’t  been  seein’  me,  but  i’ve  been  seein’  you  plenty.  ”  it’s  meant  to  be  playful,  a  toothy  smile  slapped  across  her  lips,  but  there’s  a  hidden  edge  underneath.  pointed.  she  hums  as  she  selects  a  carton  of  juice,  shaking  it  in  his  direction,  a  clear  message  :  see ?  this  is  what  i  came  here  for.  nothing  more,  nothing  less. a glaring lie.  then  she  steps  forward,  shamelessly reaching over to flick taylan's forehead, her grin growing. a tingle travels up her finger, the feel of familiar skin electrifying her. a fleeting jolt that makes her breath hitch for a split second. “  y’should  really  stay  alert,  man.  there’s  a  killer  roamin’  the  streets,  y’know  ?  ”

[ofvolatile]

her  touch  is  a  snap against his skin. quick, biting, gone. but the feeling lingers, crawling under his ribs like something he should've laughed off. but clementine has always been good at getting under his defenses, making herself at home in places she was never supposed to be. she's a match hovering over gasoline. and taylan clicks his tongue, a sharp, hollow sound. his eyes stay locked on hers — dark, tired, shadowed by the weight of the dead and the ghosts of the living. his fingers curl tight around the crate, the wood grinding into his palm a tether against the irritation coiling in his chest. the scent of her perfume crawls up his throat, familiar and infuriating and he presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to swallow it down. trying to ignore the way it makes his pulse kick in his throat. pressing against the raw, open wound of the night. “ maybe instead of haunting me, ” his gaze flicks to the carton of juice in her hand, to the grin stretched over her lips “ you should be careful, ” he says, voice scrapping low, with more bite than he means. but beneath it, tangled in the grit of his tone, is something quieter, a warning dressed in something easier to say than the truth. a muscle ticks in his jaw, breath drags tight through his teeth. kirby's memorial casting a shadow over the booth. “ wouldn't want you gettin' caught up in the wrong place at the wrong time. ”

[st-louis]

the athletic

[desbvndar]

his  gaze  is  heavy  on  taylan  ,  always  like  he’s  still waiting  for  something  to  crack  .  if  he  looks  long  enough  ,  hard  enough  ,  perhaps he’ll  see  the  moment  grief  spills  over  and it  takes  shape  instead  of  swallowing  taylan  whole  .  but  he  just  sits  there  ,  stiff-jawed  and  heavy  -  eyed  ,  wearing  his  silence  like  armor  .  forgetting  sounds  good  .  azizi  can  make  that  happen  .  lifting  the  abandoned  glass  ,  he  lets  the  weight  of  it  settle  in  his  palm  before  bringing  it  to  his  lips  .  the  first  sip  of  whiskey  always  burns  ,  but  it's  nothing  compared  to  the  feeling  curling  deep  in  his  stomach  .  the  taste  of  taylan  lingers  on  the  rim  ,  and  azizi  tells  himself  that’s  not  why  he  takes  his  time  .  the  glass  meets  the  table  with  a  quiet  clink  as  the  bar  hums  low  around  them  ,  neon  lights  casting  them  in  blues  and  reds  like  something  half  -  dead  ,  something  meant  to  be  forgotten  .  it  suits  them  .

his  fingers  trail  over  the  camera  once  more  ,  the  engraving  warm  under  his  touch  .  a   moment   gives   form  ,     proof   of   something   unspoken  .  these  are  taylan's  words  ,  meant  for  him  .  something  intimate  ,  something  truthful  ,  something  azizi  doesn’t  know  what  to  do  with  .  he  knows  grief  and  everything  unsaid  between  the  man  sitting  across  from  him  and  his  dead  ex  -  girlfriend  must  be  suffocating  .  for  now  ,  azi  just  wants  to  twist  taylan's  words  into  something  that  doesn’t  make  his  chest  feel  too  tight  .  when  he  smiles  again  ,  it's  lazy  and  sharp  at  the  edges .  “  drink  up  ,  ”  he  says  ,  his  eyes  steady  and  unflinching  .  “  and  take  a  picture  of  me  .  ”  a  pause  as  something  unspoken  settles  between  them  ,  heavy  like  the  whiskey  on  his  tongue  .  azizi  tilts  his  head  slightly  ,  watches  taylan  through  the  low  glow  of  the  bar  lights  .  “  you  want  to  forget  ?  fine  .  but  i  want  to  be  remembered  .  ”

[ofvolatile]

there’s  something  about  the  way  azi  looks  at  him — like  he’s  already  halfway  inside  his  head,  waiting  for  him  to  catch  up.  it’s  not  intrusive,  not  demanding,  just  there.  like  he  knows  exactly  what  he’ll  find  when it finally spills over.  it  makes  taylan  feel  stretched  thin,  like  he  could  unravel  if  he  isn’t  careful. feels  like  a hook in his ribs  pulling  him  closer  even  when  he  should  lean  away. makes  him  want  to  disappear  into  the  shadows  of  the  bar,  makes  him  want  to  stay  exactly  where  he  is. he takes back his glass, whiskey spreading warmth in his chest, the sharp tang of it pulls his mind away from the memorial, from kirby, and the sight of zeynep's name etched where it shouldn't be. there's nothing left when the glass is back on the table. and taylan listens to the offered distraction, reaches for the camera and lets the viewfinder frame azi's face — eyes  catch  the  light,  sharp  and  unyielding.  there’s  something  there,  something  too  steady,  too  certain.  taylan  feels  it.  and  as  his  finger  rests  lightly  on  the  shutter,  something  sharp  clicks  inside  him,  like  a  door  slowly  creaking  open.  the  lens  feels  like  a  shield,  an  excuse,  a  way  to  look  without  truly  being  seen,  without  having  to  meet  the  weight  of  what’s  in  azi’s  eyes.  his  finger  hovers  over  the  shutter,  the  stillness  thick,  and the click of  the  camera  echoes  between  them. a  line  drawn,  yet  he  doesn’t  lower  the  camera.  not  yet.  he  keeps  it  raised,  letting  the  weight  of  the  space  between  them  stretch  out,  the  air  thick  with  what’s  unsaid.  finally,  he  lowers  the  camera,  turning  the  screen  so  azi  can  see.  the  moment  drags  out,  the  image  flickering  on  the  display — features  captured  in  the  quiet  light  of  the  bar, frozen in time.  taylan  swallows  hard,  his  jaw  tight,  his  voice  coming  out  rough.  “ there.  you’re  remembered. ”  but  the  weight  that  settles  in  his  chest,  heavy and undeniable  tells  him  that  this  moment,  this feeling will  be  one he’ll  carry  long  after  the  picture  fades. his  hand  moves  without  thinking  reaches  for  his  stash  in  his  pocket,  his  fingers  closing  around  the  small,  white  pill.   the  thing  that’s  kept  him  numb. his  whole  body  is  wired  tight,  the  kind  of  tension  that’s  been  building  up  for  weeks,  months since  the  accident,  since  the  suspension,   since  his  return  to  red  creek where  the  past  is  too  close,  too  suffocating, and nobody knows it.  his  voice  comes  out  rough,  a  rasp  that  feels  like  it’s  been  building  for  too  long,  “ you  think  anyone’s  gonna  remember  me  for  anything  other  than  my  accident ? ” 

[ofvolatile]

where : town hall at 5:03 pm. status : closed for @desbvndar

the camera drinks in the evening light, pale and weak like it's still recovering from last night's bender — light staggering through the cracks of red creek, pooling against brick and bone too tired to move. not far from the truth, taejin is, too. sleepless nights, high enough to taste colors, and veins thrumming like bass under too-loud speakers. but he watches through the lens anyway, the town unfurls in soft grainy focus — candles guttering, breath curling white in the air, wreaths resting at the stone memorial, a hush stretched thin over the scene. he watches the way head bows in reverence, how grief moves through the crowd, how dead creek always feels like it's teetering on the edge of something unsaid. stuck in a dying town, the camera his only escape. taejin sniffs, loud and graceless, dragging the back of his hand under his nose. the sting of the line still lingers. but  then  his  gaze  snags  on  something.  a  name  that  shouldn’t  be  there,  carved  into  stone,  cold  and  permanent.  his  pulse  trips,  the  beat  of  it  skipping  like  a  record  stuck  in  the  wrong  groove.  the lens doesn't lie.  and  then,  almost  by  accident,  the  focus  shifts. jihoon. the  camera  sharpens,  pulling  him  into  stark  clarity the  hard  line  of  his  jaw,  the  press  of  his  mouth,  an  expression  carved  from  something  unreadable.   jihoon's  been  avoiding  him  for  years.   a  reminder  of  what’s  missing.  of  who’s  missing.  an  unfair  comparison to a cousin he never knew, how  people  talked  about  dasom,  said  they  had  the  same  eye,  the  same  pull  to  capture  everything  through  a  camera.  his  fingers  curl  tighter  around  the  camera,  sharp  edges  pressing  into  his  palm.  “  there  he  is,  ”  taejin's voice  splits  the  ceremony  open,  sticky-sweet  with  cherry  from  a  half-chewed  lollipop, ripping  through  the hush  like  a  torn  page, the sound too loud against the weight of snow. pulling everyone out of their quiet grief. he  raises  the  camera  and  keeps  it  rolling,  like  he's  not  living  it,  but  trapping  it  in  a  frame  to  keep  it  from  slipping  away. “ didn’t  think  ghosts  showed  up  to  their  own  memorials. ”

[ofvolatile]

where : at amrak grocery. status : closed for @outc4sts

a town can be a noose — loosening just enough to make him think he's free, only to pull tight the second he comes back. it's been three months since his return, but the stares continue to scrape like   sandpaper,   the   whispers   drone   like   flies.   even   in   the   too-familiar   hum   of   amrak,  the   static   never   fades.  the   same   old   faces   linger   in   the   aisles,   but   now   there’s   an   extra   layer   to   their   glances.   not   quite   pity,   but   close  enough  to  make  his  teeth  clench.  taylan   shifts   a   carton   of   almond   milk, the cardboard edges soft under his grip. his  gaze  slipping  past  the  shelves,  past  the  rows  of  organic  bullshit,  past  the  exit  he  should  have  taken  five  minutes  ago, but he promised selin he'd help. in  the  glass  door  of  the  cooler,   his  reflection  fractures — pulled  apart  at  the  seams,  split  by  the  weight  of  everything  that’s  left him stranded between what was and what might  never  be again.  a  fleeting  specter  of  himself. and  there,  woven  into  the  jagged  symmetry  of  his  own  face,  lingers  another  reflection,  shadowed  in  the  scar  that  lines  his  throat.  the  stitches  he  endured, itching to be scraped open.  nazar the  evil  eye  hanging  above  the  store's  door  can’t  keep  her  away.  “  gotta  say,  clem,  ”  his  voice  cuts  through  the  cold  hum  of  the  refrigeration  unit,  “  if  you  wanted  to  see  me  this  bad,  there  are  easier  ways.   ”

[sentientsky]

on rage as sustenance

Marlon James, Black Leopard, Red Wolf // Mitski, “Goodbye, My Danish Sweetheart” // Audre Lorde, Sister Love: The Letters of Audre Lorde & Pat Parker // a text message i sent to my best friend

[brntout]

LOCATION  :  redstone  bar

STATUS  :  open  to  everyone!

 NIGHTS  AT  REDSTONE  were  rarely  dull  and  tonight  was  no  exception.  with  a  good  hour  still  left  before  closing,  joey  has already  had  to  throw  a  handful  of  people  out.  everyone  was  on  edge.  the  news  of  kirby's  death  seemed  to  have  lit  a  fire  under  the  town,  sparking  a  desperate  need  to  escape  the  so-called  ‘deadcreek  curse’  that  has  fallen  on  them  again.  was  it  grief  the  town  was  feeling?  fear?  whatever  it  was,  it  was  making  everyone  act  like  idiots—and  it  was  starting  to  piss  joey  off.

“i  need  a  shot.”  she  announces,  pushing  herself  off  the  counter  and  turning  towards  a  stack  of  freshly  cleaned  glasses.  she  picks  one  up,  pauses,  then  glances  over  at  the  figure  on  the  other  side  of  the  bar.  "you  gonna  be  a  prick  and  make  me  take  it  by  myself?"

[ofvolatile]

the  blade  carves  the  pill  to  dust,  white powder explodes like a violent bloom across his phone screen, and taylan  drags  the  edge  through  it slicing clean lines,   each cut scoring faint scratches into the glass beneath, ghosts of old cuts stacked on new. a promise to smother the ache buried in his bones, old ones from hockey, still gnawing. bill  to  nostril,  a  sharp  inhale and the  burn  is  electric,  slicing  through sinus and skull,  lighting  up  the  dark  like  a  struck  match. when he comes up the mirror barely holds a reflection, swallowed by tags and knife-scored confessions. still, he searches, amber hues flickering through the gaps in grime. a smudge of white clings beneath his nostril and taylan swipes at it with a drag of a thumb, erasing the evidence. the restroom door slams shut behind him, the bass swallows the echo whole. his pulse thrums, the burn still raw, bodies shifting like static. he moves through it, past the pool table, past the low murmur of bets and clinking glass and drops himself onto the nearest barstool, the room tilts like a slow-spin roulette wheel, the chip locking into it place — attention caught by joey's offer. “ wouldn't dream of it. make it a double. ”

[exfilsoul]

✱     𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂         :     private    ,     taylan    (   @ofvolatile   ) ✱     𝚂𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶       :     redstone bar

      "   𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙳𝚈   𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽'   '𝙴𝙻𝙻   ,   "   𝙲𝙾𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁   𝙼𝚄𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳   𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁   his   breath   ,   setting   his   glass   down   with   a   deliberate   clink   before   sliding   off   his   stool.   the   bass   from   the   jukebox   thrummed   in   cooper’s   chest   as   he   shoved   through   the   small   crowd,    his   broad   shoulders   parting   the   sea   of   gawkers   without   much   effort.   he   didn’t   need   to   see   the   faces   to   know   what   was   happening   —   the   tension   in   the   air ,   the   muted   shouts   ,   and   the   unmistakable   sound   of   glass   breaking   painted   a   clear   enough   picture.

      "   𝙾𝙸   !   "   𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝚅𝙾𝙸𝙲𝙴   𝙲𝚄𝚃   𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷   𝚃𝙷𝙴   chaos   ,   deep   and   commanding.   “   pack   it   in   now !   ”   his   eyes   landed   on   taylan   first.   of   course ,   it   was   taylan.   cooper’s   lips   pressed   into   a   hard   line   as   his   gaze   swept   over   the   scene,   taking   in   the   red   -   faced   drunk   swaying   on   unsteady   feet   and   the   tight   coil   of   anger   in   taylan’s   clenched   fists.

      "   𝚃𝙰𝚈𝙻𝙰𝙽   ,   "   𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝙰𝙸𝙳   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙻𝚈   ,   𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶   clear   in   his   tone   as   he   stepped   between   them.   “   you   really   want   to   do   this   ?   here   ?   now   ?   ”   he   didn’t   wait   for   an   answer.   cooper   turned   his   head   slightly   ,   fixing   the   drunk   with   a   stare   that   could   cut   stone.   the   drunk   grumbled   something   about   not   wanting   any   more   trouble   and   tried   to   slink   away   ,   but   cooper   wasn't   done.   "   you.   "   he   jabbed   a   finger   in   the   drunk’s   direction.   “   fuck   off   ,   yeah   ?   before   i   toss   you   out   myself.   ”

      𝙾𝙽𝙲𝙴   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙼𝙰𝙽   𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙼𝙱𝙻𝙴𝙳   𝚃𝙾𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   exit   ,   cooper   turned   his   full   attention   back   to   taylan.   the   weight   of   his   gaze   was   heavy   ,   but   there   was   no   malice   in   it   —   just   disappointment   ,   tinged   with   a   hint   of   something   almost   protective.   “   you’ve   got   a   bloody   knack   for   this,   don’t   you   ?   ”   he   muttered   ,   his   voice   quieter   but   no   less   firm.   his   eyes   lingered   on   taylan’s   tightened   jaw,   the   faint   tremble   in   his   fists.   “   what’s   the   plan   here   ,   huh   ?   you   get   into   another   scrap   ,   end   up   with   a   busted   nose   or   worse   ?   how’s   that   gonna   fix   anything   ?   ”

      𝙲𝙾𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁'𝚂   𝙹𝙰𝚆   𝙵𝙻𝙴𝚇𝙴𝙳   𝙰𝚂   𝙷𝙴   𝚁𝚄𝙱𝙱𝙴𝙳   the   back   of   his   neck,   frustration   bleeding   into   something   softer.   “   look   ,   i   get   it.   you’re   hurtin’.   but   this   …   this   ain’t   it,   mate.   you   think   this   is   gonna   make   things   better   ?   you   think   it’s   what   she’d   want   ?   ”   his   words   hung   in   the   air   for   a   beat   too   long   before   he   sighed,   the   weight   of   them   settling   between   them.   “   come   on   ,   ”   he   said   finally   ,   jerking   his   head   toward   the   door.   “   let’s   get   you   outta   here   before   you   make   a   bigger   mess   of   things   .”

[ofvolatile]

a fist is a firework — explosive on impact, bone-white knuckles splitting like struck matches. crunch of cartilage giving away, the shock of bone against bone. the punch lands clean, whiplash-quick the  kind  that  makes  crowds  surge  to  their  feet  in  packed  stadiums, and the man's head snaps, mouth spilling red like an overripe fruit. his body follows, crashing into a barstool. his drink goes with him, glass spinning out of his hand, whiskey spilling dark across the floor. taylan's breath drags rough through his teeth. his hand aches, split skin blooming raw, but it doesn't matter. nothing matters except this — the static in his skull burning off in the violence, the clean hum of instinct, the way the world narrows down to fist, impact, recoil. it's muscle memory, instinct carved deep, stitched into him from years on the ice. hockey brawls were never about finesse. they were about raw power. about getting in, landing clean, surviving another round. that's what this feels like now, a fight with no time limit, no whistle to stop it. until cooper's voice cuts through the chaos like a skate blade slicing clean through ice. taylan's spine locks up before he can stop it, tension pulling taut like a wire. his eyes stay locked on his target, fists still clenched around the lingering hurt to hit. it's not authority itself that makes him freeze. it's the echo of it — the phantom of his father's voice, sharp-edged and absolute. the kind of command that left no room for defiance. the kind that always made him feel trapped in a fight he never wanted to lose. but cooper doesn't wait for an answer. he's already there, stepping between them, presence solid. a force pressing into the storm, anchoring taylan in the middle of it. he's spent a lifetime resisting pressure like this, but right now, it grounds him - pulls him back before he can go too far. eyes dark, restless, gnawing at the edges of restraint, don't meet cooper's gaze — but he listens. grief trapped behind eyelashes, nails bitting deep into his palms. his breathing goes shallow, his teeth grind. that ugly thing in his gut twists, a knot that won't untangle and taylan lifts his hand, shaking, bloodied, and drags it across his face, smearing red across his cheekbone. blood, a grim reminder of the chaos he's woven himself into. the mess of broken glass, spilled liquor — a wreckage of something he can't put back together. like grief, thick and sour in the back of his throat. “ you don't get it. ” not anger not quite, but regret. it weighs on him. it pulls at his seams. for a moment, his eyes soften as they meet cooper's — and in that fleeting instant, he can't deny that cooper's authority holds a mirror to his own shattered resolve. his knuckles sting, blood drying thin, but it's not the pain that keeps his hands clenched. it's the knowing. the fact that no matter how many bones he breaks, how many fist he throws, none of it will rewrite what he did. how he made her feel. “ you gonna play babysitter now ? ” he scoffs, his voice rising with bitterness. “ pick me up tomorrow when sheriff kelly no doubt questions me for her murder, huh ? ”

[repentulant]

🗝️ open to all. 📍 redemption chapel, jan 24th.

the news breaks, as does half of red creek alongside it. there's an unfair lump lodged in santiago's throat. he wasn't close to kirby ; her death was not his to mourn, and yet ... he sits in the back pew of redemption chapel, hands wound in his hair. it was between here & the cemetery— the weather chose for him. he breathes in, has a hard time breathing out. halloween night plays through his mind. ❝ i asked about her name. ❞ he wants to laugh at the memory, but doesn't have the heart. a puff of frustration leaves him instead, ❝ grow up in a box like red creek & i still had to ask for her name. jesus– ❞

[ofvolatile]

gum pops like a pistol shot the  red  acid  of  cherry  sinking  his  teeth.  redemption  chapel,  with  its  flickering  candles  and  hollow  hymns,  feels  less  like  a  sacred  space  and  more  like  a theater where  michael  takes  center  stage.  tae  has  no  reverence  for  the  divine ;  but that doesn't stop him from being here, watching how this performance unfolds. lounging in  a  pew  a  row  behind  santi,  the  faint  creak  of  the  wood  beneath  him  — a  quiet  rebellion  against  the  hush  of  the  room.  santi's words  aren’t  meant  for  him ;  they’re  directed  at  the  person  beside  him.  but  that  doesn’t  stop  taejin  from  leaning  in,  crossing  an  invisible  line  with  warm  breath  grazing  the  nape  of  santi’s  neck.  not  close  enough  to  touch,  but  close  enough  to  disrupt. another  pop  of  gum,  deliberate  this  time,  loud  enough  to  pull  attention  to  him. “ she's gonna haunt you forever now, you know that right ? ”

[desbvndar]

🗓️ january 24 , 9 : 34 p.m. 📍 redstone bar 💬 azizi + taylan ( @ofvolatile )

fear  sits  heavy  in  the  air  tonight  and  it  makes  everything  feel  just  a  little  too  still  .  azizi  doesn’t  care  much  for  town  gossip  ,  but  tonight  ,  kirby  sloane’s  name  lingers  and  clings  to  the  walls  like  smoke  .  he  spots  taylan  alone  at  a  booth  ,  hunched  over  a  glass  ,  and  it’s  enough  to  pull  him  in  .  no  hesitation  ,  just  quiet  footsteps  and  a  presence  that  slides  in  too  easily  across  from  him  .  in  silence,  he  watches  taylan  ,  tracing  the  tension  in  his  jaw  and  the  way  his  fingers  curl  too  tight  around  the  glass  .  grief  looks  good  on  you  ,  he  thinks  before  deciding  that’s  probably  not  the  right  thing  to  say  .  instead  ,  he  reaches  into  his  jacket  and  pulls  out  the  camera  taylan  gave  him  for  his  birthday  last  week  .  it’s  fragile  in  his  hands  ,  comforting  in  a  way  that  azi  hasn’t  quite  figured  out  yet  .  he  turns  it  over  ,  his  thumb  brushing  over  the  engraving  ,  slow  &  deliberate  .  “  you’ve  got  good  taste  ,  ”  he  murmurs  ,  holding  up  the  camera  ,  letting  it  catch  the  light  .  his  grin  is  slight  ,  but  it  lingers  .  “  i  like  it  .  thank  you  .  ” 

eyes  flicking  to  taylan’s  face  ,  he  searches  for  something  beneath  the  surface  .  he  doesn’t  say  kirby’s  name  ,  doesn’t  need  to  .  the  weight  of  it  sits  between  them  anyway  .  instead  ,  azi  leans  forward  ,  placing  the  camera  in  between  them  on  the  table  .  “  do  you  want  a  distraction  ?  ”  he  asks  as  he  taps  his  fingers  against  the  camera  lightly  .  “  we  can  test  it  out  .  find  something  worth  remembering  . ”  he  moves  to  pick  up  taylan's  half  -  empty  glass  ,  and  brings  it  to  his  lips  to  finish  what's  left  .  “  or  something  worth  forgetting  .  ”

[ofvolatile]

insomnia-stained eyes drag over the table's surface — grooves carved deep, a history crawling in scars. the wood, tired and splintering, bears the memory of desperate hands, of someone who tried to carve their way out of red creek and failed. an itch coils itself into the scar at his throat, phantom fingers press unwanted. a reminder that he tore himself free from dead creek's grip, only to end up back to the place he swore he'd never return to. dragged back, ankle-deep in the rusted bones of his past. red creek never lets go. it lingers sours the air, settles thick in the mouths of those eager to blame. and taylan knows, it'll be his name on demetrius' lips. a shadow stretches, spreads across the booth, rending his space in two. a disruption. again. his fingers coil tight around his glass. he's been like this all day, meeting everyone with a clenched fist, a snarl coiled beneath his tongue, waiting for something — someone, to push too hard. scarred knuckles, rough palms, veins that twist beneath his skin like rivers running dry. hands that know violence, but they only twitch at the sight of azi, a reflex not meant for him. he doesn't want him to see it. the way grief lingers, how it lives in the way he breathes, his throat moves around a swallow, but the weight stays wedged tight behind ribs, impossible to dislodge. his gaze land to the camera, his gift, now rests between them. the intimacy of the engraving. a moment gives form, proof of something unspoken. something he didn't let himself think too hard about when he bought it. but that's not what lingers beneath his ribs, not what curdles in his throat. its the weight of everything else, the past dragging his teeth against his skin. “ don't  feel  like  remembering  things  now. ” words scrapes out rough, caught on the edge of his teeth, meant to be swallowed instead of spoken, because when he remembers, he remembers her. kirby's anger simmers beneath his skin, a thing from high school that has never settled. a reminder of all things he never said, never fixed. there's no space for his anger — not when hers lingers. azi takes his drink, pulls his gaze along with it.  there’s  a  shift, a hesitation, a  flicker  of  something  softer  that  has  never  lived  in  the  space  between  them.  “ forgetting sounds good. ”

[mercitorres]

LOCATION : tae's  childhood  home  ,  norwood  street  . @ofvolatile

michael  was  his  very  own  dorian  grey  .  he  left  his  portrait  chained  up  in  a  basement  somewhere  ,  rotting  and  fed  ,  begging  for  the  world  to  see  it's  ugliness  while  he  pasted  on  a  smile  and  ideals  ;  swore  to  the  world  that  his  heart  was  pure  .  throughout  his  life  ,  he  had  worn  so  many  faces  that  it  was  unclear  which  was  the  mask  ,  his  pledge  so  deep  that  the  deception  seemed  to  stretch  into  his  every  waking  moment  ,  an  impression  of  himself  that  was  reflected  viciously  in  every  mirror  like  surface  .  so  few  had  ever  looked  close  enough  to  see  what  he  really  was  ,  the  rot  down  to  the  core  something  you  could  taste  on  those  pretty  lips  if  you  lingered  long  enough  .  he  had  changed  in  so  many  ways  that  could  be  observed  ,  his  new  pledge  to  god  ,  religion  ,  sacred  in  the  way  he  treasured  it  .  but  there  were  still  other  things  he  treasured  ,  not  admitted  but  lingering  .

what  brought  him  to  the  doorway  of  his  friends  childhood  home  was  unknown  ,  the  uncompromising  nature  of  their  relationship  a  game  as  much  as  it  was  fastened  out  of  true  love  and  affection  .  in  a  multitude  of  universes  ,  it  seemed  odd  that  they  would  always  be  drawn  together  .  just  below  the  floorboards  of  michael's  aforementioned  basement  ,  that  ugly  portrait  called  out  ,  knowing  that  it  had  been  seen  by  the  other  .  that  he  would  always  know  michael  in  a  way  that  nobody  else  ever  had  .  those  honey  dew  eyes  as  he  looks  at  him  ,  the  fade  of  blonde  hair  in  those  wintering  months  ,  all  of  it  the  act  that  was  so  interlinked  with  the  truth  of  his  persona  on  some  occasions  .  he  is  looking  at  tae  the  way  that  he  looks  at  a  full  congregation  ,  warm  and  endearing  ,  as  if  he  could  reach  right  out  and  envelop  him  but  no  such  touch  is  delivered  .  in  the  midst  of  tragedy  ,  michael  isn't  there  because  he  feels  downtrodden  ,  he's  here  because  he  can  be  ...  because  he  craves  that  unadulterated  back  and  forth  they  have  always  had  .  his  holiness  ,  a  tilted  halo  when  it  came  to  the  way  that  the  his  soft  smile  almost  slips  into  desire  when  he  says  ,  "  i  missed  you  ...  are  you  going  to  invite  me  in  ?  "  like  a  vampire  ,  he  can't  cross  the  threshold  without  invitation  ...  without  being  wanted  .  he  needed  to  know  that  he  was  still  important  .

[ofvolatile]

red  creek  has  never  truly  been  home  to  taejin;  it’s  a  fading  afterthought,  a  place  pieced  together  with  the  remnants  of  youth.   his  childhood  home  still stands,  untouched  by  the  years,  yet  hollow  in  a  way  that  nothing  ever  fills.  the  walls  hum  with  a  silence  that  stretches  long  and  endless,   a  silence  he  remembers  from  when  he  was  fourteen —   alone  in  a  house  full  of  absence.  even  with  a  cousin  living  nearby,  the  jagged  █████  of  his ███████  from  █████  cuts  deeper  here. it's a miracle he's managed to stay in town for five months, but there are some people, that make up for it. “ a  priest  on  my  doorstep.  in  times  like  these. ”   words  roll  off  his  tongue,   drip with  amusement,  as  he  leans against  the  doorframe  indulging  in  the  attention  with  a  feline languor,   an  obstruction  and  an  invitation  all  at  once.  the  amber  light  of  dusk  clings  to  him, gliding the  grin that tugs at his lips and the  knowing  curve  of  his  mouth, daring michael to break character.  this  version  of  michael  standing  immaculate  in  the  golden  spill  of  dusk  makes  taejin  want  to  laugh. a  saint  carved  from  something  too  pristine,  too  deliberate.  polished  to  a  gleam  that  doesn’t  invite  admiration  so  much  as  it  dares  someone  to  ruin  it. taejin  already  knows  what’s  beneath  the  shine — knows  it  the  way  an  artist  knows  the  flaws  in  their  masterpiece,  the  way  a  sinner  knows  the  weight  of  confession.  but  still, there's something about this game, about michael always coming back to him, that makes his pulse hum. this is the kind of attention he craves, it  stirs  the  embers  of  something  wilder,  darker.  he savors it, devours it. “  what  an  honor, ” taejin  drawls, his grin  balancing  on the  edge  of  charm  and  provocation. tone  slipping  between  mock  reverence  and  longing  intertwined, “ but  you’ll  have  to  forgive  me,  father.  i’m  not  sure  i’m  ready  for  your  blessings  just  yet. ”

[ofvolatile]

//   (  cha  eunwoo.  cis man.  he / him  )  .    ⸻  SEONG TAEJIN,  a  twenty-eight  year  old  ,  has  survived  another  day  in  red  creek  where  they  have  lived  for the last five months ( grew up here ).  the wildcard  is  known  for  being playful and  manipulative  and  is  often  associated  with  a director’s chair that feels like a throne ; memories spliced together like uneven film reels, flashing scenes you can't quite place ; stories that end in a joke, but never the whole truth, and colors that pop and fade, like the highs that never last. in  a  small  town  where  they  work  as  director at the parrish center for the arts word  travels  fast  .  it’s  hard  to  keep  a  secret,   and  it  looks  like  the  boogeyman  knows  that   ████ █   .

𝐈.   ⠀   𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗦   

full  name :   seong  taejin.  nicknames : tae.   age :  twenty-eight  ;  june 12, 1995 . gender + pronouns  :  cis  man,   he/him  .  orientation  :  bisexual .  place of birth :  seoul,  south  korea.  moved to red creek when he was six lived there until he graduated high school. occupation  :  nepo baby, aspiring film director ( first project is currently on hold ) & director at parrish centre of the arts. father : seong seungmin. owner of a production company. mother : seong haerin ( she's from red creek ). siblings : two half-siblings from his father's previous marriage. cousin : choi jihoon ( relationship : distant ) & choi dasom . living arrangements : childhood home at norwood street. horoscope :  gemini. moral  alignment :  chaotic  neutral.  mtbi : tba. personality traits : impulsive, self-absorbed, enabling, bold, assertive, unreliable, playful, manipulative, charming. hair  color :  raven black.  eye  color :  dark brown.  height :  six  foot  one.  tattoos  :  a smiley on his middle finger, a bold star inside his bottom lip, and small devil horns inked behind his ear. scars : a faint scar on his cheekbone.

𝐈𝐈.   ⠀   𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗡𝗣𝗖𝗦

— choi dasom : cousin. far too young to remember them, taejin has never been close with his mother's side of the family.  it  was  no  secret  that  they  weren’t  particularly  fond  of  his  father  or  the  circumstances  surrounding  his  parents’  marriage.  the  union  caused  a  quiet  but  palpable  rift  between  the  two  families — a   gap  filled  with  judgment. for  taejin,  dasom  is  more  of  a  name  than  a  presence  in  his  life,  comparisons  are  drawn  for  both  of  their  interests  and  passion  in  film.  but  that's  also  the  only  thing  he  remembers  them  by. — daniela estrada : childhood friend.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.   ⠀   𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗

 [  REDACTED  ]

𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈.   ⠀   𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦  01. ) tw for infidelity and divorce. the bastard son of a bastard son. taejin  grew  up  amidst  the  wreckage  of  two  ill-fated  marriages  and  enough  family  drama  to  rival  a  soap  opera  .  born  from  a  legacy  of  infidelity — his  father  a  product  of  an  affair,  and  taejin  following  suit. he’s  inherited  more  than  just  bad  genes.  his  parents’  whirlwind  marriage,  sealed  just  days  after  his  father’s  divorce has become the biggest topic of his life, leaving him with both mommy & daddy issues ( best of both worlds ! ), its affected his view on relationships with others. the idea of devotion to a single person, the " forever " kind of love, is something suffocating to him. he believes that love, or at least affection should not be confined to just one person — people are flawed, changeable, and not meant to stay in one place forever. polyamory allows him to embrace intimacy without feeling to tied to something too permanent.

02. ) the star that burned to bright. the  disappearance  of  his  cousin,  choi  dasom,  marked  one  of  the  rare  moments  of  unity  in  their  fractured  family,  though  taejin,  only  three  at  the  time,  was  too  young  to  remember  much.   in  the  wake  of  the  loss,  his  mother  became  overbearing,  clinging  tightly  to  him  as  though  he  might  vanish,  too.  her  smothering  concern,  while  understandable,  extended  well  into  his  childhood,  creating  an  environment  where  independence  felt  impossible.  this  dynamic  persisted  until  taejin's  teenage  years,  when  his  parents'  crumbling  marriage  teetered  on  the  edge  of  divorce  once  again.  their  renewed  hostilities  left  him  stranded  in  red  creek,  living  alone  for  months  at  a  time  while  they  waged  their  battles  back  in  seoul.  but that heavy case of youngest child syndrome remained, constantly searching for that attention he had when he was younger. even now, he expects to be the center of everyone's world. doesn't help that as a child, taejin dipped into the world of modeling during his mother's doting phase and became something of a minor sensation back in south-korea. when you’re in his orbit, you feel like the sun itself shines for you. but his affections are as capricious as they are consuming — they easily flit to something, or someone else leaving you in his shadow. 03. ) the director of chaos. taejin  practically  grew  up  on  film  sets,  his  grandfather,  a  renowned  film  director  in  south  korea,  was  the  closest  person  to  taejin  in  his  family,  serving  as  both  a  mentor  and  a  sanctuary  from  the  chaos  of  his  home  life. amid  the  noise  and  movement,  the  camera  became  his  sanctuary.  behind  the  lens,  taejin  found  an  intoxicating  sense  of  control :  the  power  to  craft  narratives,  dictate  emotions,  and  shape  destinies. for  him,  filmmaking  was  more  than  art, it  gave  him  the  authority  to  play  god.   but as much as he likes to be the one behind the camera, he's also dabbled in acting. he's a big theatre kid ! at red creek k-12,  taejin was part of the  drama  and  art  clubs,  however,  his  presence  wasn’t  without  drama.  his  need  for  control  and  vision  often  clashed  with  the  collaborative  spirit  of  the  groups,  leading  to  a  mix  of  inspiration  and  frustration  among  his  peers.  the  tension  reached  a  boiling  point  during  their  senior  year  performance,  when  a  heated  argument  with a guest escalated  into  a  near-brawl  that  cancelled  the  entire  play. 04. ) the divine dissolve. during high school, with the house to himself, taejin became known for his house parties. his signature drink,  " holy water " was a product of those night, earning that name for the way it  washes away everything. but, he’s never been religious. born from a " spiritual epiphany " during a wild night,  " holy water "  combines  vodka, dark rum, blue curaçao, lime, and coconut cream  into a drink. 05 . ) around dead creek. taejin is a regular at dolly's diner, often showing up at the oddest hours of the day. when he doesn't want to be alone at home, he sleeps at  red creek library. his history with  early rise bakery is less about pastries and more about controversy, having been caught doing drugs there, making him unwelcome on their premises.  there's a lot more to him, but tumblr is not letting me write more, so yeah i give up.

[ofvolatile]

//   (  oktay  çubuk.  cis  man.  he  /  him  )  .    ⸻ TAYLAN YALÇINKAYA,  a  twenty-six  year  old,  has  survived  another  day  in  red  creek  where  they  have  lived  for  almost  their  entire  life.   the  dirtbag  is known  for  being  headstrong  and  volatile  and  is  often  associated  with  sorrow lurking in a ferric heart as it beats stubbornly,  crimson  stained  &  battered  bruised  knuckles, and   all the charm and temperament of a junkyard dog.  in  a  small  town  where  they  work  as  the  co - owner of amrak grocery store  &  professional hockey player for  the  nhl  word  travels  fast.  it’s  hard  to  keep  a  secret,  and  it  looks  like  the  boogeyman  knows  that   ████ █

𝐈.   ⠀   𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗦   

full  name :  taylan  deniz  yalçınkaya.  nickname :  tay ( used by close friends ),  knuckles ( used by hockey fans because of his eagerness to fight ).     age :  twenty-six  ;  april 18, 1998.   place of birth :  red creek,  michigan. where he lived for twenty years, but he moved to vancouver six years ago for his sports career. gender + pronouns :  cis  man,   he/him.  orientation :  bisexual.  occupation :  professional ice hockey player for the vancouver canucks ( played five seasons as a right wing player, fighter and enforcer for the team ) currently on suspension. he's also the co-owner of a family run business, amrak grocery store. father : erdem yalçınkaya. police officer. mother : asli yalçınkaya. founder of amrak. siblings : twin sister selın  yalçınkaya. cousin : zeynep and alara yalçınkaya. living arrangments : he has his own place in vancouver, but in red creek he lives on norwood street at selin's place. children : none. doesn't like kids, but will make an exception for jesse shockey. horoscope :  aries sun, cancer moon, leo rising. moral  alignment :   chaotic  neutral.  mtbi : tba. personality traits : rebellious, confident, defensive, independent, volatile, headstrong, competitive, protective, loyal, cynical. hair  color :  brown.  eye  color :  hazel.  height :  six  foot  one.  tattoos :  a  bunch  of  small  scattered  stick and  poke  tattoos,  and  one  big  back  tattoo,   see  pinterest.  piercings :  both  lobes,  tongue,  double  on  his  right  eyebrow.  scars :  with  hockey  being  a  violent  sport,  he  has  a  lot  of  scars,  but  the  most  notable  ones  are  ,  the  cut  between  his  left  eyebrow  from  a  fight,  where  hair  won't  grow  anymore. he's the most sensitive of  the  scar  on  his  throat  where  he  was  accidentally  cut  by  a  player's  skates,  its  10  centimeters  long  and  it  took  one  hundred  and  fifty  stitches  to  close  his  wound. 

𝐈𝐈.   ⠀   𝗥𝗘𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗣 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗡𝗣𝗖𝗦

— daniela estrada : classmate and acquaintance. they were never really that close, but they share a common thread through selin. daniela was more of a friend to his twin, than to him, but their paths crossed often enough during nights out, school events, or casual hangouts in the background of their lives. — alaina price : babysitter. everyone's favorite babysitter, though taylan doesn't remember much from that time. still, there were moments where alaina's presence offered a comforting consistency, even if he never fully realized. her murder happening shortly after his return to red creek, and the fact that he was wearing the boogeyman mask on halloween night, pulled him into questioning by the sheriff's department — but even if he hadn't been wearing that mask, taylan is a regular at the department. he's been the first person the sheriff points to for as long as he can remember. — tristan harlow : example. the boogeyman was a shadow meant  to  keep  taylan  in  line  as  a  a  child.  one of the examples often used was tristan harlow. a boy who didn't listen, who didn't stay in line. the way his parents told it, tristan was the cautionary tale behind every scraped knee and sharp-tongued reply. it was a bedtime story designed to frighten him into obedience, to lull him into sleep with the promise of safety — so long as he stayed within the lines of good behavior.

𝐈𝐈.   ⠀   𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 .

— his parents named him taylan, hoping he would be as gracious as the name that he carried, but he quickly proofed to be a difficult child, and by the time he was a teenager, all he had ever done was creating problems for himself : underage drinking, trespassing, vandalism, settling any and all disputes with violence. he was a regular at the police station, only made more worse because his father is a police officer. the father and son never had a healthy relationship . with his narcissism and superiority complex his father held a tight ship in the household, with strict rules and high expectations that taylan had no interest in meeting.

— tw brief mentions of emotional abuse. a cop with big dreams of being the sheriff one day. his parents have always been very involved in the community of red creek, which his father flaunts to make himself seem like a good person, hoping it will increase his chances of becoming the town sheriff. however, he never got the position and to this day the subject remains a sore spot for him, looking everywhere else except within and taking it out on his son, blaming his bad reputation around town for staining the family's name.

— taylan's interest in hockey came at the age of five in the garage of his childhood home where he would shoot pucks in a make-shift goal. as he grew older the sport became an outlet for him to let out that aggression for the way his father treated him. he was part of the hockey team at school and immediately after graduation taylan started playing for the junior hockey league ( his first step towards reaching the big leagues ), while his twin sister was their father's favorite, taylan was their mother's, and he needed her to sign the contracts since he was still underage. it was one year later, that he got drafted for the NHL when an incident led him to jump into opposing bench in an attempt to fight with the opposing players , whose team was in the lead. after the game ended, he was approached by scouts who were impressed by his courage, and drafted him for the vancouver canucks. by this time taylan had become completely independent from his family, and the only one he was staying in contact with was his twin sister. sick of living in their small town that felt more like a prison then a home, he made the decision to leave his life behind. — tw for injury, near-death-experience, toxic sport environment . away from red creek and in the big city were his best years of his life, doing what he loved the most. however, everything came to a crashing halt during his last match. after colliding with a opponent, taylan got his throat cut by the player's skate blades, lacerating his carotid artery. the accident was traumatizing for him ; bleeding out on the ice, thinking that he would die. taylan needed hundred fifty stitches to close up the wound. less then a week later and still not fully healed mentally, his coach saw him fit enough to play again. the relationship taylan had with his coach was a toxic one , and abusive, that combined with taylan's own competitiveness had him biting his tongue. he was used to the years of verbal abuse from his father, and instead he let out all his anger out on the ice. however, after the accident his performance had noticeably declined. while abusing pain killers was not something unspoken in their field, developing a problem for them and testing positive for hard drugs before a match was not something they could ignore. the manager of the team saw him as a liability, casted him out as a black sheep, despite his own coach enabling his harmful habit for so long. they had the pr team working overtime to hide the suspension stating that his current absence is because of his injury. — needing to rest his injury out and bitter over how things went down. taylan is back in his hometown where his relationship with his father still is on bad terms. he helps his twin out as selın takes over the store from their mother's hand, anything to make up for the time he been away. no one knows about his suspension, and the team likes to keep it that way. 𝐈𝐈𝐈𝐈.   ⠀   𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗡𝗦 

01 . ) tw for abusing painkillers and trauma. numbing the ice. while taylan has a high pain tolerance, he still uses medication to treat the injuries he has acquired during his years of playing hockey. the pills were basically handed out by his coach like tic tacs, pushing him to play more games despite his chronic injuries. definitely not a healthy work environment. his suspension has put him in the NHL players assistance program that helps him deal with his trauma, which also comes with frequent drug test, so outside of prescribed painkillers and sleeping pills , he tries to not use anything else, because he wants to get back on the ice as soon as he can. 02 . ) a night that never ends. he doesn't have a healthy sleep schedule. it started back in his teenage years. when he was staying out all night past his curfew, and it only got worse with his disruptive schedule as a hockey player where the matches ends at ten and the adrenaline keeps him up all night, flying of to the next match the following day. 03 . ) ink of rebellion. he has a bunch of stick & poke tattoos on his arms . there was a phase back in high school when he wanted to be a tattoo artist and practiced it on himself . 04 . ) around dead creek. in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  taylan  can  often  be  found  at  deer  lake,  seeking  solitude.   since  high  school,  he’s  been  sneaking  into  the  warehouse.  back  in  the  day,  he  had  a  reputation  for  stealing  cars  from  the  white  pine  garage — a  thrill-seeking  phase  that’s  left  its  mark  on  his  name.  he’s  also  rumored  to  have  taken part  of  vandalizing  thorne  house.  currently,  he’s  banned  from dolly's dinner for  a  fight  that  got  out  of  hand.  and  at  redstone  bar,  taylan’s  name  often  comes  up  when  recounting  the  latest  brawl.

[pierppasolini]

Fallen Angels (1995) // dir. Wong Kar-wai