tumblr is such an amazing site because i rsndomly got logged out on my phone and my password is stored on a laptop that wont turn on.. and i do not know how to explain my issue to support 🥲
When Muzan sniffs the wind, and catches the scent of human, he hisses softly, his lips peeling back from his pointed teeth.
He’s not pleased. He hasn’t seen or smelled a human in decades—and now that he’s managed to carve out a territory, there’s one coming back to the mountain? Hell no.
He jumps between the trees, gracefully leaping from branch to branch. He’s going down the mountain, down to the foothills where the scent’s coming from. There’s a house there, he remembers—humans used to live there, hunters, before he killed them all. So, some foolish human’s moved back in.
They’ll be a foolish, dead human soon, before they get near his kin.
He thinks of Rui, caught in an iron-toothed trap and crying like a fawn. He thinks of Gyutaro and Daki, starving and exhausted, driven from their forest to his. He thinks of Zohakuten, trying to carry his brother’s body through the snow, leaving a black trail of blood behind them.
No human will touch them again.
When he lands on the long bough of an oak that stands beside the small house, Muzan notices the gray car drawn up out front, and the boxes on the porch. His nose wrinkles. This isn’t good. The human’s planning to stay.
He doesn’t see one, so he drops down, and takes out his anger on several of the nearest boxes. His claws shred through cardboard, tape, and everything inside—which turns out to be pillows, blankets, and a few clothes. Irritated, he swipes at another box, intent on finding the traps or guns or nets—and his claws shatter glass. The pieces stick in his fingers, and he snarls in pained surprise. He leans over, and sees a small drawing in a frame. His claws broke the glass covering it, but they didn’t rip the drawing.
It’s simple, black lines on cream paper. He cocks his head, and the lines resolve into a forest, waterfall, and pool of water. It’s strangely beautiful, appreciative of the woods and the water in a way Muzan couldn’t imagine from a human.
“Yeah, I heard something outside. It’s probably just some small animal or something. Don’t they have tanukis here?”
Muzan, startled, scrambles up the side of the house and onto the roof. His hands ache and sting, the glass still stuck in the skin.
A human comes out, a phone pressed to her ear. He can tell she’s female, smell it on her. Usually, humans use phones to tell others to come, to join the hunt—but she’s saying, “No, no, I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to come, Aunt Reese, I’m serious. It’s perfect.”
She slips the phone into a pocket of her clothes, and then she notices the wreckage of the boxes.
“What the hell?” she murmurs, squatting to examine the scattered remnants of pillows and bedding and clothes. “Okay, that definitely wasn’t a tanuki.”
When she sees the other box, she gasps and tears it open, sagging with relief when she finds the drawing unharmed. And then she notices the broken glass, which, Muzan suddenly realizes, has his dark blood on it.
“Oh, wow,” she murmurs. “What are you?”
She starts sorting things into piles—unusable, and usable, Muzan thinks—and sighs a few times. She seems more attached to her belongings than he expected. Maybe if he rips up more boxes, she’ll leave.
But he’s going to pick the glass out of his skin first.
You learned very quickly that whatever it was, it didn’t care for your presence in the house.
Every morning, you woke up to find something broken, scratched to ribbons, or just plain unrecognizable. At first, it was just your car—the tires ripped up, the glass smashed, huge divots torn out of the metal like butter—and then the house. Windows scratched, screens with gaping holes. It was like living in a haunted house, and it always happened at night.
But it hadn’t come inside the house. Until now.
The pen and ink drawing your mother made—the last one before she died, before her cancer got worse again, before everything—isn’t in its frame.
You slowly walk out onto the porch, your gut sinking. The sky is still dark, dawn too far off, and the front door is hanging open—and the drawing is on the wood, torn into so, so many pieces.
You sink down on your knees, and as you sift through the wreckage of the last part of your mother, you burst into tears.
Muzan had tried everything to make the human leave, shy of attacking her. He’d demolished her car, her house—and she still wouldn’t leave. She’s a threat. She’ll bring others, hunt him and the others down.
Muzan can’t afford to let her stay.
She cares about that drawing, so he’s going to destroy that paper tonight. See if she’ll stay without it.
So, when the human’s gone to sleep, he creeps up to the house. He goes in the door, into the first room he comes to. And there it is, on the wall. He pulls it out of its frame.
The thing on the wall, the round white thing with black marks around the edge, suddenly makes a noise. A long, loud noise, like a bell.
Muzan jumps and runs, panicked, onto the porch. Movement inside tells him the human’s getting up, and so, hurrying, he shreds the paper and jumps onto the roof. The human won’t stay. He’s made sure of that.
And then she comes out, and she sees the scraps of paper, and she bursts into tears. Muzan pauses. Something in his chest tightens, oddly, when she cries, trying to gather up the pieces.
“Okay, okay, I get it!” she suddenly shouts, her face still wet. “You hate me! You want me to leave! But I—“ She gulps on a sob, voice breaking softly. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. And this is all I have left. So please, please, just leave me alone!”
He should be happy. He should. But he isn’t. Muzan’s chest clenches. He’s gotten used to her face, her smile, the way she whistles off-key while she does her chores. Seeing her break breaks something in him.
Does he care about her?
She goes inside, drooping, and comes back with something strange. Muzan, curious, watches, and she starts using clear things to put the drawing back together. It stays, so the clear strips must be sticky.
A loud ringing sound. Muzan knows it by now—she uses it to know when to get up. Sighing, she gets up, goes back inside.
Muzan drops silently onto the porch, and pulls a strip of clear stickiness off the plastic thing. And he starts sticking the paper back together. He remembers the drawing. It must have really mattered to the human, then.
He’s sorry, oddly. She doesn’t seem to have any guns or knives or traps, and he made her cry.
He doesn’t like to see her cry.
You switch off your alarm clock, and stand beside the bed for a minute, sighing as it sinks in. You don’t have anywhere else to go, but the creature in the woods has made its opinion very clear. You can’t stay.
Slowly, you make your way back out to the porch, and when you see it, you stop.
The drawing’s fixed.
You hadn’t put more than half of it back together, and now it’s all there in one piece. The tape dispenser is scratched—by long, sharp claws you’re more than familiar with by now—but unharmed.
It feels like an apology.
So you take the drawing, and put it back in its place, and then you go through the fridge and bring out some eggs, some bacon. You fry the bacon, scramble the eggs and salt them, and plate the lot—and carry it outside.
“I think you can understand me, or at least some of what I say,” you tell the woods, the sun still out of sight. “You’re a predator, right? So you’ll probably like this. And, um—thank you.”
You leave it on the porch and shut the door. The creature likes its privacy, so you eat your own breakfast in the living room, humming quietly as you stare up at the repaired paper. The creature’s very intelligent—you can hardly tell the drawing was torn at all, from how well it was fixed.
When you check the plate, it’s been licked clean. Literally.
Maybe things are finally looking up.
Muzan sits on the long, overlooking branch of the same oak, watching the human plant a small garden. He smelled the seeds yesterday, when she left them outside. Edible. Nothing dangerous.
He tells himself that if she ever proves dangerous, he’ll drive her off.
He knows perfectly well that he won’t.
She talks to him now, though he still hasn’t let her see him. When she’s outside, or when she has the windows open, she’ll say things like, “How are you?” Or, “That was a bad storm last night. Hope you didn’t get too wet.” Or even, “I wish I could show you this show I’ve been watching on Netflix. You probably have no idea what that means, do you? I think you’d like it.”
When the fall’s cold snap came, she started leaving blankets out for him. Muzan brought them back to the den, for Rui and Zohakuten and the others. They’ll be warm this winter. When he goes into sleep with them, they’ll be warm until spring.
So he left his human a few birds he hunted, on the porch. She’d laughed, and said, “I—have no idea what to do with these. How about you not hunt for me? I’ve got food, I promise. But thank you!”
Muzan had taken back the birds, and left something from his collection behind. Like all his kind, he’s drawn to bright things, and he keeps the best ones for himself, in his part of the nest. So he left her a silver button, and a red ribbon, from his hoard.
She liked those. Muzan’s seen her wearing the ribbon, using it to pull her hair back.
A few nights ago, he started coming to the house at the same time, around sunset, every day. He’s done it since. She’s noticed—she talks more when she knows he’s there.
Yesterday, she teased him, and he dropped a nut on her head. She laughed until she almost fell over.
Muzan thinks he might like this human.
When your creature doesn’t come back all winter, you realize he’s probably hibernating. Some large predators do that. He’s probably one of them.
You were really worried the first week he didn’t turn up, though.
You’re not sure when he stopped being an it, when “the creature” became “your creature,” but you’ve gotten attached to him. You can tell when he’s there. He visits around sunset every day. Recently, he started interacting with you—dropping nuts and other things to make his point—even if you still haven’t seen him.
You spend the winter wondering what he looks like, if he’s warm enough. If he’s safe and comfortable and happy, while the snow falls outside and you turn up the heating.
When spring comes, you’re excited to have him back. And he comes back.
One night, you hear a knock at the door. It’s still a little cold at night, so you pull a blanket around yourself to answer it, not thinking about who the knock came from.
You pull the door open.
And there he is, letting you see him. Your creature. You let the blanket fall, unable to think of anything else.
He’s tall and thin, but lined with muscle—and he could almost pass for human, except for the dark tint on his forearms shading into black on his hands, or the deep red of his eyes, or the claws tipping his long, graceful fingers. He licks his lips, his eyes dropping nervously, and you catch a glimpse of sharp teeth and a long tongue.
His hair is long and black, but well-cared-for and clean, not draggled. His skin is porcelain pale, and he’s nude—but unlike a human, he doesn’t have any obvious genitals, just a smooth mound. (You immediately kick yourself for even looking.)
Very, very slowly, he holds out a hand toward you. It’s hesitant, almost fearful, so you meet him halfway with your own hand and squeeze his.
He jumps a little, startled, but then he leans closer, his eyelids fluttering. He has long lashes, you realize. Before you know what you’re doing, you lift your hand to his face, cupping his cheek. And he leans into it, turning to nuzzle against your palm.
“You—do you want to come in?” you ask.
It takes some time, but eventually he grows comfortable enough to show himself more frequently. When you’re gardening, struggling to pull a particularly stubborn sweet potato, he’s suddenly there to nudge you aside and dig it up with clawed hands. When you’re making breakfast, he shows up at the kitchen window and hands a few berries though it. He’s always there these days, whenever you turn around.
The first time he speaks, you almost jump out of your skin.
You’re talking to him, telling him about something inane—something you saw on Netflix—without expecting anything to fill the silence.
So when he says, “What is Netflix?” in a low mellow voice, you start, spilling your morning tea all over yourself and your blanket in the chair on the porch.
“Did I scare you?” he says, worried, and your heart jumps.
“I—I’ve never heard you speak. I didn’t even know you could,” you say, shoving the blanket off and rubbing your legs. The tea was still hot, and your thighs are hurting.
He kneels down in front of you, looking at your legs intently.
“It hurts,” he says softly. “Did it burn?”
“I don’t think so,” you manage, almost tongue-tied from seeing him so close to you. “But you—how did you learn English?”
“You,” he says, still intently studying your legs. “I listened to you.”
You huff an incredulous laugh. “Well, I always knew you were clever, but this is—“
He chuckles, and it’s a wonderful sound that makes your heart feel light and warm and full.
“I think you should change your clothes,” he says gently. “And then you can show me your Netflix.”
You do show him your Netflix, and other things around the house—the microwave, the fridge—and every time he sees something new and unexplained, he learns quickly. He adapts too; the television is not a threat, it’s entertainment. He doesn’t like the fridge, but he understands that the microwave makes food warm again, and he likes it better that way.
You learn too, more about him. His name is Muzan. He eats a lot of meat—preferably animals he hunts himself, though he seems to like eating with you—and has incredible senses. Smell seems particularly important to him; he can tell what you’ve eaten hours before, and find you unerringly with just your scent to go on.
After a little while, Muzan gets comfortable enough to visit every day, coming inside the house. He’s very intelligent, and spends a lot of time pouring over your books or discussing what he’s read with you. He likes documentaries or meaningful films, but generally doesn’t care for shows. If you want to watch one, he’ll settle himself beside you, reading silently.
And time passes like that, for weeks and months.
When summer is coming to a close at last, Muzan asks you to walk with him in the forest. He seems almost nervous when he asks, twisting his hands together. You often walk together on the paths, but this seems different somehow.
“What is it?” you ask gently. “Muzan, is something bothering you?”
He huffs a soft laugh.
“I want you to see my den,” he admits. “And meet my family.”
You can’t keep the smile off your face. You’re touched by the clear trust in that gesture. The two of you have come so far.
“Do they know I’m coming?” you check.
“Yes.” Muzan bites his lip. “They…may not trust you as I do right away.”
“I wouldn’t expect them to.” You slide your hand into his larger, dark-tinted one. “You’ve been hunted by humans, so you hunted them. I’m guessing they’ve experienced the same. Trust would be a big ask after that.”
Muzan pulls you into a fierce embrace, nuzzling into your neck.
“Thank you,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking.
The den is a cave, the entrance fairly cramped. Muzan guides you very carefully through it, at one point using his hand to stop you from slamming your knee into a sharp rock. It’s much bigger on the inside, with a pile of very familiar blankets directly in front of you on the floor. There are a few ledges, which seem to be full of bright things—buttons feature prominently, but so do shiny rocks and strips of cloth.
Muzan’s a bit like a crow, actually. Now you know where your button and ribbon came from—you’re wearing the ribbon in your hair today.
Zohakuten emerges first. He has black hair, like Muzan, and they’re clearly the same species. But he’s small, about the size of an 8-year-old. He’s glaring at you.
Muzan slips a hand around your waist. You take a deep breath.
“You’re Zohakuten, right?” you ask, squatting down. “I brought something for you.”
Muzan had explained that for his kind, their collections were very important. New members of a family group usually gave each other gifts, so you’d brought a few things.
Carefully, you hold your hand out. In it is a wooden dinosaur. “My uncle was a whittler,” you tell Zohakuten. “And he made this when I was little.”
Zohakuten sniffs it before he takes it.
“Your uncle ate a lot of cheese,” he says. Your brows rise.
“You can smell that?” When Zohakuten nods, you say, “You must have a really good nose.”
He smiles. Just a little.
Gyutaro comes out next, with Daki behind him. His hair is black; hers is white.
“You’re the one who gave us the blankets,” Gyutaro says flatly.
“Yeah. I’ve got something else for you though. Muzan told me you like knives, Guytaro.” You hand him the little pocketknife your mother gave you when you turned sixteen. “You want this one?”
Gyutaro looks it over. Then he takes it. “Thanks,” he mutters.
“So, do I have something?” Daki asks.
“Yeah, you do.” You give her a piece of embroidered cloth. “My mom’s mom made this when she was little.”
“What’s it for?”
“Being pretty,” you say, and wink. “Just like you.”
Daki squeals and hugs you. As she and her brother go to curl up in the blanket mound, you hear Gyutaro say, “You smell gross now.” Daki swats him, and snaps, “Nice things aren’t gross and she was nice, so she doesn’t smell gross. You’re gross.”
“Your hair’s gross,” Gyutaro mutters.
Apparently kids are still kids, even when they’re creatures in the woods.
When the sun sinks, and Rui still doesn’t come out, Muzan asks if you should go home. He’s worried about you being outside in the dark.
“Muzan,” you tell him, hands on hips, “if it’s okay with everyone, I’d rather stay.”
Zohakuten laughs. When you both look at him, he shrugs.
“I like her.”
Daki runs over and pulls up and down on Muzan’s arm.
“Can she stay? Can she please?”
Muzan looks over at Gyutaro. The boy shrugs.
“She doesn’t smell that gross,” he says, his arms folded. “I guess.”
Muzan sighs. “All right.”
Daki squeals with delight and drags you over to the blanket mound, pulling you down beside her. She curls up next to you like a cat, and starts telling all about everything in her collection. Halfway through, she starts yawning. A bit later, she falls asleep.
Gyutaro plops down next to her, stares at you for a second, and shuts his eyes. Zohakuten leans his head against your knee, looking over his gift again. And very gently, Muzan tucks himself against your other side, smiling.
“You’re smiling,” Zohakuten says, surprised.
Muzan puts a finger to his lips. “Don’t wake your siblings,” he says softly. Zohakuten wrinkles his nose.
“You’re going soft, papa,” he whispers.
Muzan shows his teeth playfully. “Oh, am I?”
“Definitely,” Zohakuten says. “You like her. You like her a lot.” He stares at you in the dark. “You’re all mushy now. You didn’t used to be mushy.”
“I’ll show you mushy,” Muzan warns. “In the morning.”
As Zohakuten rolls over, still holding his new present, he mumbles quietly, “That’s just what a mushy person would say.”
Hello, I'm from Gaza City because of the war,my house was destroyed. We lost everything,my family and I did not have anything left. We left our homes in search of a safe place and we were displaced three times to different places to survive, but unfortunately there's no safe place in Gaza. My mother is very sick and she's a kidney failure patient in need of treatment outside. She suffers from LS. Help me and my family to survive. Please, your small donation can make a huge difference. A friend outside Gaza has come in to help me run the donation program so that my mother can be evacuated
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it’s rather shitty that the gerudo have to feel collective shame and responsibility for ganondorf and go through all this effort to “repent” and “make amends,” even though ganondorf is apparently the product of demise and the gerudo had little to do with him; meanwhile, the hylians get to persecute the sheikah, simply because their technology might have threatened the royal family’s position, but the hylians don’t have to collectively “repent,” and the sheikah who rebelled against their oppression are the ones who are framed as being in the wrong and are the subject of mockery.
when non-hylians do it, they’re sinners who must either be destroyed or forced to repent for 10,000 years. when hylians do it, it’s a “tragic mistake” and anyway, it’s all in the past, why are you so mad about it? so what if we have an unelected monarchy that will destroy entire cultures to maintain the social hierarchy? princess zelda is so nice and smart and beautiful and literally a goddess, so that totally makes it all worth it in the end!
titsay
jacobvanloon
areudirty
turnnoffyourmind
kianamaiart
tangentwithtanner
yousharknotpass
dailybridgerton
