foxborn

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.

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.

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.

zodiac: aquarius

last movie i saw: one piece z when i should have gone to bed after the first movie that is not one piece related at all

last thing i googled: michael jackson memes

favorite musician: Bigbang

song stuck in my head: Table for One by Nicbase.

other blogs:I got a couple of multimuse blogs and a bunch of side blogs. *coughs*Luna,Aero,Wave*cough*

do i get asks: yes, but I am tired and just slow ugh.

following: mutuals who kick down my door and tell me wild shit.

amount of sleep: Average is six. Which is more when I used to be in school.

lucky number: dunno

what am i wearing: a tommy t-shirt, a skort and vessi sneaks - a lil casual for work but cute :)

dream job: still asking myself that.

dream trip: Greece, Dubai, Bahrain, South Korea

favorite food: fried eggplant. fried eggs too.

play any instruments: piano, flute.

languages: English, Tagalog/Filipino

favorite songs: it changes. right now it's Umbrella by Junhee

random fact: I have suspicions that I might possibly come from a line of witches/babaylans. I've said this that have happened. I leaned to be careful about saying shit about people because it's happened twice now. I don't know. Could just be coincidence. maybe it's a phase.

describe yourself as aesthetic things: plants. girl boss in suits, high heels. tall buildings. idk. uhh. lumpia.

Tagged by: @hexsreality+ @sasorikigai

✦ Name / Alias: Nyx/Valentina. issa pen name.

✦ Favorite Color(s): green. my friends make fun of me for liking a lot of green.

✦ Current Video Game(s) You’re Playing: Diablo IV: Lord of Hatred. valorant. never forget the roots. i started fps.

✦ Current Book You're Reading: Who You Gonna Call? by H. Bjornsson. This is like some historical book on local EMS because local EMS is 50 years this year.

✦ Favorite Food: fried eggplant actually.

✦ Favorite Quote: "No." Hamlet, Act III Scene 3, line 87 (Shakespeare)

✦ Biggest Fear (make it a joke): At this point? Good god. yeah idk.

✦ Greatest Hope for 2026: not be broke af. rent and gas are out here competing for who gets to be more expensive and worth a liver. also go back to school again or set myself up with enough credentials so i can move up the ladder.

Tagged by: @sasorikigai

The Netherrealm is hot. Earthrealmers call it hell for a reason. This is the logic of a woman who was once of that old realm, the same realm that has driven her into the next, into the Netherrealm, fully claimed in the aftermath of tragedy and loss.

But.

Something in the air shifts.

A cold just a little outside the Wastes, that should not be there.

The Wastes are her territory, or a piece of it - not claimed wholly, because the Ascended She-fox does not need to claim. The realm has claimed her, through the blood that runs through her veins, generations before her existence and death. Before her ascension.

The Wastes do not welcome cold. If it did, it is rare, and it is an earned permission. To Miharu, it means the realm has allowed it. For some reason she does not yet understand.

The she-fox is one with the realm, and yet she is not one with it. She communes with it.

And not far, she feels it.

The cold - disciplined, which is not always common to most souls who pass the sanctuary. This is almost reminiscent of a man she once loved, but cold. Different in the way she has always known. Contained, and somehow still purposeful. The approach of a warrior - unhurried, precise.

The way orange eyes - orange like an early sunset's memory she remembers from lifetimes ago; orange as a colour of fire present in the realm - the way those eyes land on her with precision, with an assessment.

The she-fox does not turn or speak immediately. She lets him assess her, whether she is a threat or an ally. This is the closest to an openness she will demonstrate - because she is the realm's child, claimed and recognized through the grief she carries, and it has responded to her quiet pain, and in her ascension allowed her to build - the mercy of a realm where suffering is currency and grief holds a silence that is its own unique language.

Then she turns.

Crimson eyes meet sunset oranges, and the she-fox does not step back nor forward. Her aura, her very presence, needs no verbal command - the noise around them softens, and then it is simply quiet. The distant screaming is dampened.

The realm holds its breath, listening. And the she-fox, as she has learned through time and lifetimes, waits.