foxborn @vulpuslunae - Tumblr Blog

vulpuslunae- (n.) a fandomless oc blog with heavy influences from pop culture. forever wip. written and loved by val. mutuals only.

a study in duality, mythology/fantasy and dark topics that can make anyone uncomfortable. any in-character (ic) threads on this blog is a work of fiction and should not be treated as reality.

start here. dossier. known universes. verse shortlist. memes. open starters.

ask me for my other blogs idk.

#ooc: valentina #//sike one day i can come up with a new promo :)

shadows-of-infinity

#relationships tag #sasorikigai

soluksuret

#relationships tag

shadows-of-infinity

No chance of escaping

#thoughts: miharu #relationships tag #sasorikigai

shadows-of-infinity

Size difference >

#sasorikigai #relationships tag

vulpuslunae

He says it the way one might unseal a scroll kept for decades in silence - deliberately, with the full weight of ceremony pressing into each syllable. Miharu Yamaguchi-Hasashi. The name unfolds from his mouth like lacquered wood grain revealed beneath years of dust, like the first breath drawn after deep water.

He does not whisper it. He does not shout. He places it, precisely, into the amber quiet of morning the way an archer places an arrow before he has even raised the bow - knowing already where it will land.

The light comes in strips across the tatami. It finds her first, as light has always had the arrogance to do, gilding the line of her jaw, the architecture of her shoulder, the soft geography of her stillness. He resents the sun, briefly, for touching her without permission. He has spent years learning that restraint is its own form of devotion, and so he only watches - still as temple stone, as held breath, as a man who has survived wars and grief and his own ruin and arrived, improbably, here.

Yamaguchi. Her birth-name. The root of her, the soil from which she grew before he ever had the grace to know her. He holds it in his mouth a moment longer than necessary, turning it the way one turns river-smoothed stone in a palm - aware of everything that shaped it.

Hasashi. And then his. Given. Taken. Chosen by both of them in the space between one year's ending and another's beginning. It sits against the former name like steel set beside silk - neither diminishing the other, both the truer for the pairing.

He reaches, finally. One hand, unhurried, brushes the hair from her temple with the kind of care men like him were never supposed to learn and had to earn - knuckle by split knuckle, wound by wound, by the long discipline of becoming someone worthy of the name she now carries alongside his.

One year. One year of waking to this. Of the weight of her presence in rooms he once moved through like a ghost. Of anniversary. Of accounting.

He has counted every morning. He intends to count every one that follows.

(Canon)

call her by her full name @sasorikigai

The words land like arrows pre-fired from a bow with certainty that they will land where they are intended to land. The decision to hyphenate her name had not been an easy one. Miharu - a name that is not by far, adapted as a duality of a girl whose origins have known grief and persecution and everything else that come with being something that lesser men would call monsters. It is an adaptation, necessary for survival. It is a name different from her original birth name, also similar in meaning. Yamaguchi. The family name that needed to be adapted, because survival means adapting and adapting means camouflaging and camouflaging means living among mortals undetected, unhunted, unpursued.

The call reaches her before he finishes. He is not whispering. Not shouting. Just precisely in the cadence, in the tone, in the low voice he speaks, threaded with quiet affection and deliberateness that he has always applied to everything that involves her.

Morning light slowly illuminates the room - their shared room, private and safe and irrelevant to the outside world. Here, she is simply Miharu. Not the she-fox that he has chosen. Just Miharu. Here she is his wife. The man who chooses her back, irrevocably, deliberately and he chooses to see her - not as some mythical creature with spiritual prowess and ancestral knowledge or capabilities, but as a woman. Someone who stays.

Her eyes find him; they open wide like saucers, and she is awake - she had been awake, and she will deny it with playfulness that he knows too well; she will playfully deny that she had been pretending to remain asleep, though the corner of her lips have already long since betrayed her and she knows he did not miss that almost-smile.

Yamaguchi. Her birth-name. The adaptation of a family that knew grief intimately through years, decades, centuries. The root of her, and he says the syllables like incantation. The name she keeps because she is the last of her kind. She lets it sit.

Hasashi. His. Given. Chosen. Received. It is the continuation of her, as she stands beside him - permitted, present, permanent. Parallel. Neither name diminishing the other.

She blinks. Her eyes are doing the thing they do when they find him, which unravels what she hides, and her breath hitches because she is processing this, the way he is here, and he is real to her and he is warm. That she, an outsider to his clan, is his. His wife.

One year. One year that feels like an eternity. Never taken for granted. Always grateful, always appreciative. One year, and counting. One year of waking to this, beside him. An anniversary to commemorate.

There are days that feel longer and heavier than usual. There are weeks that are more exhausting than effortless. There are nights that feel darker and the world seems to be closing in and she is there. Always sitting next to him even without conversations to be had.

She has lost track of how many mornings and nights. Not because she forgets, but it is quite easy to get lost in the mundane, which she somehow still finds beauty in.

And this.

This is a gift.

She smiles. Inevitable.

Her eyebrows are a question. Her eyes are curious.

She will not ask what is it. She does not ask if she had done something wrong last night. She certainly will not ask him why he is calling her with her full name now.

But it is a door left ajar for him to enter and shut it fully.

sasorikigai

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥|| He sees the smile before she lets it fully happen.

This is the thing about her - she cannot hide from him anymore, if she ever truly could. The corner of her mouth betrays her the way dawn betrays the horizon, inevitably, beautifully, before the full light comes. He has made a study of her tells. He has made a devotion of it. The almost-smile. The hitched breath. The eyes that open like something sacred being uncovered.

He does not move immediately.

This is deliberate. This is Hanzo - a man who learned patience the way other men learn to bleed, through repetition and cost and the slow understanding that the most profound things are ruined by haste.

He learned it in war. He learned it in grief. He is learning it again, differently, here - in the amber quiet of a room that belongs to no one but the two of them, where the light comes in without apology and finds her first and he has made his peace with this because he, too, finds her first. He will always find her first.

He looks at her the way a man looks at something he cannot yet believe he is permitted to have.

Then he moves.

One knee to the tatami. Unhurried. The way he descends into meditation, into prayer, into the deepest forms of discipline - with his whole body given over to the intention of it. His hand, calloused and careful, finds the curve of her jaw. His thumb traces the line of it like he is committing it to memory for the thousandth time, and he will do this again tomorrow, and he will not tire of it. This is not worship performed for an audience. This is private as marrow. This is the religion of a man who burned his faith to the ground and rebuilt it, stone by stone, around a woman who stayed when she did not have to.

"You were pretending," he says. Not an accusation. An observation made warm at the edges by something he still does not have a word for in any language, and he has tried several.

His forehead comes to rest against hers.

This - this particular gravity, this specific proximity - undoes him in ways that battlefields never managed. He survived steel and shadow and the long architecture of his own ruin. He did not anticipate this. He did not anticipate her. The she-fox who let herself be seen. Who sat beside him in the dark rooms of difficult weeks and asked nothing and gave everything and made a home in the marrow of him without ever demanding that he acknowledge what she was building there.

He breathes her in.

One year is not long enough to account for what she has returned to him. He cannot calculate it. Cannot reduce it to ceremony or symbol or even the full weight of her name on his tongue, though he reaches for it - reaches for language the way a drowning man reaches for anything solid, and finds, impossibly, that she is there. That she is always, improbably, there.

His hand slides from her jaw into the warmth of her hair.

He does not speak yet. He lets the silence do the thing that silence does between two people who have learned to live inside it together - lets it expand, lets it hold them both, unhurried and unapologetic as the light that spills across the tatami and pools between their joined shadows.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Precise. Threaded through with everything a man like him was never given permission to say aloud and had to learn, wound by wound and year by year, to offer freely.

"One year," he says, against her temple. "And every morning before it I spent without knowing what I was missing."

He pulls back just enough to look at her. To be looked at. This is the thing she does - she looks at him without flinching, without the performance of pity or the theater of reverence, simply as a woman who has chosen to see him fully and has not looked away - and he holds it, the way one holds something almost unbearably precious. Carefully. With both hands.

"You smiled before you let yourself smile," he says. "I saw it."

There is a warmth in his voice that he does not attempt to conceal. He is done concealing. He has spent enough years as a ghost in his own life, moving through rooms that echoed only with absence, and he will not waste a single morning of this one pretending that she does not illuminate every space she occupies.

He is a man remade.

Not softened - he knows this about himself, accepts it. He is still stone. Still steel. Still the thing that survived when softer things could not. But she has found the seams in him and filled them with something warm and enduring, and he carries that now the way rivers carry the memory of rain, deeply, in the very way they move.

His thumb traces her cheekbone. Once. Like punctuation.

"Happy anniversary," Hanzo Hasashi says to his wife, Miharu Yamaguchi-Hasashi - and he says her full name again because he can, because she let him have it, because she is here and real and warm and the greatest improbability of his entire long and improbable life.

He intends to keep counting. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥||

vulpuslunae

This is the thing about her. She hides. She hides and still he chooses to see her, despite that he knows well that being seen means vulnerability, and vulnerability is something she is not afforded, not for her kind, and yet--

--he chooses to see her. Not as a monster like the unprepared would categorize creatures, things they do not understand and have chosen to remain in that failure to understand. But as a woman. As someone who is more human than animal. Through her staying she, whether she knows this or not - and perhaps she does, she knows all along - has allowed him to see her, in increments. In the silences and presence she offers whence she has built a pyre next to him offering only warmth in the coldest nights without asking anything in return, offering only light in the darkest of days he intimately knows.

She has sat with him in those days.

And on better ones, when he is himself, he has made a study of her tells - the thing she has permitted him because love and devotion, as she knows them, require an initial feeling but is the culmination, the accumulation of consistencies without assessing presence as threat.

She feels the weight of his gaze upon her. She has learned over the years the weight of his silences and the way he looks at her because she has learned that his eyes betray him even when he hides everything he feels beneath those dark obsidian pools that see through her mask and she sees through him back.

He moves.

She meets him. She rises slowly from the tatami and she rises to meet him in his slow descend, with one knee as he lowers himself to her. His hand, calloused and careful, finds the curve of her jaw and she leans into the warmth of them, which is the same warmth she has learned since that night he granted her sanctuary, when she'd been alone and hunted and she has begged him for mercy, when she knows that it is as dangerous for a she-fox like her to ask men for their help.

The thumb moves along. This is affection, offered in the way he knows. And it is not performance, it never has been. It is the reaching of a man who has found favour and is returning that favour to her. This is private. This is what stays behind these chambers, the one she is grateful and honoured to have witnessed.

You were pretending. Not an accusation but a naming not because it requires naming but that this is an observation that he must name, and sometimes there is no language fitting other than using what is available because this is not an accusation nor is it a mere observation. It is an observation that is warm at the edges and there is no word sufficient enough to encompass it in its entirety.

The forehead rests against hers.

This. This is the full devotion of a man who has offered himself as he is remade and the pyre continues to burn because she has chosen to tend the fire by staying when leaving is an easier path. This is the undeserved love she has braced against because betrayal is a common tongue and loyalty from his kind has always been too good too true. She had not anticipated a man as loyal as him. She did not anticipate allowing someone to see her, and allowing herself to be seen. The world as she'd known has always been about blood and war and grief and the world holds no place for she-fox maidens who are cursed and he let her stay, let her sit next to him in dark rooms and she had not asked for anything in return but perhaps the company of someone who will not wield a blade against her unprovoked.

She had, unknowingly, built something in him without knowing or demanding acknowledgment.

One year.

One year that feels like eternity and she still is learning what it means to be his wife, what it means to be the grandmaster's chosen person, what it means to be the mother of the clan he leads. She has always stood in the shadows, behind him and always to his periphery because she has always understood that she has never been one of them and she isn't sure she will ever be like them.

But he is here. He is real.

He is warm.

She closes her eyes. Inhales the scent of him - which is sandalwood, musk and something only him. And the scent tantalizes her senses and she feels him here, with her and he is solid and he is warm. The silence holds. Expands. There is a surreal quiet peace in here even when the light from the outside spills unapologetically and unhurriedly across the tatami and surrounds them like water that has made its way to its destination.

She exhales. She is smiling.

Her eyelids slowly open when he pulls back and her eyes find his face - there is a tiredness that is older than them, and she commits that to memory from the lines to the curves to the shadow that exists there in his features permanently. She commits this to memory - the way he holds her, the way he has reached out to her when reaching out has never been a requirement and yet he had done that and he'd allowed himself to love her with fierce devotion that matches hers, and this is not faith. This is simply the consequence of choosing.

She does not flinch. There is no performance. There is no pity. There is a shadow of reverence not because he outranks her here in their chambers - there is no rank; just a man and a woman who have learned each others' silences, grief and chosen to stay.

"I know. I cannot help it when I know you are near."

The warmth in his voice. Unconcealed. Good, she thinks. She does not require him to conceal things but she will not ask anything he does not wish to offer. She has never done that, and she is not about to begin now.

He is remembering something.

This is the thing about him. He remembers everything and carries it everyday, every minute, every second. He carries it with deliberateness and intention the way he does things and commits to them and it is simply no longer remarkable to her nor it is simply discipline. It is the thing that makes Hanzo Hasashi, who is a man remade. And in his remaking, she finds the seams, first without intending to and still has filled them with something warm and enduring anyway because this is the thing she knows.

The thumb moves across her cheekbone.

Happy anniversary. He says this to her, and he speaks her full name - Miharu Yamaguchi-Hasashi - because she lets him, and she is always grateful.

She is smiling. This is not the smile of mischief. There is something softer here, and she is moved - he will not miss this. She is soft in ways that she has not permitted herself around anyone else, because she rations her presence and attention like contraband, like a commodity too rare and she lets him witness her in this softness.

When she speaks, her voice is low. Unhurried. Not hesitant, but almost contemplative.

"I am grateful that you are here, Hanzo Hasashi."

#ic: miharu #sasorikigai #verse: immortal

Miharu Yamaguchi!!! - Himiko

call her by her full name @pittbats

Miharu Yamaguchi knows that voice - that pitch, that cadence, that intonation. She does not turn immediately.

But.

She stops her tracks. She is just on her way out, hoping that no one would notice. She isn't really feeling well today, though she'd suspected it must be some freak incidence of food poisoning, which is, not the greatest of conditions to be felt, though she is grateful the nausea has not fully began cresting until the last hour of her shift, which is also generally an inopportune hour because shit happens near the end of shifts at the emergency department.

This is, unfortunately, a normalized thing.

But the sneaking out is not the main thing that makes Himiko call her by her full government name. It is the post-it-note that has Himiko Dao's name as an answer to a question that has raised the stakes and has turned the guessing game into a betting pool. And the question is:

Who would win in a fistfight: the vending machine or a raccoon?

Someone wrote Himiko's name.

Miharu actually finds this hilarious. And this backfires anyway because there is only one person that Himiko knows would write in that penmanship.

The attending finally turns.

"Himiko Dao. Full government name." Not a question, yet. "That's what we're doing today?"

#ic: miharu #answered: asks #pittbats #//idk is this crack