the day the music died.

#CREEPSLAIN. private, selective, independent, dash-only STEVE PALCHUK of netflix’s TROLLHUNTERS franchise. heavily canon divergent, previously established 2018, re-claimed as an original character in 2022. low activity + sideblog to #exghul. handled by BAT (she/her  &&.  21+).

         CARRD.  SPOTIFY.

THE YOUNGEST. they talk down to you, as though you couldn’t possibly understand. they speak down to you in a language consisting only of simple, happy concepts, unaware that you hear their whispered conversations in the dark. funnily enough, they don’t know how much they miss, that the many voices that call to you from elsewhere are standing right in front of them. they don’t see, but you do. you will make these overlooked souls into friends and they will soak up the loneliness that has seeped into your world. you miss when it was easy to spend time with those you love, when it was a given, as sure as the sun rising in the morning. but still, they think you don’t understand. how can they think that when you love them so? and after all, love is just understanding.

❝ no, no, like ---- ❞ steve's tone is light, offering a lopsided smile. ❝ we were actually mon--- well, like uhh, like we saved people, ❞ hands move here & there, expressing his inability to visualize this for her -- he cannot simply out himself as a monster hunter ( a creepslayer, even! ), that would blow the whole 'anonymity' thing. ❝ eli & i started this club, just the two of us: back in high school. ❞

he is back on task in an instant, as if he forgot he was in the midst of ( poorly ) explaining how this chapter of his life began. index finger smudges under his eyes, smearing eyeliner in a sloppy attempt to create the eye black that he insists helps him fight better.

❝ like our actual missions and stuff ---- that's classified, can't tell you none of that. ❞ he has remembered his guest now, evidently, as he shoots her a grin before hunching back over the small mirror. ❝ but boy, did we kick some ass. ❞

MACBETH:

the howl of wolves,    moonless nights,    dirt under fingernails,    stained silk,    chattering teeth,     voices hoarse and cracked,    rotting fruit,    echoing drums,    dry heaving,    hanging cobwebs,    stifling humidity,    bloodshot eyes,    the roughness of rusted steel,    wild rosebushes,    muscle cramps,    the sound of splintering wood.

A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT’S  DREAM:

crackling fires,    ivy crawling on stone,    the faint music of running water,    petrichor,    dirty, bare feet,    tattered clothing,    thistledown,    wilted flower crowns,    late evening birdsong,  curling leaves,    a symphony of croaking frogs,    drifting feathers,    the eerie sound of wind chimes at night,    humming bees,    beds of clover.

ROMEO AND  JULIET:

warm golden lamplight,    worn shoes,    crumbling brick walls,    whispered poetry,    embroidered satin,    cool, hazy mornings,    tousled hair,    rosewater,    flushed cheeks,   distant orchestras,    unfinished marble statues,    cobblestone streets,    loose threads,    ink smudged on parchment,    tapping fingers,    dust illuminated by sunlight,    poison vials.

HAMLET:

shattered glass,   a cluster of fraying ribbons,    unanswered knocks on doors,    lingering dampness,    white noise,    inexplicable drafts,    migraines,    bleeding ears,    the taste of metal,    reflected mirrors,    dry, cracked lips,    the sound of tearing paper,    fogged windows,    memories of dreams,    tarnished silver,    protruding veins.