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#Post#: 1442--------------------------------------------------
Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 9:28 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Miran faced yet another day, and with it came another life
lesson. His kind referred to the cycle as being ‘reborn,’ a
process through which they earned their tails. Each lifetime
pursued with a clear goal granted a new tail, along with the
wisdom of that life. Miran was on the brink of earning his
fourth tail.
His previous life had ended abruptly when his favorite band
disbanded. The unexpected change derailed his original
aspirations, leaving him without a new tail. But in this life,
Miran had clarity—he aspired to become a musician, a dedicated
band member. He was determined to channel his future lives
toward mastering musical knowledge.
Yet, as was customary for his kind, Miran had to start from
childhood once more. Although his memories lingered beneath the
surface, they would remain dormant until he reached puberty in
this new life.
Now 17 again, he was leaning against the wall, him sneaking a
smoke as usual. Didn’t matter the life- he was hooked to the
nicotine.
To boot he lost a few friends- humans he couldn’t keep- they
died so quickly. He refused to be in a relationship with one
either. If anything he was a bit of a play boy. Didn’t matter
the gender.
A long draw in- to releasing as he settled down, his leg
sticking out from the tree he hid in for the lunch hour.
—fin—
The mortal world was always the same: gray, cold, suffocating.
Apollon hated it here.
The magic of his punishment clung to his skin like a shackle,
dampening his fire, muting the vibrant energy that usually
roared through him. Here, even the sun’s warmth felt thin, like
a weak candle instead of the glorious blaze he was used to
basking in.
Twenty-five years, he reminded himself, flexing his fingers. The
memory of his last punishment was still fresh, a bitter taste on
his tongue. Twenty-five years of blending in, pretending to be
one of them, and helping mortals who were too blind to even
realize they were being guided.
Normally, his tasks were straightforward. Help a family rebuild
after tragedy. Guard a fragile soul through heartbreak.
But this time, the fae court had been cryptic. “A boy who has
lived many lives,” they’d told him. “One who strays further with
each rebirth. Guide him before he loses himself entirely.”
Apollon’s mouth twisted.
They hadn’t even said boy’s name.
-----
---
The high school was a noisy, chaotic mess. He’d spent two days
watching from the shadows, observing the ebb and flow of
students. Most were ordinary, radiating mortal fragility.
Not the one he sought.
He’d almost started to believe the court was playing some
elaborate joke until he saw him — lounging under an old oak tree
like a king on a crumbling throne.
The boy had an effortless sort of defiance about him. Dark hair
framed a sharp, youthful face, and a cigarette burned between
his fingers as if he didn’t care about rules or the world’s
opinions. One leg dangled lazily over a low branch, tapping in
time to a rhythm Apollon couldn’t hear.
But what truly caught his attention wasn’t the boy’s appearance.
It was his aura.
Even muted by mortal flesh, it shimmered faintly — foxfire under
a thin veil of smoke and sunlight. Old, wild, untamed.
Apollon’s heart gave a sharp, unwelcome twist. Kitsune.
Not a fragile human after all.
That complicated things.
He crossed the courtyard with deliberate steps, boots crunching
softly over scattered leaves. The closer he got, the more he
could feel the boy’s presence — a heat not unlike his own, but
different, tricksy and layered.
He stopped a few paces away, tilting his head. “You’re hiding
out here during lunch,” he said, his voice smooth, even. “Do you
always avoid the crowd, or just today?”
--Fin--
Miran was lost in thought, humming softly to himself until
something snapped him back to reality—a voice. His keen sense of
smell instantly identified the speaker as a demon.
Though Miran wasn’t particularly pleased by the interruption, he
found the question oddly amusing.
“"Avoiding crowds? That's laughable," Miran chuckled. "Hiding to
avoid getting caught smoking? Now that's more realistic."
He took another drag, his gaze shifting slightly. "And you,
demon boy," he murmured, exhaling slowly. "What's your name? And
why approaching me?"
—fin—
Apollon’s lips curved in a faint, knowing smile at the nickname,
though his eyes stayed sharp, assessing. He leaned casually
against the tree trunk, folding his arms as if he had all the
time in the world.
“Apollon,” he said smoothly, like it was both an introduction
and a test. “And I’m here because I’ve heard you play.”
His gaze drifted deliberately to Miran’s tapping foot, still
keeping rhythm with whatever song played only in his head.
“You’ve got a good ear. Not many around here do.”
Apollon let a beat of silence pass, then tilted his head,
letting just enough intrigue slip into his tone to make it sound
like an invitation. “I’m looking to start something—small, to
begin with. A band. Thought maybe you’d be interested. Word is,
you’ve got the kind of sound I’m looking for.”
His mouth quirked into a half-smile, deliberately teasing.
“Or maybe you’d rather just hide out in trees and smoke all
day.”
--Fin--
“Mmmmmmmmmmmm…” Miran pondered, resting his hand under his chin.
“It depends—I’m kind of choosy about who I join,” he said with a
side glance. “And just so you know, it’s just for the lunch
hour—I’ve got *shakaika no jugyō ga aru.*”he added with a
mild grin.
“But can totally see what you’re aiming for… maybe.”
—fin—
Apollon’s lips twitched faintly, holding back a smile as he gave
a slow nod. “Neutral ground,” he said smoothly. “After you
finish your classes, we’ll meet. No pressure, no promises—just a
chance to see how we sound together.”
He shifted his stance, hands sliding casually into his jacket
pockets, appearing completely at ease. The plan was simple,
straightforward. Or so he thought—until his sharp ears caught
the sound of quick, purposeful footsteps behind them.
“MIRAN!”
Apollon didn’t hesitate. In a flash, he plucked the cigarette
from Miran’s hand and slipped it between his own fingers just as
a teacher stormed into view, face red with anger.
“Smoking on campus again, are we?!” the teacher barked, eyes
zeroing in on the telltale wisp of smoke.
Apollon calmly raised the cigarette, his expression perfectly
smooth.
“This is mine,” he said evenly.
The teacher froze, caught off guard. “You?! You’re not even a
student here!”
“Exactly,” Apollon replied, tone perfectly logical, even
slightly bored. “Which means Miran’s innocent. He was just
standing here while I was having a smoke.”
The teacher’s face darkened. “I don’t care whose it is. You’re
trespassing on school grounds, and that is strictly forbidden.”
Before Apollon could react, a firm hand clamped around his arm.
“Office. Now.”
Apollon let out a slow exhale through his nose, clearly unamused
as he was hauled toward the main building. He managed to glance
back over his shoulder, voice low and edged with dry humor.
“You owe me for this,” he said flatly.
Then he was gone, dragged around the corner, leaving only the
faint trace of smoke and a lingering sense of trouble behind.
-Fin-
Miran listened intently to the other teen, absorbing the
promises of no pressure and just giving it a try. He was about
to respond when he suddenly heard his name, causing a slight
flinch followed by a sigh. To his surprise, Apollon snagged his
cigarette. Miran’s eyes shot up, seizing the opportunity.
“I’m not smoking, swear!” he blurted out quickly.
What truly caught him off guard was Apollon leaning into the
act, smoothly diverting attention. Miran watched as the guy got
pulled away, letting out a quiet sigh of relief.
“Mm… guess I can play nice… for the save,” he murmured, heading
toward class with his hands casually laced behind his head.
The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of mundane lectures and
idle scribbles in the margins of his notebook. As the final bell
echoed through the halls, Miran felt the day's tension melt
away. He strolled outside, the cool afternoon breeze brushing
against his face. With a swift motion, he grabbed his skateboard
from his locker, rolling it beneath his feet. Pushing off with
ease, he coasted down the pavement, the rhythmic sound of wheels
against asphalt a comforting cadence. The city’s golden sunset
painted the sky as Miran weaved effortlessly through the
streets, the weight of the day left far behind.
His eyes scanning seeing if he’d catch a glimpse of apollon.
-fin—
Apollon sat stiffly in a too-small plastic chair, glaring at the
clock on the far wall. The second hand seemed to mock him,
ticking away at an agonizingly slow pace. Across from him sat
the teacher who’d dragged him here, rifling through paperwork
like a guard preparing a prison transfer.
“Name,” the teacher demanded flatly.
“Apollon,” he replied, voice clipped.
“Last name?”
Apollon arched an eyebrow. “Just Apollon.”
The teacher’s jaw tightened, clearly unimpressed. “Don’t get
smart with me. If you don’t belong to any of our students’
families, then you’re trespassing.”
Apollon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If only you knew who
you were talking to, mortal. Instead, he gave a long-suffering
sigh. “Fine. What do you need from me so this little
misunderstanding can be over?”
The teacher looked up sharply, clearly frustrated by his tone.
“The principal will decide that. Until then, sit there and don’t
move.”
The door opened a moment later, and an older man stepped in—the
principal, dressed neatly and radiating the kind of practiced
authority Apollon already disliked. After a brief conversation
in hushed tones, the teacher explained the situation.
“So,” the principal summarized, folding his hands on the desk,
“you were caught smoking on school property. You claim you’re
not a student here, but you also have no identification on you.”
His gaze sharpened. “That’s highly suspicious.”
Apollon tilted his head, tone deceptively polite. “What a
tragedy. Perhaps you could simply… forget about it?”
The principal’s eyes narrowed. “No. Here’s what’s going to
happen. You either give me verifiable proof of where you belong,
or…” He leaned back, a glint of cunning in his eyes. “…we’ll
enroll you. Better a transfer student than a loiterer.”
Apollon’s jaw went slack. “Enroll me?” His voice rose with
incredulity. “Absolutely not. I’m far too—” He caught himself
before saying old, shifting gears with a tight smile. “—unsuited
for this environment.”
“Those are your options.” The principal didn’t budge.
For a long moment, Apollon stared at him, utterly scandalized.
Then, with the kind of dramatic resignation only a fae warrior
could muster, he muttered, “Fine. Enroll me. But don’t expect me
to enjoy it.”
“Good. You’ll start tomorrow.” The principal handed him a stack
of forms. “Welcome to our student body.”
By the time Apollon was released, the sun was sinking low,
painting the world in gold and crimson. He strode out of the
building with the papers tucked under his arm, grumbling under
his breath.
“Twenty-five years,” he hissed to himself, kicking a loose
pebble across the pavement. “I’ve fought demons, guarded souls,
and faced down fae nobles… and this is my punishment?
Babysitting loud, smelly mortals in a glorified daycare?”
The rhythmic clack-clack of skateboard wheels reached his ears.
Apollon looked up just in time to see a familiar figure weaving
through the flow of students leaving the school grounds, the
setting sun catching on dark hair and a mischievous glint in his
eye.
Miran.
Apollon stepped casually into his path, appearing like a shadow
rising from the ground. “Enjoy your freedom while you can, fox,”
he said dryly, holding up the enrollment packet like evidence of
a crime. “Because starting tomorrow, I’ll be stuck in this
madhouse with you and all the other noisy brats.”
His expression soured. “I hope you’re worth it.”
--Fin--
Miran’s grin spread, a sly, almost predatory curve to his lips
as he came to a smooth stop in front of Apollon, the skateboard
wheels screeching softly against the pavement. He kicked the
board up, catching it in one fluid motion and letting it rest
casually against his hip. His eyes sparkled with amusement, and
his gaze flicked to the papers clutched in Apollon’s hand.
“Aw, c’mon,” Miran drawled, clearly enjoying the moment. “You
look way too serious for someone who’s been around as long as
you. But hey”—he nudged Apollon’s shoulder with a teasing
elbow—“it’s not all bad. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make
it... *entertaining*.”
He tipped his head back, letting the last rays of the sun light
up his dark hair in a fiery halo. “As for me being ‘worth it’...
Well, that’s up for *you* to decide. But, hey, Apollon,” he
added, his voice dropping a little lower, more serious, “I think
we’re both in for a lot more fun than we expect.”
With that, he flashed another grin, pulling the skateboard away
from his side and setting it back down with practiced ease.
Miran pushed off effortlessly, rolling backward a few feet
before turning to face Apollon once more, his smirk lingering
like a challenge.
“Try to keep up...”
And with that, he was gone, his figure weaving through the crowd
like a fox in the underbrush, vanishing into the horizon.
--fin
Apollon stood rooted to the spot, papers still clutched in his
hand, watching the little fox vanish into the crowd like smoke
in the wind. The setting sun burned at his back, and for one
long, simmering moment, he just breathed out through his nose.
“Try to keep up,” he muttered, repeating Miran’s words with a
scowl. “As if I have anything to prove to a brat like him.”
He stalked off down the street, boots striking the pavement with
sharp, irritated clicks. The city’s noise swirled around
him—honking cars, shouting pedestrians, the occasional blast of
tinny music—but it all felt muted compared to the seething buzz
in his head.
By the time he reached the small apartment he’d hastily arranged
through a favor or two at the fae court, his mood was a storm
ready to break. The place was… barely livable. A narrow space
with peeling wallpaper, a single rickety table, and one window
that rattled in its frame whenever a bus passed. Still, it would
serve.
Apollon tossed the enrollment packet onto the table with enough
force to scatter the top sheet across the floor. He stood there,
glaring down at it like it was personally mocking him.
“High school,” he said, the words a bitter curse. “I’ve survived
battles against hellspawn, stared down ancient kings, outwitted
creatures that feast on nightmares… and now I’m expected to sit
in a cramped desk and learn algebra.”
He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a deep, guttural
groan.
The corner of one paper caught his eye—Required Supplies. A neat
little checklist of items he was apparently expected to buy.
Apollon picked it up, scanning the list, and his scowl deepened
with every line. “Pencils. Notebooks. Gym shoes. Gym uniforms.”
His voice rose with each word, like a volcano about to blow.
“I’ve wielded weapons forged from starlight and silver flame,
and you want me to buy a calculator?”
He slammed the list back down, sending a puff of dust into the
air. “Ridiculous.”
For a moment, he simply stood there, chest rising and falling
with slow, measured breaths. Then, with a resigned huff, he
grabbed his coat and headed back out into the night.
“Fine. Supplies it is,” he muttered darkly. “But if I’m going to
suffer through this, I’m at least buying the expensive pens.”
The door slammed behind him, echoing through the tiny apartment
like a declaration of war.
The next morning, Apollon stood outside the school gates,
staring up at the squat, uninspiring building like it was a
battlefield he had no desire to fight on. The sun was bright and
mocking, students swarming past him in noisy clusters, their
laughter sharp and grating in his ears.
He adjusted the strap of the new bag slung over his
shoulder—stuffed with overpriced supplies that still felt like
an insult to his very existence—and muttered, “Twenty-five
years. Twenty-five years, and this is how I spend them.”
---
The Office
The administrative office was already bustling when he arrived.
The secretary, a cheerful older woman with an over-bright smile,
immediately set about piling a stack of textbooks into his arms.
“These are for your core classes. Math, science, literature… oh,
and don’t forget health and physical education!” she said with
an enthusiasm that made Apollon’s eyelid twitch.
He stared down at the stack like it was a personal attack.
“Health. And physical education,” he repeated flatly.
“Yes!” she chirped. “You’ll need gym shoes and the uniform—you
did get those, right?”
Apollon forced a smile so tight it could cut glass. “…Of
course.”
The moment her back turned, he muttered under his breath, “When
this punishment ends, I’m burning these clothes first.”
With his schedule and books finally in hand, he trudged toward
his first class, each step heavier than the last.
---
The Introduction
The classroom was already noisy when he entered, students
chatting in clusters while the teacher attempted to regain
control. As soon as Apollon stepped through the doorway, every
pair of eyes turned to him.
Wonderful, he thought sourly. A spectacle.
“Ah, there you are!” the teacher said, clapping his hands like a
circus ringmaster. “Class, we have a new transfer student today.
Please welcome… er…”
Apollon felt dozens of stares boring into him. He cleared his
throat, then spoke clearly, carefully.
“Apollon Stollos.”
“Stollos,” the teacher repeated with a nod. “Greek, yes? Very
unique.”
“Something like that,” Apollon said coolly.
The teacher gestured encouragingly. “Why don’t you tell us a
little about yourself, Mr. Stollos? Where you’re from, your
hobbies, interests…”
Apollon froze, his patience thinning by the second. He had been
ready to say his name and sit down, not give a speech. A tiny
spark of heat flared in his palm, invisible to mortal eyes but
very real to him. It took every ounce of restraint not to let it
burst into flame.
“My name,” he said slowly, his voice dangerously calm, “is
Apollon Stollos. I transferred here recently. That is all you
need to know.”
The teacher blinked, clearly flustered by the clipped response.
“Oh, well, surely you can share just a little more—”
Apollon’s golden eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, the air
around his desk seemed to warm.
“Or,” he said with a faint, sharp smile, “you can let me sit
down and focus on today’s lesson.”
The teacher hesitated, then swallowed hard and gave a stiff nod.
“R-right. Very well, Mr. Stollos. You may take that empty seat
in the back.”
Apollon moved to the back row, books thudding onto the desk as
he sat. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, silently
daring anyone to ask him another question.
As the lesson droned on, Apollon stared out the window, counting
the minutes until freedom. This was worse than any battlefield
he’d faced—tedious, loud, and utterly beneath him.
And somewhere, he knew, Miran was probably enjoying every second
of watching him suffer through it.
----fin
Miran was in the back when Apollon entered, the fox suppressing
a snicker at the introduction. When Apollon took a seat beside
him, Miran leaned slightly and teased, "Couldn't come up with a
fun backstory?" before reclining to listen attentively. Social
studies was a breeze for him—he loved the art of learning, which
made passing effortless.
After class was dismissed, Miran caught up with Apollon.
Flashing a mild smirk, he said, "Schedule, man—so I can help you
find your classes."
—fin—
Apollon raised a single brow at the fox’s whisper, a low exhale
slipping past his lips. “Fun backstory?” he murmured, tone cool
and edged with disdain. “I’m here to survive this place, not
audition for their amusement.”
He sat back in the hard plastic chair, jaw tight as the teacher
launched into a lecture about ancient civilizations—an irony
that wasn’t lost on him, considering he had lived through
several of the events being discussed. His gaze flicked to the
window, the chatter of the class grating against his ears like
gnats buzzing too close.
He could feel Miran’s calm presence beside him, the fox
answering questions with smooth confidence while Apollon forced
himself not to snap every time a mortal made an incorrect
statement. This was worse than any battlefield he’d
endured—tedious and loud, with no escape until the bell rang.
When class finally ended, the room exploded into chaos. Students
shoved papers into bags, the squeal of chairs scraping the floor
filling the air. Apollon remained perfectly still, waiting until
the tide of bodies ebbed before rising to his feet.
Miran appeared in front of him, hand outstretched, clearly
expecting something. Apollon’s eyes narrowed, but he reached
into his jacket and produced the folded paper anyway, dropping
it into the fox’s palm with a sharp, almost defiant motion.
“Don’t mistake this for dependence,” he said flatly. “I can find
my own way around this… maze of mediocrity.”
He watched silently as Miran scanned the paper, the fox’s
expression flickering between interest and amusement. When Miran
pointed out their shared classes, Apollon merely let out a slow,
resigned breath.
“Of course we share gym,” he muttered under his breath, golden
eyes narrowing. “As if my suffering weren’t complete already.”
Miran’s laughter rang out, light and teasing, and Apollon felt a
pulse of heat in his chest that he couldn’t quite name. When the
fox moved ahead, tossing a parting remark over his shoulder,
Apollon followed with measured steps, keeping his expression
carefully neutral.
Internally, however, his thoughts were a storm.
*This was supposed to be a simple mission. Guide the reborn fox,
keep him from straying too far. Now I’m stuck in classrooms,
listening to the prattle of mortals, while he acts like this is
all some elaborate game. Twenty-five years. I must have angered
the court more than I realized…*
Apollon adjusted the weight of the books under his arm and
pressed on, determined not to let Miran—or anyone else—see how
deeply the whole ordeal irritated him.
-Fin-
Miran noticed Apollon's grumpy expression as they walked toward
their next shared class, math. With a gentle nudge and a soft
smile, Miran leaned in slightly, his voice low enough to blend
with the ambient chatter around them.
“Hey, don’t look so down,” he murmured with a playful glint in
his eyes. “It’s not so bad, you know—learning about the world
again. Kind of exciting, really. Expanding our understanding,
seeing things from new angles.” He glanced around, making sure
no one was paying them too much attention, then added with a
faint chuckle, “And you know, humans aren’t entirely terrible.
They’ve got their moments—actually pretty fascinating when you
think about it.”
Miran’s light-hearted tone seemed to ease the tension, his words
weaving a quiet comfort amid the mundane buzz of the hallway.
—fin—
Apollon’s jaw had been set tight as they wove through the
crowded hall, his expression carved from stone. Each step felt
like a trial, the endless chatter of mortals clawing at his
patience.
But Miran’s voice slipped through the noise like a warm current.
The teasing, the quiet reassurance—it worked its way past
Apollon’s defenses before he could stop it.
His golden eyes flicked toward the fox, catching the faint curve
of his smile. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Apollon’s scowl eased.
His shoulders loosened, the hard lines of his posture softening
as if some invisible weight had shifted.
“You make it sound… tolerable,” Apollon admitted, his voice low
and even, carrying just a hint of reluctant amusement. “Perhaps
even… intriguing, if I stretch my imagination.”
He studied Miran for a beat longer, curiosity flickering beneath
his calm exterior. There was a strange steadiness to the fox, a
quiet certainty that contrasted sharply with Apollon’s simmering
irritation. It made him want to understand him, to see beneath
the easy charm.
Apollon’s lips curved in the faintest shadow of a smile. “Tell
me, Miran,” he said, deliberately casual, “once we escape this
prison of fluorescent lights and screeching chairs, do you
already have plans? Or…” His tone shifted, warm and smooth, with
just a trace of challenge. “…are you free to play a little music
together? I’d like to see what kind of sound we can create.”
The offer hung between them, light but edged with a subtle
invitation—as much a test as it was a genuine request.
-Fin-
Miran’s grin widened, sharp and bright like the glint of
sunlight off glass. His amber eyes sparkled with a mix of
mischief and something softer, a flicker of genuine warmth that
settled beneath the teasing edge of his words.
“Oh, Apollon,” he drawled, his voice a velvet ripple, smooth and
laced with playful exaggeration. “Such poetry from the god of
restraint himself. You’re spoiling me.”
With an easy grace, Miran shifted closer, the crowd’s noise
fading into a distant hum. He tilted his head slightly, as if
considering the proposition with great seriousness, though the
twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“Music, huh?” He tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully.
“Well, I suppose I could rearrange my incredibly packed schedule
of doing absolutely nothing.” His grin softened into something
more sincere, though the sparkle in his eyes remained. “But only
because you asked so nicely.”
Miran leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping to a
conspiratorial murmur. “Let’s see if you can keep up, Apollon. I
have a feeling your rhythm’s more interesting than you let on.
But first. Gotta finish this day out hm?” He said with a
chuckle.
—fin—
#Post#: 1443--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 9:43 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Apollon’s lips curved into something caught between a smirk and
a genuine smile, the tension in his features finally loosening.
For the first time that day, his golden eyes glimmered—not with
irritation, but with the faint spark of anticipation.
“You make it sound like a challenge,” he murmured, voice smooth
and edged with a quiet promise. “Careful, fox. I don’t take
challenges lightly.”
He shifted his stack of books with a soft grunt, glancing around
at the throngs of students cluttering the hallway. Their
laughter and chatter felt like background static now, less
suffocating with Miran’s steady presence beside him.
Turning his gaze back to Miran, Apollon let out a faint,
theatrical sigh. “Tell me something, though—how much longer must
we endure this… torture before we’re free?” His tone dripped
with dry humor, as if he were asking about the end of a
battlefield siege rather than a school day.
“Two more classes? Three?” He tilted his head, mock-dramatic
exasperation flickering across his face. “Because if it’s more
than that, I might start considering very creative ways to speed
up time.”
His mouth quirked into a wry half-smile as he added, lower and
just for Miran, “And by that, I don’t mean setting the fire
alarm off.”
Apollon’s eyes narrowed slightly, though there was unmistakable
amusement in them now.
“Unless, of course, you have a better idea.”
-Fin-
Miran arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching at the corners as he
fought back a grin. The glint in Apollon’s golden eyes was
contagious, pulling at his own sense of mischief.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of competing with your ‘creative’ ideas,”
Miran replied smoothly, leaning slightly closer, their shoulders
almost brushing amidst the chaos of the hallway. “But if you’re
truly desperate, I hear time moves faster when you’re actually
paying attention in class. Revolutionary concept, I know.”
He let the tease hang in the air, eyes sparkling with quiet
amusement. Then, with a casual shrug, he added, “Or we could
start an impromptu philosophical debate. Nothing speeds up time
like existential dread.”
Miran’s grin finally broke free, quick and sharp. “Your move,
Apollon.”
“And for the record the time is around 8 hours of school. Could
come with me after to my place?” He said with a smooth tone.
-fin-
Apollon froze mid-step, eyes widening just slightly as if Miran
had just declared a prison sentence.
“Eight hours?” he echoed, his voice flat with disbelief.
“Eight?”
He tilted his head back dramatically, staring up at the ceiling
tiles like they were mocking him personally.
“That sounds like an eternity,” he groaned, dragging a hand down
his face. “I’ve endured sieges, survived cursed nights in
haunted realms, and faced armies of creatures that wanted to
tear me limb from limb—but eight hours trapped in this place
with squeaky desks and overzealous teachers?”
Apollon gave a long, theatrical sigh, the weight of his
suffering palpable. “Cruel and unusual punishment. The fae court
knew exactly what they were doing.”
He glanced sideways at Miran, catching the sly curve of the
fox’s grin. The sight sparked something warm beneath his
irritation, though he kept his expression carefully aloof.
“Fine,” he muttered, the word begrudging but edged with
reluctant amusement. “If I must suffer through eight hours of
this torment, the least you can do is reward me afterward.”
He paused, then added with a smirk, “Going to your place better
involve more than just tea and polite conversation. Music,
mischief… maybe even that philosophical debate you promised.”
As they reached the doorway to their next class, Apollon
straightened his posture, giving Miran a sidelong glance filled
with dry humor.
“Lead on, fox. But I’m holding you personally responsible if I
don’t make it out alive.”
-Fin-
Miran’s grin only widened, his sharp eyes glinting with mischief
as he matched Apollon’s theatrical despair with effortless
nonchalance.
“Oh, the horror,” Miran murmured, pressing a hand to his heart
in mock empathy. “Eight hours in the treacherous wilderness of
academia. How ever will you survive?”
He leaned in slightly, the playful lilt in his voice softening
just enough to betray genuine fondness. “But don’t worry,
valiant warrior. I’ll be your steadfast companion through this
perilous journey. Together, we’ll conquer squeaky desks and
overzealous teachers alike.”
As Apollon’s smirk flickered at the edges, Miran couldn’t resist
adding, “And as for your reward…” His voice dropped into a
teasing whisper. “I suppose I could arrange something worthy of
your heroics. Music, mischief, philosophical debates—and perhaps
a few surprises, if you’re brave enough.”
With a dramatic flourish of his hand, Miran gestured toward the
classroom door. “Onward, Apollon, to glory—or at least to mildly
tolerable lessons. And fear not...” His grin turned sly. “If you
don’t make it out alive, I’ll ensure your legend lives on...
with suitably exaggerated tales, of course.”
—fin—
Apollon arched one golden brow at Miran’s dramatic speech, his
expression somewhere between unimpressed and faintly amused.
“Exaggerated tales?” he echoed dryly. “Knowing you, I’ll be
remembered as a fool rather than a warrior.”
But instead of rising to the bait, Apollon simply gave a small,
dismissive shrug, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Fine. Lead the way, fox. Let’s see if your ‘steadfast
companionship’ can actually make this day bearable.”
---
The Blur of Classes
The hours dragged on like a siege under relentless assault.
Math was an exercise in self-restraint as Apollon sat through
explanations of equations he’d long since mastered, his fingers
itching to conjure fire just to burn the worksheet in front of
him. Literature was marginally more tolerable—at least until the
teacher insisted on group discussions, which Apollon found
infinitely more tedious than the lecture itself.
He said very little in each class, his stoic presence and sharp
gaze enough to keep most classmates at bay. Still, every now and
then, his attention drifted sideways to Miran, who seemed to
navigate the human world with an ease Apollon found both
fascinating and infuriating.
------
By the time lunch arrived, Apollon felt frayed around the edges.
The cafeteria was a chaotic battlefield of noise and movement,
mortals packed together in a frenzy of conversation and food
trays clattering like weapons.
He stood just inside the doorway, glaring at the mass of
students like a general surveying hostile territory.
“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is worse than the
frontlines of a demon siege.”
Still, he moved forward, snatching up a tray with deliberate
precision. The line crawled at a snail’s pace, and when he
finally reached the serving area, Apollon stared down at the
offerings with open disdain.
Grayish mashed potatoes, limp vegetables, and something that
might have once been chicken sat under buzzing heat lamps.
He turned his head slightly, voice pitched low so only Miran
could hear.
“This isn’t food,” Apollon said flatly. “This is… a crime
against culinary dignity. Even battlefield rations had more
flavor and less mystery.”
Poking the unidentifiable meat with his fork, he added with a
dry, unimpressed look, “At least back then, I knew what animal
it used to be.”
With a long, suffering sigh, he scooped the tray onto his arm
and followed Miran to a table, muttering darkly,
“If I perish today, it won’t be from combat. It’ll be from
this.”
-Fin-
Miran chuckled softly, the sound like silk against steel, as he
settled into the seat across from Apollon. His eyes gleamed with
familiar mischief as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on
the table.
“Oh, come now, Apollon,” Miran purred, tapping a finger against
the edge of his own untouched tray. “Surely a warrior of your
esteemed prowess can endure a little mortal cuisine without
succumbing to despair.”
He picked up a limp carrot, holding it aloft like a relic from
an ancient ruin. “Consider it a test of fortitude. If you can
survive this”—he waved the carrot dramatically—“then truly, you
are invincible.”
Miran’s grin widened as he bit into the carrot with exaggerated
gusto, chewing thoughtfully before proclaiming with mock
solemnity, “Ah, yes. The rich, complex flavors of… mediocrity.”
Setting the carrot down, he tilted his head, studying Apollon
with a glint of genuine warmth beneath the teasing. “But don’t
fret, my steadfast companion. If the cafeteria claims you, I
shall compose the most tragic of ballads in your honor. Tales of
your valor—and your valiant battle against mysterious meat.”
In the middle of the teen teasing would food get flicked on his
face.”alright weirdo- enough with the theatrics.” Miran grinned
to wipe it off. “Oh come on- it’s art max.” He said to another
teen. “Now stop being rude- I’m entertaining the new kid.” He
said with a lopsided smile.
“Mmhmm whatever you say kit.” Said max to turn and talk with
whoever he was before.
—fin—
Apollon froze the moment the glob of food splattered across
Miran’s cheek.
The fox’s soft chuckle and casual swipe of his hand to clean it
away barely registered. All Apollon saw was the insolence—the
sheer audacity—of some mortal daring to fling food at him. No,
at Miran.
His hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles pale. A pulse
of heat rippled beneath his skin, subtle but unmistakable, and
the air between them shimmered for the briefest heartbeat like
rising heat on a summer road.
Slowly, Apollon turned his head toward the one called Max, his
golden eyes narrowing into sharp, dangerous slits.
“This… pest,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and edged
with menace. “Does he think himself untouchable?”
Apollon’s lips pulled into a cold, predatory smile, and he rose
ever so slightly from his seat, shoulders loose but coiled with
intent. “Perhaps I should demonstrate the consequences of such
disrespect,” he said, almost conversationally, though there was
an unmistakable promise of violence under the calm tone.
He imagined briefly how easy it would be to conjure just a
flicker of flame beneath Max’s chair—enough to terrify, to
teach. The image was so vivid it almost tempted him into action.
For a long, tense moment, Apollon said nothing. Then, with a
deep exhale, he sank back into his seat, forcing his shoulders
to relax.
“Hmph,” he grumbled, voice low enough for only Miran to hear.
“Where I come from, such insolence would never go unanswered.”
His gaze flicked back toward Max, who was now studiously
avoiding eye contact. The corner of Apollon’s mouth twitched in
faint disdain.
“Consider him spared,” he said finally, each word deliberate and
heavy with unspoken threat. “For now.”
Then he picked up his fork with deliberate precision, as if
nothing at all had happened, though the faint heat still
radiating from his skin betrayed how close he’d come to letting
his true nature slip.
----fin
He glanced at Apollon, noticing the clenched fists and a slight
shimmer in the air—clear signs the god was heating up. Miran’s
expression softened a bit, though his voice stayed cool and
easy.
“Apollon,” he said, fingers tapping lightly on the table, “are
we really getting worked up over a tiny mess?”
Miran lazily shifted his gaze to Max, who looked like he wanted
to disappear under Apollon’s glare. A sly twinkle flickered in
Miran’s eyes.
“Max was just grounding me—I tend to get carried away," he said
with a shrug. "No big deal—it's just how we usually are."
He gave Apollon’s hand a quick, light touch—just enough to
ground him—before leaning back with a faint smirk.
“Besides, why waste all that godly energy on someone so…meh?
Seems like overkill to me.”
Then Miran picked up his milk carton, taking the straw to his
lips. He took a sip, like everything was back to normal.
—fin—
Apollon’s golden eyes stayed locked on Max for several tense
seconds after Miran’s calm words. The fox’s light touch on his
hand was barely there, but it was enough to pull Apollon back
from the edge, like a tether anchoring him to reason.
With a slow, deliberate breath, he unclenched his fists. The
faint shimmer of heat in the air dissipated, leaving only the
normal cafeteria haze of steam and noise. His jaw, however,
remained tight.
“No big deal,” Apollon repeated under his breath, the words
tasting foreign. His gaze flicked toward Miran, then back to
Max, who was now hunched over his tray like a soldier avoiding
enemy fire.
“If you say so.”
He leaned back, mirroring Miran’s casual posture, though the
cool detachment didn’t quite reach his eyes. The threat he’d
considered delivering still lingered there, simmering low and
steady.
“Meh or not,” Apollon said quietly, voice like a low rumble, “I
am not accustomed to watching someone insult another without
consequence. Where I come from, disrespect is… answered.”
Before Miran could respond, a loud voice rang out from a nearby
table.
“Yo! Gym class is gonna be epic today! Coach said we’re doing
dodgeball!”
A chorus of excited cheers erupted from the surrounding
students, and Apollon blinked, his brow furrowing. He turned his
head slightly toward Miran, expression skeptical.
“…Dodgeball?” he repeated, the word foreign and strange on his
tongue.
His tone carried the same level of wary disdain he might’ve used
when discussing a dangerous demon species.
“What in the realms is that supposed to be? Some mortal ritual
of combat? A trial by… spherical weapon?”
Apollon tilted his head, genuinely perplexed now, his irritation
giving way to sharp curiosity.
“Explain it to me, fox, before I assume the worst and prepare
for actual battle.”
-Fin-
Miran’s lips quirked upward into a smile, the flicker of
amusement evident in his golden eyes. He could sense Apollon’s
genuine confusion, and it made him chuckle, a soft sound that
blended with the bustling noise of the cafeteria.
“A battle, huh?” Miran repeated, his voice light with mirth as
he leaned in slightly toward Apollon. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly
call it that. No demons, no death matches. Dodgeball’s more of
a… game of skill, I suppose. It’s kind of like a… *spherical
war* with less bloodshed and more running around.”
He let the words sink in, clearly enjoying Apollon’s reaction.
“The goal is simple," Miran continued, holding up a hand as
though demonstrating a delicate art. "You have two teams, and
each team has balls—big, rubber ones. The objective is to hit
members of the opposing team with these balls. If you get hit,
you're out. The last team standing wins. There's a lot of
dodging, weaving, and some seriously aggressive throwing, but
you won’t see any *actual* combat.”
Miran raised an eyebrow, his voice dropping a bit lower.
“Though, knowing your style, I’m sure you’d make it look like an
epic battle.”
He leaned back in his chair, an amused glint still in his eyes
as he looked at Apollon. "It’s not about the fight, really. It’s
about strategy, timing... and, I guess, a bit of luck.”
He winked as if to further lighten the mood.
“So, no need to prepare for any 'actual battle' yet. Just a bit
of fun. But if you *really* want to get into it…” Miran’s grin
widened, his teasing tone back in full force, “I’d be happy to
show you what it feels like to dodge *me* throwing a ball at
your face.”
It was half a challenge, half a jest—though there was a certain
glint in his eyes that said he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to
show off his own skill.
“But the humans gotta watch it with the strength- the object is
to hit- not kill.. not injure.” He told him.
—fin—
Apollon listened intently, his head tilting slightly as Miran
described the so-called “game.” With each detail—the rubber
balls, the dodging, the elimination of players—his brow furrowed
deeper, a mix of disbelief and disdain etching across his
features.
When Miran finished with his warning about not injuring anyone,
Apollon sat back slowly, arms crossing over his chest. His
golden eyes gleamed with the faintest spark of challenge.
“So,” he said at last, his tone measured and faintly amused,
“two opposing teams hurling harmless spheres at one another
until one side remains.” He let the idea roll around on his
tongue, tasting the absurdity of it. “It sounds… far too easy to
be called a challenge.”
He tilted his head, lips curving into a sharp, confident smirk.
“Though I suppose,” he added smoothly, “even the simplest of
games can be elevated in the right hands.” His gaze flicked to
Miran, deliberately slow and assessing. “Especially if one plays
to win.”
Apollon leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice so that only
Miran could hear, his tone edged with dry humor.
“You need not worry, fox. I have no intention of annihilating
any mortals today. I am capable of restraint.”
A pause, then a wry grin crept across his face.
“Besides, what fun would there be if the match ended in the
first five seconds?”
His gaze sharpened with a glint of challenge, golden eyes
locking with Miran’s.
“Tell me, though… are you prepared to dodge my throws? Because
from what I’ve heard, you enjoy playing the fox.”
Apollon straightened with effortless grace, his earlier tension
replaced by a faint hum of anticipation.
“Perhaps today, we see which of us can hunt—and which of us must
flee.”
+++
Apollon followed Miran down the hall toward the locker rooms,
the crowd of students jostling around them like a herd of
aimless cattle. The closer they got, the more the faint smell of
sweat and detergent filled the air. Apollon wrinkled his nose,
muttering under his breath,
“Mortals and their rituals. Even their scent is a trial.”
---
The Locker Room
Inside, the locker room was noisy and chaotic, filled with the
clatter of lockers, chatter, and the occasional shout across the
rows of benches. Apollon’s golden eyes narrowed slightly as he
scanned the space. This, at least, felt familiar—a preparation
zone before combat, albeit one far more mundane than he was used
to.
He moved to an empty locker, peeling off his outer shirt with
precise, unhurried motions. His physique, honed by centuries of
true battles, stood out starkly against the softer frames of the
mortals around him. A few students paused mid-conversation to
gawk before quickly looking away, whispering among themselves.
Apollon caught their stares and raised a single brow, his
expression making it abundantly clear that anyone foolish enough
to comment would regret it. That was enough to silence them.
He tugged on the plain gym uniform—loose black shorts and a gray
T-shirt—as if donning ceremonial garb for some absurdly trivial
ritual. The fabric felt strange against his skin, unfamiliar and
annoyingly ordinary.
“Utterly uninspired,” he grumbled, adjusting the hem. “I’ve worn
battle armor forged in the heart of volcanoes, yet this feels
more like punishment than protection.”
Grabbing his shoes, he sat on the bench to tie them, his fingers
moving with the same precision he used to strap on greaves. When
he glanced up, he caught Miran’s reflection in the dull metal of
the locker door—a sly grin, that ever-present glint of amusement
in his amber eyes. Apollon’s lips twitched faintly, though he
said nothing.
Waiting in the Gym
The gymnasium buzzed with restless energy when they emerged,
students scattered across the floor in loose groups. The echo of
sneakers squeaking against polished wood mixed with bursts of
laughter and the distant thud of a ball being tested for bounce.
Apollon stood beside Miran, arms crossed, surveying the scene
like a general assessing enemy forces.
“This is their battlefield?” he asked dryly, tilting his head
toward the rows of bright red rubber balls lined up at center
court. “Colorful, yet oddly… harmless.”
The coach, a broad-shouldered man with a whistle around his
neck, barked for attention. “Alright! Line up! We’re picking
teams today!”
Students scrambled to obey, excitement buzzing like static in
the air. Apollon remained where he was for a moment longer, his
chin lifting imperiously as he surveyed the mortals now sizing
him up like a prized weapon.
“Picked for teams,” he said under his breath with faint
disbelief. “As though I were some trinket to be bartered for.”
He glanced sideways at Miran, his voice low and edged with dry
humor.
“Tell me, fox… do they truly understand what they’re about to
invite onto their side?”
As the first names were called, Apollon’s smirk deepened, a
glimmer of heat flickering behind his golden eyes.
“Let us hope so. It would be… tragic if I had to hold back too
much.”
--Fin
Miran arched an eyebrow at Apollon's commentary, his lean frame
relaxed as he leaned against the cool metal of a nearby locker.
The faintest quirk of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth,
betraying both amusement and exasperation.
“Oh, mighty god of restraint,” Miran murmured, his tone laced
with dry sarcasm, “I’m positively trembling at the thought of
your ‘controlled’ throws.” His amber eyes gleamed with mischief
as they met Apollon’s golden gaze. “I suppose we’ll consider it
a victory if the mortal populace survives the day unscathed.”
He pushed off the locker, adjusting his own gym shirt with an
exaggerated flourish. “And for the record, ‘foxes’ are
exceptionally good at dodging. It’s part of the charm.” He shot
Apollon a sly grin. “Let’s see if your ‘hunting skills’ are as
sharp as your ego suggests.”
As they moved toward the gym, Miran’s steps were light, casual,
yet his mind raced with strategies. Glancing sideways, he
couldn’t help but chuckle softly. “You know, for someone who’s
faced down monsters and titans, you seem oddly preoccupied with
rubber balls and gym shorts.”
When the coach began calling names, Miran leaned slightly toward
Apollon, voice low but edged with amusement. “Don’t worry,
shining one. I’m sure someone will recognize your ‘divine
potential’ and draft you first. If not, I’ll consider it my
sacred duty to rescue you from the tragic fate of being picked
last.”
His grin widened, eyes dancing with playful defiance. “Game on,
golden boy.”
By a twist of fate, they found themselves on opposing teams. The
balls lay still in the center, tension thick as both groups
awaited the sharp blast of the whistle.
A shrill blow—and they surged forward. Some sprinted fast,
others even faster.
But Miran? He lingered at the back, calculating. He darted with
precision, effortlessly dodging incoming throws, snatching balls
he knew without a doubt he could catch.
A swift throw, a direct hit, and a triumphant grin.
Then he felt it—that instinctive pull. His body reacted with
fluid grace, sidestepping a flying ball, his smirk flashing
toward Apollon as if to say, "Game on."
—fin—
Apollon’s name was called fourth, and though he had no
understanding of the strange mortal hierarchy of “team sports,”
he stepped forward with the same dignity he would have brought
to a war council. His golden eyes flicked briefly to Miran
across the court, locking for a heartbeat before shifting back
to his own side.
The moment the whistle blew, Apollon moved.
While the mortals surged forward in a chaotic scramble, he
slipped through them with effortless precision, his stride
smooth and powerful. By the time the others reached the center
line, Apollon had already claimed one of the red rubber spheres,
snatching it off the floor like a general seizing a fallen
banner.
He didn’t hesitate.
His first throw was a blur—sharp, clean, perfectly aimed. The
ball struck an opposing player square in the chest with a
satisfying thwack, sending them stumbling backward, eliminated
before they’d even registered what had happened.
A second throw followed moments later, just as precise. Another
opponent fell. Then a third.
Three strikes. Three down.
Mortals gaped, their movements faltering as they realized this
was no ordinary newcomer. Even the coach’s whistle faltered
mid-blow as if in disbelief.
Apollon moved like he was born for this strange “battlefield.”
Every incoming throw that dared to come his way was plucked from
the air with impossible speed, the balls landing in his hands as
if the very air obeyed his command.
The others tried to coordinate, shouting tactics and forming
clusters, but it didn’t matter. He was already reading their
motions, predicting their throws before they left their hands.
And through it all, he never once aimed at Miran.
The fox darted and wove through the chaos, his movements sleek
and calculated, but Apollon’s focus remained on everyone else.
Even when a perfect shot presented itself—a clear line to
Miran’s chest—Apollon let it pass, his expression calm and
unreadable.
Another mortal tried to take him out from behind. Apollon didn’t
even glance back. His hand simply rose, catching the ball
without looking. He turned smoothly, returning it with a single,
fluid motion that sent his opponent sprawling backward, out of
bounds.
When he finally straightened, the court was quieter, the tension
sharp enough to cut through. Half the other team was already
out, and Apollon hadn’t broken a sweat.
He rolled the next ball between his hands, golden eyes glinting
like molten metal, and finally let his gaze settle on Miran. A
slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips.
“This game,” he said, voice carrying easily across the court,
“is far too simple.”
Then, with deliberate precision, he sent the ball hurtling past
Miran—just close enough to ruffle his shirt as it sped by—to
strike a mortal standing behind him with unerring accuracy.
A silent message: I could’ve hit you. I chose not to.
-Fin-
Miran stood still, his heartbeat syncing with the fading echoes
of the ball’s impact. The fleeting brush of air against his
shirt lingered, a phantom touch that spoke louder than any words
Apollon could have uttered.
His sharp eyes met Apollon’s glinting gaze, narrowing slightly.
A smirk of his own tugged at the corner of his mouth, equal
parts challenge and intrigue.
Stepping forward from the tangled mess of his scattered team,
Miran’s voice rang clear and steady, laced with a cool defiance.
“Oh? Simple, is it?” he called back, tilting his head slightly.
“Then maybe you’re playing the wrong game.”
His fingers flexed at his sides, muscles coiled—not with fear,
but anticipation. Because if Apollon’s message was clear, so was
Miran’s silent reply, etched in the fire of his gaze:
Try me.
—fin—
Apollon’s smirk deepened at Miran’s words, a flicker of heat
curling behind his golden eyes. Try me, indeed.
The whistle blew again, and the match resumed with renewed
chaos, but for Apollon, the rest of the mortals had already
faded into background noise. There was only the fox across the
court and the unspoken challenge hanging thick in the air
between them.
---
The Duel Begins
The next ball Apollon threw wasn’t aimed at just anyone—it was
meant for Miran. It sliced through the air with perfect
precision, a blur of motion that would’ve taken down any other
player without question.
Miran’s body flowed like liquid. He dropped low, rolled to the
side, and came up with a ball already in his grip, his amber
eyes gleaming with a predator’s focus. His return shot came so
fast it made Apollon’s hair stir as he dodged, pivoting on the
balls of his feet.
Gasps erupted from the sidelines as the other students realized
they weren’t just watching a dodgeball match anymore. They were
witnessing something else entirely—a duel.
Balls flew back and forth in a flurry of motion, each one
narrowly avoided or caught at the last possible second. Miran’s
movements were sleek and tricksy, like smoke slipping through
cracks, while Apollon was all calculated force and impeccable
timing.
The few remaining mortals were quickly eliminated, leaving only
the two of them standing amidst a field of scattered balls and
stunned silence.
Apollon straightened, breathing steady despite the exertion. His
golden gaze locked with Miran’s, and for a moment, neither
moved. The tension between them was palpable, a live wire
stretched to its breaking point.
Miran’s smirk was sharp and bright.
“Not bad, golden boy,” he taunted lightly, his voice smooth
despite the sweat dampening his hair. “But you’ll have to do
better than that.”
Apollon’s lips curved in a calm, dangerous smile.
“Oh, I fully intend to.”
With a sudden burst of speed, they launched into another volley.
Miran twisted and spun, Apollon countered and evaded, the rhythm
between them building into something almost dance-like.
The gym was silent except for the rapid thuds of rubber balls
and the echo of their sneakers against polished wood. Even the
coach had stopped shouting, his whistle dangling forgotten
around his neck.
It was clear to everyone watching: this wasn’t just a game
anymore. It was a clash of equals.
As Apollon prepared his final, decisive throw, the sharp clang
of the bell cut through the air.
Both of them froze mid-motion, breathing hard, their gazes still
locked. The moment stretched, charged and unbroken, until
slowly, Apollon lowered his arm. Miran did the same, his smirk
softening into something more subtle, more intimate.
The crowd erupted into chatter and exclamations, breaking the
spell.
The coach jogged over, his face flushed with excitement. “That,”
he said, pointing between them, “was incredible! I’ve never seen
anything like it.”
He clapped a hand on Apollon’s shoulder, then turned to Miran.
“You two ever think about trying out for the basketball team? Or
football? You’d be a powerhouse duo out there. Unstoppable.”
Apollon’s expression was unreadable for a moment. Then he arched
a brow, dry humor lacing his tone.
“Playing a sport with mortals? I suppose it would be…
interesting.”
His gaze slid back to Miran, a spark of challenge lingering.
“But tell me, fox—would you rather fight beside me or against
me?”
The question hung in the air, equal parts teasing and sincere,
as the gym buzzed around them with the awe of what they’d just
witnessed.
The coach let out a sharp whistle blast that echoed through the
gym, snapping everyone out of the stunned silence.
“Alright, you animals!” he barked, his voice booming with
authority. “That was one hell of a game, but you’re all
drenched. Everyone hit the showers before you head to your next
class. I don’t want a bunch of sweaty kids stinking up my
halls!”
A chorus of groans followed as students began to shuffle toward
the locker rooms, muttering complaints and jokes under their
breath while tugging at damp shirts.
Apollon remained perfectly still amidst the chaos, his posture
straight and regal, clearly unamused by the order. His golden
eyes swept over the crowd, then he muttered to himself with a
touch of offense,
“My sweat doesn’t smell bad.”
It was true. Even after the intense match, there was no
unpleasant odor clinging to him. Instead, a faint, natural
warmth radiated from his skin—a subtle blend of cinnamon and
distant smoke, like embers smoldering in a hearth.
Two students passed by, one of them wrinkling their nose as if
expecting sweat, only to glance back in visible confusion.
Apollon caught the reaction and smirked faintly, almost smugly.
He let out a soft, disdainful sigh as he finally turned toward
the locker room, muttering,
“True warriors do not reek of their battles.”
A pause, his tone sharpening with quiet warning as he added,
“And if anyone attempts to spray me *with soap* there will be…
consequences.”
-Fin-
Miran leaned against the wall near the doorway, arms crossed,
having observed the whole scene with an amused glint in his
eyes. Pushing off with an exaggerated sigh, he strolled past
Apollon, casting him a sideways glance.
“Oh, lighten up, Apollon,” he quipped, his tone playful yet
edged with mischief. “It’s not about if you smell bad. It’s
about basic hygiene. Even gods need a rinse now and then.”
He flashed him a sly grin, clearly enjoying himself. Pausing
just before entering the locker room, he tossed over his
shoulder, “But don’t worry. I’ll make sure no one assaults your
royal aura with soap. Unless, of course, you really need it.”
With that, Miran disappeared into the locker room, his laughter
echoing faintly down the hall.
—fin—
Apollon’s golden eyes narrowed, his expression sharpening into a
cool, imperious mask as Miran’s laughter trailed off.
“Royal aura…” he muttered under his breath, the words like
embers crackling in low flames. “Fox has far too much confidence
for someone who nearly got eliminated earlier.”
He followed at a measured pace, his stride deliberate and
controlled as he stepped into the locker room. The space was a
cacophony of noise—showers running, students shouting and
joking, lockers clanging open and shut. The warm, damp air
carried a mix of soap, sweat, and something vaguely metallic
from the old pipes.
Apollon wrinkled his nose but said nothing.
He claimed a corner shower away from the others, turning his
back to the room. As he peeled off the gym uniform, his
movements were precise, each motion calculated. Though his
presence drew curious glances, Apollon never returned them.
When he stepped under the spray, the water was disappointingly
lukewarm, barely more than a drizzle compared to the volcanic
heat he was used to. Still, it was tolerable.
Apollon focused on the task, his hands moving briskly to wash
away the sweat of the match. His gaze stayed fixed on the tiled
wall before him, sharp and unwavering. He kept to himself,
ignoring the rowdy splashing and the occasional shouts from
across the room.
The scent of cinnamon and faint smoke seemed to rise subtly in
the steam around him, a quiet reminder of what he truly was
beneath the mortal disguise.
When he finished, Apollon shut off the water with a clean,
decisive motion. Without a glance at anyone else, he toweled
off, pulled on fresh clothes, and straightened his posture,
every inch of him once again composed and untouchable.
As he exited the locker room, he exhaled slowly, muttering to
himself,
“Survive eight hours, they said. Endure the mortals, they said.
Not a word about lukewarm showers and undisciplined shouting.”
His eyes flicked toward the doorway ahead, faint irritation
giving way to reluctant curiosity. *And yet,* he thought, *the
fox makes this… almost tolerable.*
_fin_
#Post#: 1444--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 9:48 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Miran lingered near the sinks, splashing cool water over his
face, the remnants of sweat and exertion swirling down the
drain. His reflection stared back at him, smug grin softened
into something more contemplative—if only for a moment.
Grabbing a towel, he rubbed it over his damp hair with careless
vigor, still chuckling to himself about the match. But as he
slung the towel around his neck and turned toward the exit, his
gaze snagged on Apollon.
The golden-eyed enigma stood poised, posture impeccable, his
expression carved from marble—cool, distant, but with a flicker
of something softer buried deep within those sharp features.
Thoughtful. Curious, even.
Miran’s grin crept back, crooked and amused.
“Oi, Apollon,” he called lightly, swaggering toward the doorway,
water darkening the edges of his gym shirt. “Don’t think too
hard—you might sprain something.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just tossed the words over his
shoulder like a casual jab, footsteps echoing with easy
confidence as he headed out.
But his smirk lingered longer than necessary, and maybe—just
maybe—he glanced back once, curiosity flickering in his own
eyes.
“You look like you enjoyed this class- if you join sports I’ll
totally be a cheerleader.” He said with a mild joke. “Shake my
tail in support.” He said with a laugh.
—fin—
Apollon’s head tilted slightly at Miran’s parting words, the
marble-like mask of his face cracking just enough for a sharp,
golden glimmer of amusement to peek through.
“A cheerleader, hm?” he said, voice low but rich with dry humor.
His tone carried a weight that made it clear he wasn’t
dismissing the idea outright—if anything, he was entertaining
it.
As Miran started to walk away, Apollon’s lips curved into a
slow, deliberate smirk.
“Tell me, fox,” he called out smoothly, “would you be wearing
one of those short skirts the mortal cheerleaders favor?”
He let the question hang, his golden eyes glinting with a
mischievous heat as his smirk deepened.
“Because,” Apollon added with mock solemnity, “if so, then yes.
I would absolutely join a sports team—for that alone.”
The locker room went abruptly quieter, a few nearby students
stifling laughter or choking on their water bottles as they
processed what had just been said.
Apollon, entirely unbothered, straightened his posture and
folded his arms over his chest, gaze never wavering from Miran.
“I take my incentives very seriously.”
His tone remained perfectly composed, but the faint curl at the
edges of his mouth betrayed his enjoyment of the fox’s reaction.
-Fin-
Miran paused mid-step, the faintest twitch betraying an amused
smirk he tried—and failed—to suppress. Slowly, he pivoted on his
heel, amber eyes glinting with equal parts mischief and
challenge.
“Oh, Apollon,” he replied, voice velvet-smooth but sharp enough
to cut. “I assure you, if I ever wore one of those skirts, you’d
be the one trying out for every team just to keep up.”
The locker room erupted with laughter, echoes ricocheting off
the metal lockers. Miran gave a mock salute, his grin widening
as he turned back around with gusto.
Over his shoulder, he added one final parting shot, "But I’ll
keep that in mind… just in case you need extra motivation."
As he moved to head out, would a friend nudge him.”yanno why not
just kiss him already with all that flirting ya doing.” Clover,
said with a lopsided smirk.
“Shhhhh, I want to keep him guessing.” Miran told him, before
rushing off to class.
-fin-
Apollon’s expression didn’t shift as Miran delivered his
comeback, but there was a subtle flicker in his golden eyes—a
flare of heat, sharp and unmistakable. He stood perfectly still
amidst the burst of laughter echoing through the locker room,
his regal composure unbroken while the mortals around them
snickered and whispered.
Only when Miran turned away with that last teasing remark did
Apollon allow himself a slow inhale, steadying the embers
simmering beneath his calm exterior. The fox knows exactly what
he’s doing, he thought, equal parts impressed and exasperated.
As Miran passed by the cluster of students near the door,
Apollon caught a glimpse of the friend who leaned in with a
mischievous smirk and muttered something under his breath—though
the exact words were lost to the noise, the intent was obvious
from Miran’s sharp laugh and quick retort.
Apollon’s gaze narrowed slightly, a single brow arched.
“Guessing, is it?” he murmured, a faint, wry smile tugging at
his lips.
He finished gathering his things with precise, deliberate
motions before exiting the locker room. His stride was calm,
unhurried, but his mind was anything but.
The fox was playing a game—one that Apollon, despite himself,
found increasingly difficult to resist.
Very well, he thought, the corners of his mouth lifting in the
barest hint of a smirk. Let him keep me guessing… for now.
--fin
The sky had dimmed to a soft gradient of amber and violet, the
last threads of sunlight stretching lazily across the horizon.
The school's front steps felt colder now, the concrete leeching
warmth through Miran’s thin uniform trousers as he leaned
against the doorframe, arms crossed and gaze distant. A
skateboard rested under one arm, its worn edges brushing lightly
against his side. Students trickled out in clusters, their
laughter fading into the evening air, leaving pockets of
stillness behind.
Miran’s sharp eyes tracked the movement of shadows lengthening
across the courtyard, but his thoughts were elsewhere—anchored
to the locker room moments before. A smirk lingered on his lips,
faint but persistent, the echo of Apollon’s narrowed gaze
replaying in his mind. The fox knows exactly what he’s doing,
didn’t he? And yet, Apollon’s restraint was a puzzle—a challenge
wrapped in golden eyes and precise composure.
The wind picked up, tousling Miran’s dark hair, and he shifted
his skateboard slightly, balancing it effortlessly as he tapped
a restless rhythm against its grip tape with his fingers. The
anticipation was a quiet hum beneath his cool exterior,
waiting—not just for Apollon’s figure to emerge from the
building, but for the next move in their unspoken game.
When the familiar silhouette finally appeared, framed by the
glow of the hallway lights, Miran straightened slightly, his
smirk sharpening into something more deliberate. No words
yet—just a glance, a tilt of his head, the silent invitation
clear as the evening sky darkened above, his fingers tightening
subtly around the skateboard's edge.
—fin—
Apollon emerged from the school doors a few minutes later than
expected, his expression a study in controlled irritation. His
golden eyes glimmered faintly beneath the dimming light, a quiet
storm brewing beneath their calm surface.
In his hand were two sheets of paper, their edges slightly
crumpled from his less-than-gentle grip. Football tryouts.
Basketball tryouts.
He glanced down at the forms with a look of disdain usually
reserved for demons and poorly-forged weapons. “They seem to
believe I am eager to join their little… squads,” he muttered
under his breath, the word squads laced with contempt. “As
though this place hasn’t already claimed enough of my dignity.”
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he tucked the papers under his
arm and stepped fully into the open air. The cool breeze brushed
against his skin, a welcome relief after the stifling heat and
noise of the gym.
Then he saw Miran.
The fox was leaning casually against the doorframe, skateboard
tucked at his side, eyes bright and watchful in the fading glow
of twilight. The sight stirred something in Apollon’s chest—an
odd warmth that had nothing to do with the evening chill.
Apollon’s irritation softened, replaced by a subtle curve of his
lips. His stride was unhurried as he closed the distance between
them, his presence unmistakable even among the scattering of
students still lingering nearby.
“Fox,” he greeted, his voice low and smooth, carrying easily
over the rustle of leaves and distant chatter.
He came to stand beside Miran, tilting his head slightly toward
the skateboard with an acknowledging glance before his eyes
returned to Miran’s face.
“How about this,” Apollon said, his tone shifting into something
warmer, more deliberate. “We find some food—preferably something
edible, unlike the crime they served us at midday.” His smirk
deepened, a flash of sharp humor breaking through. “And
afterward…”
He paused, leaning just a fraction closer, golden eyes glinting
like molten metal beneath the streetlights.
“…we finally see how well our rhythms align in a proper jam
session.”
A subtle challenge hung beneath his words, threaded through with
quiet anticipation.
“Unless, of course,” he added smoothly, “you already have other
plans this evening.”
--fin--
Miran’s grin widened, the corners of his mouth ticking upward
with an easy charm that matched the lazy slant of his posture.
His fingers drummed lightly against the grip tape of his
skateboard, a beat that seemed to echo the subtle challenge in
Apollon’s words.
“Other plans?” Miran echoed, his voice a smooth drawl colored
with amusement. He pushed off the doorframe with effortless
grace, shifting the weight of the board under his arm. His eyes,
bright and sharp as a fox’s should be, held Apollon’s gaze
without flinching, the twilight casting playful shadows across
his features.
“Not really,” he said, stepping into stride alongside Apollon.
His shoulder brushed just barely against the other boy’s, a
casual touch that lingered with unspoken ease.
Miran’s steps fell in rhythm with Apollon’s, as though they’d
been walking this path together for years. He nodded toward the
street ahead, where the faint glow of neon signs hinted at the
promise of food and fleeting freedom.
“I’ll Lead the way, Gold Eyes,” he said lightly, shifting his
board to rest against his shoulder. “Let’s see if we can find
something worthy to be called food,” his grin turned sly, “I’ll
show you a rhythm you won’t forget.”
He would stop at a local Mexican fast food place, and buy a few
burritos and nachos.”anything you want?” He asked as he took the
initiative to pay for himself and apollon after.”let’s go to the
park and eat.” He said softly.
—fin—
Apollon glanced sidelong at Miran as they stepped into the warm
glow of the little fast-food place, the air thick with the scent
of grilled meat and spices. The clatter of trays and chatter of
customers filled the room, but Apollon’s voice cut through it
with a smooth calm.
“Are they gold right now?” he asked casually, a hint of
curiosity beneath his even tone. “My eyes… they shift with my
mood, with my power.” His gaze flicked briefly to the reflective
surface of the glass door, catching a glimmer of molten amber.
“Gold, bronze, crimson… depends on the day. On me.”
He let the words hang for a moment, then turned his attention
fully to the menu board above the counter. His eyes narrowed
slightly, scanning the options like a tactician surveying battle
plans.
Before Miran could so much as comment, Apollon stepped forward
with unshakable confidence, his voice ringing out in perfect,
fluid Spanish.
“Una quesadilla de bistec, dos tacos de pollo con salsa picante…
y horchata.”
The girl behind the register blinked in surprise, then quickly
keyed in the order, clearly impressed.
Apollon didn’t bother glancing at the price as Miran stepped up
beside him, already fishing for his wallet. When Miran covered
the payment without hesitation, Apollon arched one brow, lips
curving into the faintest smirk.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said smoothly, though there was
no protest in his tone—just a subtle note of appreciation
beneath the words.
Once the food was handed over, Apollon gathered the bag and cup
up. The warm, savory scent of melted cheese and spiced meat rose
up, mingling with the sweet, creamy fragrance of the horchata.
“Lead on,” he said, tilting his head toward the door with a
regal flick of his chin.
As they stepped back out into the evening air, Apollon matched
his stride to Miran’s once again, his golden eyes glinting in
the soft glow of streetlamps.
“A park, then,” he mused. “Better than sitting among mortals in
cramped booths.” His gaze dropped briefly to the bag of food
before shifting back to Miran. “And after we eat…”
His smirk sharpened, a low hum of anticipation threading through
his voice.
“…I’ll hold you to that promise.”
The park wasn’t far—a few blocks away, tucked between rows of
shops and apartment buildings. It was quieter here, the hum of
the city fading beneath the rustle of leaves and the rhythmic
chirp of crickets. Streetlights cast soft pools of golden light
along the path, their glow mingling with the lingering hues of
twilight.
Apollon walked beside Miran, his stride unhurried, the bag of
food swinging lightly at his side. Every so often, his golden
eyes swept the area, assessing it with the same sharp awareness
he’d used on battlefields. When they reached a small grassy
clearing beneath a towering oak, he gave a single approving nod.
“This will do,” he said simply, settling down with a fluid
motion that still managed to look faintly regal despite the
casual setting. He placed the bag between them and began to
unpack their meal—steak quesadilla, chicken tacos, and the
horchata Miran had insisted he try.
The savory scent rose into the night air, rich and tempting.
Apollon picked up one of the tacos, examining it like an
unfamiliar weapon before taking a deliberate bite. He chewed
thoughtfully, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a
slight tilt of his head, he swallowed and set the taco down.
“This salsa,” he said, gesturing toward the open wrapper with a
faintly unimpressed look, “is not nearly as spicy as they
claimed.”
A subtle smirk curved his lips, almost challenging. “I’ve faced
fires hotter than this in the heart of a volcano. It barely
tingles.”
He took another bite, slower this time, savoring it even as he
pretended to be wholly unimpressed. “Still,” he admitted after a
moment, “it has a certain… charm. The texture is good. The
balance of flavors is acceptable.”
His gaze shifted toward Miran, sharp and amused.
“Though I imagine you mortals think this is daring cuisine.”
A flicker of humor danced in his eyes as he reached for the
quesadilla next, his movements precise and almost ritualistic.
“Perhaps next time, you should test me with something truly
worthy of the word spicy.”
He paused just long enough to take a long sip of the horchata,
the creamy sweetness cutting through the smoky tang of the taco.
His golden eyes widened a fraction before narrowing again, more
thoughtful than surprised.
“…This, however,” he said slowly, “is… better than expected.”
-Fin-
Miran chuckled softly, settling down beside Apollon with an ease
that contrasted the other's regal posture. He leaned back on his
hands, glancing over at the golden-eyed immortal with a faint
smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You know," Miran began, his tone light but laced with a warmth
that softened his words, "for someone who’s walked through
volcanoes, you’re surprisingly dramatic about tacos."
He plucked one of the chicken tacos from the wrapper, taking a
generous bite without ceremony. The subtle spice hit his tongue,
and he raised an eyebrow, feigning contemplation.
“Hmm. Yep. Definitely not molten lava, but maybe a spark?”
Miran’s gaze flicked to Apollon, mischief dancing in his eyes.
"I’ll find something to challenge you next time. Maybe a ghost
pepper smoothie or whatever mortal invention is closest to
liquid fire."
He reached for the horchata, taking a sip before setting it back
between them. "Though, I admit, you’re right about this. It’s
good. Sweet enough to make a god pause." His smile softened, a
rare sincerity slipping through. "Glad you like it."
Silence settled for a beat, comfortable and unforced. The city’s
distant hum was the only backdrop.
Miran finally glanced sideways, his voice quieter now. “And that
promise… I haven’t forgotten.”
His smirk returned, tempered by something softer, something
real. "After all, you have to keep pace with me—not just with
steps, but with everything else too."
He leaned back, letting the night stretch around them, content
with the simple company of food, soft streetlight, and the
immortal sitting beside him.
—fin—
#Post#: 1445--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 9:55 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Apollon regarded Miran in silence for a moment, his golden eyes
reflecting the soft glow of the streetlights. The fox’s words
hung between them, half-teasing and half-sincere, and something
in Apollon’s chest stirred in response—something warm and
unfamiliar.
He set the half-eaten quesadilla back into its wrapper with
meticulous care, then leaned back on one hand, mirroring Miran’s
posture without quite losing his own innate poise. His other
hand lifted the cup of horchata, fingers curling elegantly
around it as he took another slow sip.
“Dramatic about tacos,” he echoed at last, his tone edged with
dry humor. “If only you knew how many kings and generals I’ve
seen fight entire wars over food far less satisfying than this.”
His lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk. “Perspective, fox.”
He let the smirk linger, then glanced toward the chicken taco in
Miran’s hand.
“As for your spark,” he continued smoothly, “it’s tolerable. A
whisper of heat, like the first breath of a forge before the
fire truly catches.”
His golden gaze shifted back to Miran, glinting with challenge.
“Bring me this… ghost pepper concoction of yours. Let us see if
mortal fire can match divine flame.”
For a moment, he let the playful edge fade, his voice softening
as the night breeze stirred between them.
“And the horchata…” Apollon swirled the drink slightly, the
creamy sweetness clinging to the sides of the cup. “It is…
unexpectedly pleasing. Sweetness tempered by spice. A balance I
did not expect.” His gaze lingered on Miran as he added, lower
now, “Much like some others I’ve encountered recently.”
The quiet stretched again, the city sounds distant and muted, as
though the world had narrowed to just the two of them beneath
the oak’s spreading branches.
Then Miran’s final words sank in, and Apollon’s smirk
returned—smaller this time, but no less sharp.
“Keep pace with you?” Apollon said, his voice rich with quiet
amusement. “Fox, I do not follow in anyone’s steps. I set the
rhythm.”
He shifted slightly, leaning closer, just enough for his
presence to press warmly against the edge of Miran’s space.
“But,” he allowed, the word rolling off his tongue like a
concession, “I find myself… curious to see if you can keep up
with me.”
Apollon lifted his quesadilla again, taking a deliberate bite as
if to punctuate his statement, then gestured with it toward
Miran, his tone teasing but threaded with sincerity.
“So eat, play, and scheme all you like. When it comes to this
promise you’ve made… I intend to collect.”
-Fin-
Miran’s grin curled, sharp as the crescent moon overhead, his
fox-bright eyes gleaming with mischief and something softer
beneath. He shifted subtly, matching Apollon’s lean, the warmth
between them as tangible as the city’s distant hum.
“Oh, divine flame,” Miran murmured, his voice silk threaded with
challenge, “you talk of kings and wars, yet here you are,
conquered by horchata and humble tacos.” He took a slow,
deliberate bite of his chicken taco, the gesture defiant and
playful all at once.
Wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with a languid flick
of his thumb, he tilted his head, studying Apollon with an
amused glint. “Perspective, indeed.”
Then, leaning in just a breath closer, his tone dropped to
something quieter, threaded with sincerity beneath the jest.
“You speak of sparks and forges, but even a whisper of heat can
start a wildfire, if you’re not careful.”
Miran’s fingers traced an idle pattern on the condensation of
his drink cup, his gaze never leaving Apollon’s. “As for keeping
up with you?” He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “I
don’t intend to follow, Apollon. I intend to dance beside you,
step for step, flame for flame.”
With that, he lifted his glass in a mock-toast, his grin
returning. “To promises, then. Let’s see who collects first.”
The night held its breath between them once more, filled with
possibilities as endless as the stars above.
—fin—
Apollon studied Miran in the quiet between breaths, his golden
eyes luminous beneath the moonlight. The fox’s words, playful
and sincere all at once, lingered in the air like smoke curling
upward from a fire, impossible to grasp yet impossible to
ignore.
“You surprise me, fox,” Apollon said at last, his voice low and
rich, carrying a weight rarely heard beneath his usual smooth
control. “You are far more intriguing than any other person I’ve
been around before.”
He shifted subtly, closing the space between them until his knee
nearly brushed Miran’s. The distance was measured, deliberate,
as though Apollon were testing both Miran’s boundaries and his
own restraint.
“In all my years among mortals and immortals alike,” he
continued, his tone thoughtful now, almost reverent, “I have
found most beings predictable. Ambition. Desire. Fear. They
circle endlessly in the same patterns.” His gaze flicked over
Miran’s face, lingering on the slight curve of his smirk, the
glimmer of sharp wit in his amber eyes.
“But you…” A faint smile ghosted across Apollon’s lips, warm and
rare. “You are chaos disguised as elegance. A riddle wrapped in
laughter. A creature who defies the patterns I thought I knew.”
Apollon lifted his horchata, mirroring Miran’s mock-toast but
without a trace of jest.
“To promises,” he echoed, his voice smooth but edged with
something deeper. “And to those rare, wild things worth
chasing.”
He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Miran’s, before
setting the cup aside with precise care.
“Flame for flame,” Apollon murmured, his smirk returning,
sharper this time. “Then let us see if your dance can match
mine.”
The challenge hung between them like a live ember, glowing
brighter with every passing heartbeat.
As the night deepened, the park seemed to grow quieter, the hum
of the city fading into the distance. The soft glow of the
streetlights filtered through the leaves above, casting shifting
patterns across the grass where they sat. Apollon leaned back
slightly, his hands braced behind him, golden eyes catching the
pale light like molten metal.
He studied Miran for a long moment, his expression calm but
thoughtful, as if weighing the words he was about to speak.
“So, fox,” Apollon began, his voice smooth and low, threading
through the silence between them. “Where would you like to begin
our… musical journey?” The way he said it gave the phrase a
certain gravity, as though he were speaking of a quest rather
than a casual pastime.
His gaze softened, though a faint smirk tugged at the corner of
his mouth.
“Do you have a favorite place where you like to play? Somewhere
that suits your… style.” His tone lingered on the last word,
edged with subtle amusement.
Apollon shifted, drawing one knee up as he rested an arm across
it. “My apartment isn’t far from here,” he added, voice turning
practical. “There’s an old acoustic guitar there—something I
found, nothing impressive, but serviceable enough for now.”
He glanced toward the winding path that led back through the
park, then back to Miran.
“If you have no better suggestion, we could start there. I’d
like to hear how you play, to see if our rhythms truly align.”
The golden-eyed immortal’s smirk deepened slightly, a flicker of
anticipation sparking beneath his controlled exterior.
“And once I acquire a proper instrument,” he said, his tone
almost reverent, “we’ll take this beyond casual playing. But for
now… tell me, fox. Where shall we make our first sound
together?”
-Fin-
Miran’s amber eyes gleamed with mischief, reflecting the
moonlight like twin embers. He leaned back on his elbows,
letting the cool grass press against his palms, and allowed
Apollon’s words to settle, a melody composed of admiration and
challenge.
A slow, sly smile curled on Miran’s lips, his gaze never
straying from the immortal’s molten gold stare. “Ah, Apollon,
you speak of chaos and riddles as if they’re burdens to
unravel,” he murmured, voice low and velvety, laced with playful
defiance. “But what if chaos is the truest form of art? What if
the riddle isn’t meant to be solved but savored?”
He shifted effortlessly, closing the already small gap, his knee
brushing Apollon’s with a calculated casualness. The contact was
brief, electric, like the spark before a flame catches.
“Your apartment sounds quaint,” Miran added with a teasing tilt
of his head, amber eyes dancing. “But why confine music to walls
when the world offers such exquisite acoustics?” He gestured
around them, to the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of city
life, the soft whisper of the night itself. “Here, every note
has room to breathe, to echo, to chase the stars.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial
whisper. “But if you insist, I’ll humor your ‘serviceable’
guitar. Just know, Apollon, rhythm isn’t found in strings or
frets. It’s in heartbeats, in laughter, in the spaces between
words.”
Miran straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his knee with
theatrical flair. “So let’s not worry about where,” he declared,
standing fluidly, a fox in motion. “Let’s worry about how. And I
warn you—my dance doesn’t follow steps. It writes them.”
He offered his hand to Apollon, palm up, fingers slightly
curled, an invitation laced with challenge and charm.
“Flame for flame,” Miran echoed softly, a grin sharp enough to
cut moonlight. “Let’s see if we mesh.” He said grinning.
—fin—
Apollon’s golden eyes narrowed with a glint of intrigue as he
rose slowly, every movement deliberate, graceful—predatory. His
gaze dropped to the hand Miran offered, palm open and fingers
curling in silent invitation. The air between them seemed to
hum, alive with a tension that was neither entirely playful nor
entirely innocent.
“Miran,” Apollon said, his voice smooth as molten gold, edged
with quiet amusement. “What exactly do you mean by mesh?”
He didn’t take the hand right away. Instead, he circled it
lightly with his own, not quite touching at first, like he was
testing the weight of the moment. The fox’s pulse beat steady
beneath that small distance, quickening only slightly, but
enough for Apollon to feel it—like a note struck on an unseen
instrument.
His smirk deepened, slow and deliberate, as he finally let his
fingers close around Miran’s hand. The contact was deceptively
simple, yet charged, as though a spark leapt from one to the
other.
“Are we speaking strictly of music,” Apollon teased, leaning
closer until his breath ghosted over Miran’s cheek, warm and
scented faintly of cinnamon and smoke, “or of something… more?”
Their knees brushed again, this time neither accidental nor
fleeting. Apollon’s head tilted, studying Miran with sharp,
unblinking focus. He could sense it—the rhythm between them, an
unspoken harmony thrumming beneath the surface like a drumbeat.
“Because,” Apollon continued softly, his thumb brushing lazily
against the curve of Miran’s knuckles, “when fire meets fire,
the result is rarely tame. Flames can merge beautifully…” His
voice dropped lower, velvet-dark. “…or they can consume
everything around them.”
For a heartbeat, the world felt very still. Only the night
breeze stirred the leaves overhead, carrying with it the faint
echo of distant music from some unseen street performer.
Apollon’s smirk returned, sharper now, as he finally
straightened while keeping Miran’s hand in his grasp.
“So tell me, *Miran*,” he murmured, his tone both challenge and
invitation, “which kind of blaze do you intend for us to be?”
-Fin-
Miran’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile, the kind that
hinted at secrets yet to be unraveled. Their fingers tightened
slightly around Apollon’s hand, as if anchoring themselves to
the charged moment.
"Why choose?" Miran replied, voice low, threaded with the same
tension that twisted in the space between them. Their gaze met
Apollon’s unwaveringly, a flicker of defiance tempered by an
undercurrent of something warmer—curiosity, perhaps, or the
thrill of uncertainty.
Drawing just a little closer, Miran’s breath mingled with
Apollon’s, carrying a hint of something crisp, like fresh rain
on stone. "A blaze can mesmerize," they murmured, their thumb
brushing against Apollon’s in a subtle echo of his earlier
gesture, "both beautiful in its dance and dangerous in its
reach."
Their free hand lifted, fingers trailing just above Apollon’s
shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth
radiating from his skin. "Maybe we’ll weave both," Miran
whispered, their voice a soft thread woven through the tension,
"a fire that dances with purpose… and one that knows how to burn
when it must."
A beat passed, charged and weighty. Then Miran’s smile deepened,
something playful sparking in their eyes. "Or," they added with
a lightness that belied the intensity of the moment, "we could
just see where the melody takes us."
They released Apollon’s hand slowly, fingers lingering for the
briefest of moments before stepping back, leaving behind the
imprint of warmth and something unspoken—a question left hanging
in the cool night air as he began to walk.
—fin—
Apollon watched Miran step back, his golden eyes gleaming like
molten metal beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. The echo
of Miran’s touch still tingled along his skin, subtle yet
impossible to ignore. He flexed his fingers once, slowly, as
though savoring the lingering warmth before curling them into a
loose fist at his side.
“Why choose, indeed…” Apollon murmured, his voice rich and
thoughtful, almost reverent. A faint smirk curved his lips, one
part amused and one part undeniably captivated. “You speak like
a true fox—ever twisting, ever elusive. Beautiful and
dangerous.”
He stepped forward then, closing the space Miran had created,
his presence as steady and commanding as a tide rolling back in.
“Very well,” Apollon said, tone shifting to something more
decisive. “Let us see where this melody of yours takes us. But
for now…”
His golden gaze swept over Miran from head to toe, not in
judgment but in consideration, as though he were weighing a
precious instrument in his hands. Then, with a subtle tilt of
his head toward the park’s winding path, he added, “Come with
me. My apartment is close. I’ll need my guitar if we’re to begin
this… journey properly.”
The walk was quiet but companionable, their footsteps falling
into an unspoken rhythm on the sidewalk. Apollon led the way
through a few narrow streets until they reached a modest
building nestled between a laundromat and a corner market. It
wasn’t glamorous, but there was something sturdy and enduring
about it—practical, like a well-used blade.
He unlocked the door with an easy flick of his wrist and
gestured for Miran to enter first.
“It’s… small,” Apollon admitted, his tone even, though a flicker
of something like embarrassment crossed his face. “But it serves
its purpose.”
The apartment opened into a single, open space with sparse
furnishings. A low couch sat against one wall, a battered coffee
table before it, and a single bookshelf stood sentry in the
corner. The kitchen was little more than a compact nook
separated by a narrow counter. A door near the back hinted at a
bedroom, and another smaller one likely hid the bathroom.
“Over there is the living space,” Apollon said, motioning with a
precise wave of his hand. “Bedroom in the back, bathroom just
beside it. Simple, efficient… and quiet.”
His gaze lingered on Miran for a beat, a subtle invitation in
his words.
“Few mortals come here. Consider yourself… among a very select
few.”
He crossed to a stand near the bookshelf where a scuffed
acoustic guitar rested on its side. Lifting it carefully,
Apollon’s expression softened, his fingers brushing over the
worn wood.
“It’s old,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “But it has…
character. It will suffice until I find an instrument worthy of
what we intend to create.”
Turning back to Miran, Apollon held the guitar close, his smirk
returning like the flicker of a flame reigniting.
“Shall we begin, fox?” he asked, his voice threaded with
anticipation and something deeper, almost reverent. “Let us see
if your rhythm and mine truly mesh.”
-Fin-
Miran’s lips curled into a sly, knowing smile, the faint halo of
streetlight catching the mischievous glint in his amber-hued
eyes. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering Apollon’s
proposition, though the spark of intrigue had already taken root
within him.
“Ah, Apollon,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet and laced
with quiet amusement. “You speak as if you’ve already unraveled
my threads, as if you’ve seen through the weave of my nature.”
His gaze lingered on Apollon’s face, tracing the edges of that
faint smirk, savoring the undercurrent of challenge between
them.
Miran took a step forward, diminishing the space Apollon had
reclaimed, his posture relaxed yet brimming with latent energy.
“But isn’t it the unknown that composes the most compelling
melodies? The notes between the lines, the pauses between the
beats?”
He let his fingers brush lightly against Apollon’s sleeve, a
fleeting touch like the whisper of wind through leaves. Then,
with a soft chuckle, he pivoted slightly, motioning toward the
path ahead. “Lead the way. Let’s see what tunes your strings can
weave. I find myself rather curious.”
He followed apollon to his home, his fingers drumming on his
skateboard. His mind wandering on the day so far.
He never expected things to change so drastically. It was a
complete 180 from the monotonous life he was used to. His dream
of starting a band still lingered, a goal yet to be pursued. He
aspired to reach the greatness of Sleepless Sirens and be
remembered like his favorite idol, Zion. Reaching into the side
pocket of his pants, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the
smoke curling into the evening air.
Smoke curled around as he let a breath out.
“So you done music all your life?” He asked as he kicked his
board down to lazily follow apollon.
—fin—
Apollon glanced over his shoulder, the golden light of his eyes
catching in the dim glow of the streetlamps as Miran’s words
reached him. The fox’s voice had been soft, teasing, but beneath
it was a depth that struck something unexpectedly resonant
within him.
He slowed his pace, letting his steps fall quieter, more
deliberate, until they matched the lazy hum of Miran’s
skateboard wheels gliding along the sidewalk. The cigarette
smoke swirled around them, weaving a fragile veil between their
breaths.
“You give me too much credit, fox,” Apollon said at last, his
voice a low, smooth rumble threaded with honesty. “I haven’t
unraveled you. Not yet.” His lips curved into a small, wry smile
as he turned his head, studying Miran with a gaze that was
steady and intense. “You’re far too layered for that. Every
glance, every word, every laugh—you add another thread to the
tapestry. I can’t see the full pattern… but,” his tone softened,
“I find myself very much drawn to it.”
He shifted the guitar on his back, the strap creaking faintly,
his fingertips brushing the worn wood as if for reassurance.
“Music has always been my compass,” Apollon continued, his words
flowing like a melody carried on the night breeze. “Even when
the world itself changed around me—empires rising and falling,
mortals living and dying like the brief flicker of
candlelight—music endured.”
Apollon’s gaze grew distant for a moment, touched with something
old and unspoken.
“It lives in my blood, my bones,” he said, voice deepening with
reverence. “Every note I play carries centuries of memory, of
joy and sorrow, of battles fought and dances shared beneath a
thousand different moons.” His hand flexed slightly against the
strap, as though he could feel the weight of all that history
pressing against his skin.
Turning his attention fully back to Miran, Apollon’s smirk
returned, though softer this time—an ember rather than a blaze.
“So yes, music has been with me always. It is part of who I am…
as natural to me as breathing.”
He tilted his head, amber and gold meeting beneath the glow of
the streetlights.
“And now, perhaps, it will be the language we share—the first
song of many.”
-Fin-
Miran’s laughter drifted into the night air, light and
effortless, like a ripple across still water. He kicked the tail
of his skateboard, sending it flipping up into his hand with
practiced ease, then tucked it under his arm as he matched
Apollon’s slower stride.
“Ah, but there you go again, Apollon,” Miran replied, his voice
smooth yet edged with a playful warmth. His emerald eyes danced
with mischief, though behind the shimmer was a flicker of
something more sincere, more vulnerable. “You speak as though
I’m some grand enigma, woven of riddles and mystery. But maybe
I’m just… simple.” He shrugged, a lazy, casual gesture, yet his
gaze never wavered from Apollon’s.
Miran shifted the skateboard slightly, fingers drumming against
its worn surface. “Though I’ll admit,” he continued, his tone
softening, “there’s something in your words that makes me think…
maybe I’m more than I thought. Maybe the way you look at me
stitches those threads tighter, helps me see the pattern, even
if just a little.”
He paused, letting the cool night air settle between them for a
beat. The city’s distant hum served as their backdrop,
punctuated only by the soft rustle of leaves overhead.
“And music,” Miran added thoughtfully, his gaze drifting briefly
to the guitar slung across Apollon’s back, “honestly see it as
something that peers into people’s soul.” His lips quirked into
a half-smile, tinged with curiosity and awe. “Mean- I did t
really know the meaning of it until sleepless sirens formed.
They were my jam in the last life- granted incomplete. I wasn’t
happy, was doing the usual the other kitsune did. Doctor,
lawyer.. this last life that would of been my third? A
businessman.. it just wasn’t for me and didn’t want to waste the
other six without learning nothing but music..”
Miran took a step closer, his voice dropping slightly, softer
now. “My aim is to be in a band this life, to get the
experience” He let the words hang in the air, then added with a
sly grin, “course to do that means I gotta not just see who I
mesh with- but who I can harmonize with eventually. Hoping by my
ninth life I can climb where even the shortest of lives can get
to.. guess I admire them in a sense.. they don’t get to live
very long- but it’s almost fulfilling their lives in such a
short amount of time.”
His laughter bubbled up again, but it was gentler this time,
like a breeze stirring embers. And beneath it, an unspoken
promise lingered—of songs yet to be written, and moments yet to
unfold.
“So let us go jam- my place next, been learning the bass this
life.” He said.”then- *foxes den*” he said before rolling off
slow again.
—fin—
Apollon listened in silence as Miran spoke, his golden eyes
fixed on the fox with an intensity that bordered on reverence.
The night seemed to fold around Miran’s words, each one sinking
into Apollon like a chord resonating deep within his chest.
When Miran laughed softly at the end, that teasing, gentle
sound, Apollon’s lips curved into a faint smile—rare, subtle,
and meant for Miran alone.
“You are not simple,” Apollon said at last, his voice smooth but
threaded with something deeper, more earnest than his usual calm
reserve. “Even if you think yourself so. Simplicity does not
burn this brightly, nor weave such intricate melodies out of
chaos.”
He adjusted the strap of his guitar across his back as they
walked, the worn wood pressing warmly against his shoulder
blade. “You speak of unfinished lives, of paths abandoned, of
ambitions reshaped. That is not the mark of someone ordinary,
Miran. That is the mark of someone… becoming.”
Apollon’s gaze softened as he continued, his steps steady,
deliberate.
“I have seen many lifetimes—mortal and otherwise. Most beings
drift, unchanging, repeating the same mistakes until they fade
into nothing. But you?” His smirk returned, warm and edged with
admiration. “You refuse to fade. You claw your way toward
something greater with every rebirth. That is why you draw me
in, fox. You are a song still being written, and I…” His fingers
brushed the edge of the guitar, reverent. “I wish to play
alongside it.”
The mention of the band—the dream Miran carried from life to
life—made Apollon’s expression sharpen, his golden eyes glowing
faintly in the lamplight.
“Your dream is noble,” he said softly. “To create, to live
fully, even in a brief span of years… mortals have always burned
brightest when they know the end is near. It is something even
gods envy.”
As Miran rolled ahead on his board, Apollon’s smirk deepened,
his tone shifting from solemn to playful as he fell into step
beside him once more.
“A bassist, hm? Then you’ve chosen well.” He tapped the side of
his guitar meaningfully. “The foundation and the flame. A
perfect pairing.”
He tilted his head toward Miran, golden eyes glinting with
challenge and something far more intimate.
“Take me to this den of yours, fox. Show me where you create,
where your rhythm comes alive. Let us see if your bass can truly
harmonize with my strings.”
Apollon’s smirk curved into a rare, genuine smile as he added,
low and smooth,
“And perhaps, by the end of the night, we’ll write the first
verse of something far greater than either of us alone.”
-Fin-
#Post#: 1446--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 10:01 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
Miran’s laughter lingered in the night air, fading into a
comfortable silence as he glanced back at Apollon, his amber
eyes reflecting both the streetlights and something softer,
warmer.
He kicked his board up with ease, catching it mid-air before
tucking it under his arm when they hit an apartment. He went
inside long enough to get his guitar. He slung it on his back to
walk out, and locked the door.
The quiet stretched between them, not awkward but filled with
unspoken thoughts, until Miran finally broke it with a
mischievous grin.
He stepped in closer, his gaze steady, unguarded. “I’ll be
honest of one thing- you’re wrong about one thing—I don’t claw
my way toward something greater. I stumble, trip, and sometimes
crash right through it.”
His fingers absently traced the strap where it frayed “But
maybe that’s the point, huh? Maybe becoming isn’t about grace.
Maybe it’s about the mess, the noise, the mistakes that leave
scars.”
Miran’s grin softened as he looked up, catching the faint glow
in Apollon’s golden eyes. “And if you want to play alongside
that song, then you’re either brave or beautifully reckless.”
He turned, gesturing with a lazy wave. “Come on, then. My den’s
not much, but it’s loud, messy, and alive—just like me.”
As they walked, side by side, Miran’s voice dropped to a quieter
note, sincere and unguarded. “And who knows? Maybe by the end of
the night, we’ll write something raw and real—ugly in places,
beautiful in others. But ours. That’s the beauty of music and
art.” He said with a warm smile.
—fin—
Apollon walked beside Miran, silent for a moment as the fox’s
words sank into him. The honesty in them—the rawness—struck a
chord deeper than any melody he had played in centuries.
His golden eyes gleamed faintly beneath the streetlights, not
with the sharpness of a warrior’s gaze, but with something
softer, more contemplative. Finally, his lips curved into a
small, almost reverent smile.
“Brave,” he said quietly, his voice smooth as a low note plucked
on a string, “or beautifully reckless… Perhaps both.” His gaze
flicked to Miran’s amber eyes, holding them for a heartbeat
longer than necessary. “Either way, fox, I choose to play beside
that song. Mess, scars, and all.”
He shifted the strap of his guitar on his back, the familiar
weight grounding him as they turned down a narrow side street.
“You speak of crashing through greatness,” Apollon continued, a
faint hum of amusement weaving through his words. “There is…
truth in that. Becoming is rarely a graceful act. It is fire and
ash, destruction and creation—chaos reborn into something new.”
Apollon’s smirk deepened, his tone lightening just a fraction as
he let his gaze sweep the darkened street ahead.
“Tell me, fox,” he said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet
night, “how much farther until we reach this den of yours?”
A teasing lilt crept into his tone, warm and edged with
playfulness.
“You’ve built it up as loud, messy, and alive… I am eager to see
if it lives up to its master’s reputation.”
He let his fingers trail briefly over the worn body of his
guitar as he added, almost to himself,
“And eager to see how our first notes sound beneath its roof.”
-Fin-
Miran chuckled softly, the sound a warm ripple through the night
air, his amber eyes glinting with mischief under the faint glow
of the streetlights.
“Beautifully reckless,” he echoed, his voice a rich, velvety
hum, tinged with amusement. “I’ll take that as a compliment,
godling.” His tail flicked lazily behind him, betraying the ease
he felt beside Apollon, though his heart beat a little faster at
the lingering gaze.
He stepped ahead, boots tapping a playful rhythm against the
cobblestone, then glanced over his shoulder with a grin sharp
enough to cut through the dark. “The den’s just beyond the next
corner,” he said, eyes dancing. “Loud, messy, alive—it’s all
that and more. But don’t be too dazzled; it’s not the walls that
make the music.”
Miran’s hand brushed lightly against Apollon’s as they walked, a
fleeting connection, brief but intentional. “It’s the chaos
within, the hearts beating out of sync until they find their own
rhythm,” he murmured. “Like us, perhaps.”
As they neared the flickering neon glow ahead, Miran tilted his
head, a sly smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Let’s see
if your notes can keep up with my mess, golden boy,” he teased,
his laughter spilling into the night like the opening chord of a
song yet to be written.
The door creaked open as he stepped inside, his footsteps light
but purposeful against the polished floor. The ambient hum of
quiet conversations and distant strumming of instruments greeted
him. Scanning the room, he spotted a cozy cluster of beanbags
nestled in a corner of the shared space, where most came to
practice or unwind.
Moving with casual ease, he made his way over, sinking
comfortably into one of the plush beanbags. The soft fabric
molded around him, offering a familiar comfort. Reaching out, he
deftly flipped the small sign hanging nearby from "Vacant" to
"Occupied," signaling his need for solitude. Just as the sign
settled into place,
—fin—
Apollon followed Miran into the softly lit space, his golden
eyes scanning the room with quiet interest. The warm hum of
distant conversations and faint chords from unseen instruments
wove together like threads in a tapestry, a subtle backdrop to
the fox’s laughter still lingering in the air.
He watched as Miran claimed one of the beanbags with an ease
that spoke of belonging, flipping the sign to Occupied like a
king sealing off his domain. The corners of Apollon’s mouth
curved in a small, knowing smile.
“Your den suits you,” he said, his voice smooth and warm,
carrying easily through the low thrum of the room. He stepped
closer, the guitar on his back shifting slightly as he moved
with the effortless grace of a predator at rest. “Messy, alive…
unpredictable.”
Apollon’s gaze swept the space, then returned to Miran, his
smirk deepening.
“I can see why you come here. It hums with the same chaos you
spoke of earlier. A place where hearts collide and create
something entirely new.”
He stopped just in front of Miran, tilting his head slightly,
the faint glow of his golden eyes catching in the low light.
“Now,” Apollon said, his tone teasing but laced with
anticipation, “show me what a fox’s den sounds like. Let me hear
this rhythm of yours—the one you’ve been guarding so carefully.”
His smirk softened into something more genuine, his voice
dropping lower, quieter, as if meant for Miran alone.
“And, perhaps, I’ll show you mine.”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears twitched at Apollon’s words, a slow grin spreading
across his face. He leaned back in the beanbag, letting the soft
fabric swallow him as his tail flicked lazily. “You always know
how to make a request sound like a challenge,” he said, his
voice a low purr that carried a hint of mischief.
With an easy motion, he reached for the worn bass propped
against the side of the beanbag. The wood was polished from
years of playing, the strings catching the dim light. He plucked
a single note, letting it linger in the air like a secret,
before following it with a slow, rolling rhythm that seemed to
pulse in time with the room’s quiet heartbeat.
“This is the fox’s den,” Miran murmured, his eyes half-lidded as
his claws danced along the strings. “It doesn’t roar, not at
first. It waits… creeps… and then—” He let the next chord bloom,
deep and resonant, the sound curling around Apollon like smoke.
“—it catches you before you even realize it.”
He glanced up, golden light from the room catching in his dark
eyes as the corner of his mouth quirked. “Your turn, demon.”
—fin—
Apollon’s golden eyes narrowed, a slow, deliberate smirk
spreading across his lips as Miran’s final note faded into the
charged stillness of the room. The sound of the bass still
thrummed faintly in the air, like a heartbeat that refused to
quiet.
“Demon fae, little fox,” Apollon corrected smoothly, his voice
low and rich, carrying an edge of amusement that curled like
smoke around the words. “There’s a difference.”
He stepped closer, the quiet shift of his boots against the
floor almost inaudible, until he was standing just before Miran.
With one fluid motion, he swung his guitar from his back and
settled it against his front, his fingers brushing reverently
over the worn wood.
“And it seems,” Apollon continued, his tone deepening, “you’ve
been underestimating me.”
He plucked a single, deliberate string, the note sharp and
clean, cutting through the lingering hum of Miran’s bass. Then
another, weaving a melody that started low and controlled,
steady as a measured breath. Slowly, his tempo built, the rhythm
deepening, fierce yet precise—like a storm gathering strength on
a distant horizon.
The sound wrapped around Miran’s bassline, not overpowering it
but challenging it, twisting together in a dance of push and
pull.
Apollon’s gaze never left Miran’s, molten and unyielding as he
played.
“You say this den waits, creeps, ensnares its prey,” he said
between chords, his voice a rumble beneath the rising melody.
“But my music doesn’t wait, fox.”
He strummed a powerful chord, the sound filling the room with
heat and fire.
“It hunts.”
With a final, resonant note, Apollon let the strings hum beneath
his touch, his smirk sharp and knowing.
“Now tell me,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, “can your
rhythm run with mine—or will it be caught?”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears twitched, a sly grin curving his lips as he let the
echo of Apollon’s final note fade into the air like smoke. He
tilted his head, amber eyes glinting with mischief beneath the
dim light.
“Caught?” he said lightly, his voice a velvet drawl that slinked
between the lingering tones. “Oh, Apollon… foxes don’t get
caught. We choose where the snare closes.”
He plucked a lazy, teasing riff on his bass, the notes curling
around Apollon’s fading chords with a playful precision, each
one slipping just out of reach like a shadow.
“And storms?” Miran continued, circling a step to the side, the
bassline prowling along with him. “They make lovely noise… but
foxes dance in the rain.”
He let a final note hum low and sly, his tail—if he’d had
one—practically flicking in amusement.
“So,” Miran said, voice dipping into a purr, “let’s see if your
hunt knows how to play… or if it’s just all teeth and thunder.”
—fin—
Apollon’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous, as Miran’s final
note purred through the air like a promise left unspoken. The
golden light of his eyes burned hotter, molten and sharp,
catching every flicker of Miran’s teasing movements.
“Oh, little fox…” he murmured, voice a low rumble that vibrated
like the deepest string of his guitar. “You dance, you dodge,
you taunt.”
In a single, fluid motion, Apollon set his guitar gently aside
and crossed the small space between them. Before Miran could
react, Apollon dropped smoothly onto the beanbag, his weight
sinking it deeper as he straddled the fox with predator’s
precision.
The beanbag shifted under them, enveloping their bodies in a
soft cocoon as Apollon’s hands braced on either side of Miran’s
shoulders. His smirk sharpened, fangs of amusement and heat
gleaming just beneath the surface.
“Well,” Apollon said, leaning down until his breath mingled with
Miran’s, warm and carrying that faint scent of cinnamon and
smoke. “You’ve been caught now, foxy.”
His gaze locked with Miran’s, molten gold meeting sharp amber,
neither yielding. “So tell me,” he continued, his voice softer
now, laced with challenge and desire, “are you going to let me
steal a kiss?”
Apollon tilted his head slightly, lips hovering just above
Miran’s, close enough for the fox to feel the heat of him.
“Or…” his smirk curved wickedly, “will you keep up this teasing
dance, all teeth and clever words, until I take what I want
anyway?”
The room seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the distant
hum of instruments and the quiet thrum of two heartbeats
dangerously out of sync.
-Fin-
Miran’s sharp amber eyes glimmered, the slightest curl tugging
at one corner of his lips. His tail—always the traitor—flicked
once against the beanbag as he leaned up just enough to brush
his nose against Apollon’s chin, never quite giving in.
“Mm… steal a kiss?” he whispered, voice sultry and threaded with
laughter. “You make it sound so easy, sunfire.”
His hands, which had been resting against the beanbag, slid
slowly up Apollon’s arms, tracing the hard lines of muscle with
featherlight touches. The fox arched slightly beneath him, his
teasing movements deliberate, a counterpoint to the predator’s
poised stillness.
“Maybe I like the game,” he purred, amber gaze locked on molten
gold. “Maybe I like watching you burn hotter just for me.”
Then, with a wicked little grin, Miran tilted his head, letting
his lips ghost close enough for the barest brush of heat.
“Course foxes are predators, just we tend to be more
opportunistic.” He said before he’d pull apollon into a full
kiss. After a few moments he would seperate.”so who is the
caught one now?” He purred back.
—fin—
Apollon’s breath caught, his smirk faltering for just a fraction
of a heartbeat as Miran’s lips finally claimed his. The world
narrowed to the heat between them—the soft give of the beanbag
beneath their tangled bodies, the faint hum of music in the
background, and the intoxicating taste of smoke and spice on
Miran’s lips.
When the fox pulled back, amber eyes alight with mischief and
triumph, Apollon’s golden gaze burned brighter, molten and
unrestrained.
“I think we both are,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent,
a thread of raw honesty winding through the usual smooth
control.
And then he didn’t wait.
Apollon surged forward, closing the scant distance in a single
breath, his hand sliding to the back of Miran’s neck as he stole
another kiss—deeper, fiercer, no longer a tease but a claim. His
other hand braced against the beanbag, pinning Miran beneath him
with a predator’s precision while his lips moved with slow,
deliberate heat.
The kiss was fire meeting fire: chaotic and consuming, but
perfectly in sync.
When he finally drew back, just enough to let them both breathe,
Apollon rested his forehead against Miran’s, his smirk
returning, softer this time, curved by something more than
challenge.
“You play dangerous games, little fox,” he said, golden eyes
glimmering with both desire and amusement. “But so do I.”
His thumb brushed against Miran’s jaw, a rare tenderness beneath
the wild heat.
“Tell me,” Apollon added, his tone dropping to a husky whisper,
“shall we call this a tie… or the first round of many?”
_fin_
Miran’s laugh was soft and low, curling around them like smoke
as he tilted his head just enough for their noses to brush. His
amber eyes glimmered with quiet triumph, drinking in every
flicker of firelight as though it confirmed what he already
knew.
“A tie?” he echoed, the words laced with amused disbelief. He
moved some, his fingers finding apollons jawline to trail to his
collarbone. “Because from where I’m sitting,” he murmured with a
slow smile. “I still win.”
He slid back, radiating smug satisfaction as his ears and tail
slid out.
—fin-
Apollon’s low chuckle rumbled through his chest, warm and rich,
as he leaned back just slightly to take in the sight before him.
Miran, smug and glowing with victory, now fully revealed—ears
flicking, tail lazily swaying—looked every bit the mischievous
creature Apollon had imagined.
“I don’t think there’s a loser between us,” Apollon murmured,
his voice smooth and velvety, threaded with quiet amusement.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and let a single finger
trail along the curve of one of Miran’s fox ears. The touch was
light, reverent even, like a whisper of firelight over delicate
silk. He traced from the very tip down to the soft fur at the
base, golden eyes watching intently for every subtle reaction.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, almost to himself, though the word
thrummed in the charged air between them. “So very rare… so very
you.”
His smirk returned, sharp and knowing, though his tone softened
as he added,
“I thought you were trouble before, little fox.” His finger
brushed once more along the sensitive edge of Miran’s ear, slow
and teasing. “But now I know you are.”
Apollon leaned in close again, his lips grazing Miran’s temple
before he whispered against his skin,
“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Pulling back just enough to meet Miran’s eyes, Apollon’s smirk
widened ever so slightly.
“So,” he said, golden gaze glimmering, “tell me, fox—shall we
make more music… or continue playing this far more dangerous
game?”
-Fin-
Miran’s tail swayed with a slow, deliberate flick, the very
picture of feline amusement despite his foxlike form. His amber
eyes half-lidded, he tilted his head into the lingering ghost of
Apollon’s touch, ears twitching in subtle betrayal of the shiver
that rippled down his spine.
A sly smile curved his lips as he finally replied, voice low and
honeyed with a playful edge.
“Hmm… dangerous games are my specialty,” he murmured, letting
his claws—barely unsheathed—drag lightly across Apollon’s
forearm, a teasing threat without any real danger. “But music…
music lingers.”
He leaned forward, close enough that his warm breath fanned
against Apollon’s lips, his tail curling lazily around the man’s
wrist like a silken trap.
“Maybe,” he purred, “we can start with music… and see where the
game takes us.”
His grin flashed sharp and bright, eyes glittering with
mischief.
—fin—
Apollon’s smirk deepened, molten gold flickering in his eyes
like the heart of a fire stoked higher. He tilted his head
slightly, allowing Miran’s warm breath to ghost over his lips,
the faint tickle of the fox’s tail curling around his wrist
making his pulse stir.
“Music first…” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety rumble,
smooth as silk yet edged with heat. “A wise choice, little fox.”
His free hand slid to the side, fingers brushing slowly along
Miran’s jaw before trailing to the soft curve beneath his ear,
dangerously close to those twitching tips. Apollon’s touch was
deliberate, reverent but undeniably possessive.
“But,” he added, his tone softening into something intimate and
teasing, “I should warn you…” His lips curved into a wicked
smile as he leaned closer, their noses nearly brushing.
“…I might need a few more kisses to keep my focus.”
Without waiting for permission, Apollon closed the scant
distance, pressing his mouth to Miran’s in a kiss that was slow
but commanding, a deliberate contrast to the fiery heat they’d
shared before. It was a promise and a claim, drawn out until the
fox’s claws grazed his arm again, sending a thrill up his spine.
When he finally pulled back, just enough to speak, Apollon’s
smirk returned, sharp and utterly unrepentant.
“Consider it… inspiration,” he murmured, his thumb brushing
lightly over Miran’s lower lip. “Now, play for me, fox. Let’s
see if our music burns as brightly as the rest of this game.”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears flicked, the soft bristle of fur catching the
faintest tremor of his own breath. He blinked slowly, golden
eyes hazy yet sharp, and let a low, amused hum slip past his
lips.
“You always take what you want, Apollon…” he murmured, the words
lilting and quiet, though the curl of his smile betrayed a spark
of mischief. His tail tightened around Apollon’s wrist, a
playful bind rather than a restraint. “But you’re lucky I enjoy
being stolen from.”
He leaned forward, brushing his nose along Apollon’s in a
fleeting nuzzle, then drew back just enough for their gazes to
lock fully. Heat shimmered there, matched and mirrored.
“Fine,” Miran said, voice soft but threaded with a teasing
challenge. “I’ll play. But try to keep up… or I might make you
beg for the next kiss.”
His fingers danced toward the instrument at his side, the
promise of music poised between them like the coiled energy of a
fox ready to pounce, his grin sharp and daring.
“Let’s see if your inspiration can handle me, sunfire.”
—fin—
#Post#: 1453--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 17, 2026, 9:23 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Apollon’s smirk softened into something warmer, more amused than
sharp. The molten glow of his golden eyes caught the dim light,
flickering like banked embers as he let out a low, rumbling
chuckle.
“Make me beg?” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue
with a silken amusement that carried no sting, only playful
delight. “Oh, little fox, you do have a way of making even
threats sound… tempting.”
His free hand rose, brushing a stray lock of Miran’s dark hair
back behind one twitching ear. His touch lingered for a moment,
deliberately gentle, before gliding down to trace the curve of
that sensitive ear tip, a light, teasing caress that drew more
from curiosity than conquest.
“You seem to think this is a battle,” Apollon said smoothly,
tilting his head ever so slightly. “But it isn’t, not really.
Music is not about winning or losing—it’s about harmony.”
He chuckled again, softer this time, shaking his head as if
fondly humoring the fox.
“Still, I’ll play along with your game,” he admitted, voice
carrying a warmth like the last glow of sunset. “If making me
‘beg’ is the song you wish to play, then I’ll let you set the
tempo.”
Leaning back, Apollon rested his guitar against his knee and
gave Miran a sly glance, golden eyes glimmering with unspoken
mischief.
“Though fair warning,” he added lightly, “if your music is as
intoxicating as your lips, you may find me quite… eager for an
encore.”
He strummed a soft, rolling chord, the sound threading between
them like a bridge.
“Go on then, fox,” Apollon murmured, his voice a velvety
whisper. “Show me the melody you think will make even a god
sway.”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears twitched at Apollon’s words, the light brush of
fingers still tingling along the sensitive tip. He tilted his
head, a sly smile curving his lips as he leaned just slightly
closer, tail flicking with mischievous rhythm.
“Oh, so you do know how to listen,” he purred, voice low and
lilting, like the first notes of a secret song. “I wonder if
you’ll still be so composed when the melody catches you… when it
winds around your heart and pulls tighter with every beat.”
He let his fingers hover just above the strings of his own
instrument, teasing a single, haunting note into the air. It
trembled, lingered, and faded like a breath against the neck.
His gaze stayed locked on those golden eyes, daring and amused.
“Careful, Apollon,” Miran murmured, stepping into the space
between the last shimmering chord and the next heartbeat.
“Harmony can be just as dangerous as dissonance. And I do so
like… playing with danger.”
With that, he strummed, and the first soft stirrings of his song
coiled in the air like smoke, wrapping around apollon in its
spell.
------
Apollon’s golden eyes glowed faintly as Miran’s note curled
through the air, delicate yet daring, tugging at something deep
in his chest. His lips curved into a slow, appreciative smile,
the kind that held both amusement and something far more
dangerous—captivation.
“Danger suits you, fox,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth,
a smoky velvet rumble that carried easily into the spaces
between Miran’s chords. “But harmony…” His smirk deepened,
“harmony is where danger becomes irresistible.”
He shifted the guitar into his lap, fingers brushing the strings
with deliberate care. The first sound he coaxed out was rich and
resonant, a counterpoint to Miran’s haunting melody—solid,
grounding, yet warm enough to embrace the fox’s notes without
dimming them. Each chord wove into Miran’s rhythm, not
overpowering, but enhancing, like firelight deepening the
shadows.
And then, as the music swelled between them, Apollon tilted his
head back just slightly, letting his smoky voice rise in a low,
sultry serenade. The words came not in English, but in a
language long forgotten by mortals—ancient and lyrical, the
syllables flowing like honey and embers.
His voice was rich, textured, carrying centuries of sorrow and
triumph, of dances under countless skies. Even without
understanding the words, the intent was unmistakable: longing,
reverence, desire tempered with restraint. Each phrase was a vow
wrapped in fire.
When his gaze found Miran’s again, molten gold meeting amber,
Apollon leaned closer, their music intertwining like twin
flames.
“You tempt with your notes,” he said between verses, his voice
husky with both song and something more, “but remember, fox…
when I sing, the world itself listens.”
His fingers pressed another chord, his voice softening into a
near-whispered line, sung for Miran alone:
“And tonight… so do you.”
-Fin-
Miran’s amber eyes shimmered, molten with a mix of mischief and
something perilously close to surrender, as Apollon’s final
whisper coiled around him like smoke and fire. His fingers
lingered on the strings of his own instrument, pausing just long
enough to let the weight of that serenade settle in his chest.
A slow smile curved his lips, one part challenge, one part
invitation. “You sing like a god convincing the stars to fall,”
he murmured, voice soft but edged with teasing warmth. “And yet,
Apollon… do you think a fox so easily tamed by a song?”
Miran let his fingers dance over the strings again, releasing a
cascade of notes that flitted like sparks, daring and
unpredictable. His melody wove around Apollon’s deep chords,
brushing against them, flirting with harmony but never fully
surrendering. Each sound was a playful step just out of reach, a
test of how far the golden-eyed god would follow.
He leaned closer, close enough that their shared music became a
breath between them. “The world may listen when you sing,” he
said, his voice a silken whisper, “but tonight… I decide if the
fox does.”
With a final, impish glint in his eye, Miran struck a note so
bright and sharp it felt like laughter itself, letting it linger
in the space between challenge and promise.
-Fin-
Apollon let the last hum of Miran’s bright, sharp note hang in
the air, his golden eyes catching the flicker of amber with an
intensity that made the moment stretch. His lips curved into a
slow, deliberate smile, the kind that carried warmth beneath its
fire.
“Have I ever said I wanted to tame you, Miran?” he murmured, his
smoky voice curling around the fox’s daring like another layer
of music. His fingers strummed a gentler chord, low and
resonant, a grounding echo against Miran’s laughter-bright
flourish.
“I like you just as you are—mischievous, playful…” His gaze
softened, though the heat in it didn’t fade. “…and a wild
beauty.”
He leaned in just enough that the space between them thrummed
with both sound and something unspoken, his voice dropping to
something intimate, meant only for Miran.
“I don’t seek to chain the fox. I’d rather walk beside him—step
for step, flame for flame. Because the song we’re weaving…” his
hand brushed the strings again, weaving his chord into Miran’s
restless sparks, “isn’t about control. It’s about harmony.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, the amusement never
leaving. “And tell me, little fox… doesn’t that sound far more
dangerous?”
-Fin-
Miran tilted his head, amber eyes glinting with mischief as the
last echo of Apollon’s chord faded into the charged air. A soft,
fox-like laugh slipped from his lips, quick and bright, like
sparks leaping from a fire.
“Dangerous?” he purred, sauntering closer until the space
between them felt like a held breath. “I thought you liked
danger, golden one. Or is it only fun when you think you can
keep up?”
He circled half a step, his tail—real or imagined—swishing in
the rhythm of his teasing. The wild energy in him hummed,
restless but intrigued, meeting the warmth of Apollon’s steady
heat.
“You talk about harmony,” Miran said, voice lilting, “but
harmony can burn just as easily as it soothes. Walk beside me,
step for step, and maybe…” He let his fingers trace the air near
Apollon’s strings, not quite touching. “…you’ll see if you can
dance with the fire without getting singed.”
His laughter flared again, soft but daring, drifting into the
space between them. “After all… what’s the fun in a song that
doesn’t scorch a little?”
—fin—
Apollon’s smirk deepened, his golden eyes gleaming with
amusement as Miran’s laughter danced between them like
firelight. He let his fingers glide lazily across the strings,
coaxing out a low, steady rhythm that pulsed like a heartbeat
beneath the fox’s restless energy.
“I could do the melody part, if you prefer,” he said, his smoky
voice curling with playful challenge, the grin tugging at his
lips unmistakably wicked.
He leaned just slightly closer, his tone dipping lower, intimate
and teasing. “Of course… melody has a way of leading. Guiding.
Wrapping itself around every other note until they follow.” His
gaze lingered on Miran, deliberate, as his chord thrummed warm
and steady beneath the words.
“But then again…” His strumming shifted suddenly, sharp and
daring, weaving around the fox’s earlier sparks instead of
overshadowing them. “…maybe I’d rather hear what happens when
you try to outplay me.”
The grin widened, softened by the warmth in his voice. “Harmony
can scorch, yes—but only when both parts burn just as bright.”
Apollon’s grin lingered, molten and mischievous, as his fingers
carried the steady hum of melody beneath Miran’s sharp sparks.
But then, in a pause between chords, he leaned in—swift,
unhesitating—and stole a kiss.
It wasn’t drawn-out, not yet, just a quick press of heat and
certainty, a brush of lips that tasted of challenge and promise
both. When he pulled back, his golden eyes gleamed like embers
fanned to life, his smirk curling with satisfaction.
“Couldn’t resist,” he murmured, voice low and rough with
amusement. He plucked a single teasing note, letting it hang in
the air between them like proof of his audacity. “Consider it…
part of the melody.”
Then, without waiting for protest or reply, he slid seamlessly
back into his rhythm, as if the kiss were just another daring
note in the song they were weaving together.
-Fin-
Miran froze the instant Apollon’s lips brushed against his, the
sudden press of warmth sending a shock straight through him. His
breath caught, and for a heartbeat he could only stare,
wide-eyed, as color bloomed hot across his cheeks. The fox’s
earlier laughter died in his throat, leaving a quiet, flustered
silence between them.
He blinked rapidly, ears twitching, his tail giving an
involuntary flick as if betraying the storm of emotions he
couldn’t quite voice. His fingers hovered uncertainly over the
strings, and he swallowed hard, searching for words that refused
to come.
Finally, he cleared his throat and forced a small, shaky smile,
the blush still refusing to fade. “I… guess that’s one way to…
change the rhythm,” he muttered, trying for levity though his
voice was soft and uneven. After a moment, his grin steadied,
composure trickling back into place as he strummed a single note
deliberately, meeting Apollon’s gaze with a spark of playful
defiance. “But don’t think one surprise kiss means you win. I’m
still going to outplay you.”
—fin—
Apollon chuckled low in his chest, the sound rich and amused as
his golden eyes lingered on Miran’s flushed face. He shifted the
guitar lightly, his fingers strumming a smooth, steady rhythm
that wrapped around the fox’s sharp note like smoke curling
around flame.
“Outplay me?” he echoed, his voice velvety, threaded with
teasing warmth. He leaned just close enough that his breath
ghosted against Miran’s ear, the corner of his lips tugging into
a half-smirk. “You already missed a beat, little fox.”
His gaze softened then, even as his grin remained, and he
plucked another chord—low, resonant, a steady heartbeat beneath
their tangled rhythm. “But if that blush is your counterattack…
I’ll admit, it’s disarming.”
He leaned back just enough to watch Miran’s expression, still
playing, still weaving his steady fire into the fox’s restless
sparks. “Careful,” he murmured, golden eyes glinting, “I might
start kissing you every time you falter.”
-fin-
Miran’s ears flicked, the tips hot, and he forced a shaky laugh
past the tightness in his chest. “Missed a beat, huh?” he
muttered, fingers fumbling for the strings as though defiance
alone could hold his rhythm steady. But the heat in his cheeks
betrayed him, and he knew it.
He strummed again, sharp and quick, trying to drown out the
thrumming in his veins. “You— you think a blush is all I’ve
got?” His tail lashed, half in embarrassment, half in challenge.
Leaning forward, he let his voice drop, low and daring, though
the tremor in it gave him away. “Careful, Apollon… if you keep
saying things like that, I might stop faltering on purpose.”
His gaze locked onto those golden eyes, something reckless
sparking behind his own, and for a moment, the music between
them felt like a dare neither was willing to lose.
—fin—
Apollon’s smirk lingered, but the fire in his golden eyes
gentled into something steadier, deeper. His fingers slowed over
the strings, coaxing out a low, warm rhythm that thrummed with
quiet promise rather than challenge.
“Falter or not,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight
of something more than play, “I’ll catch you.” He let the words
hang in the air, steady as the chord beneath them.
“You’re not alone, little fox… not anymore.”
His gaze held Miran’s, unwavering, molten light meeting amber
sparks. The grin softened at the edges, but his tone stayed
sure, unshaken. “Whatever you need—whether it’s fire or
stillness, chaos or harmony—I’ll be there.”
The last note hummed into silence, but Apollon’s words lingered,
like a vow woven into the fabric of their song.
Apollon let the final chord fade, his fingers stilling on the
strings. The warmth in his eyes remained, but there was a trace
of practicality too, threaded through his molten gaze.
He leaned back slightly in the beanbag, studying Miran with an
easy half-smile. “As much as I’d keep playing until the stars
burn out,” he murmured, voice low, “it’s getting late.”
He set the guitar gently against the side of the beanbag, then
tipped his head toward Miran, golden eyes narrowing just a
little in amusement. “Do you need to head back to your den, fox?
We do have those so-called ‘classes’ in just a few hours.”
A soft chuckle slipped past his lips, edged with dry humor. “I
don’t think the mortals would forgive me if we both fell asleep
on our desks.”
-fin-
Miran let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, the soft hum of
the last chord still echoing in memory. His amber eyes lifted to
meet Apollon’s molten gold, and for a moment he simply breathed
in the warmth that had settled between them.
“…You always know what to say,” he murmured, voice quiet but
threaded with something steady. A small smile tugged at his
lips, wry yet touched with genuine warmth. “Even when I don’t
want to hear it… I kind of do.”
He leaned back slightly, letting his head rest against the
beanbag, still watching Apollon with a mix of gratitude and
reluctant fondness. “Maybe I’ll never get used to someone
catching me like that.” A soft laugh followed, more exhale than
sound. “But… I’m not running, if that’s what you’re worried
about.”
Miran’s gaze flicked toward the guitar, then back to Apollon.
“You play like you’re talking straight to my ribs. Makes it hard
to keep my walls up.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “I
don’t mind it.”
Pulling his knees closer, he nodded toward the dark window. “And
yeah… you’re right. Morning’s going to hit us like a truck if we
don’t at least pretend to sleep.” His smirk returned, sharper
but lighter than before. “Not that I’d mind making the mortals a
little jealous if we dozed off in class.”
With a faint stretch, Miran stood, brushing imaginary lint from
his shirt. “Come on, sunshine. Walk me to my so-called den
before I start believing you’d actually play till the stars burn
out.”
He paused at the door, glancing back with a flicker of something
softer in his eyes. “Thanks… for catching me.”
—fin—
#Post#: 1454--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 17, 2026, 9:31 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Apollon let out a quiet breath, his golden eyes holding Miran’s
gaze for a long moment. The corner of his mouth lifted, but the
smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—it carried too much gravity to
be entirely light.
“I’ve lived a long time,” he said softly, voice low and threaded
with warmth and honesty. “Long enough to have seen mistakes
repeat themselves—my own, most of all. Past lives, past choices…
I’ve lost more than I care to admit because I thought I knew
better. Because I thought I had all the time in the world to
make it right.”
He shifted forward, the distance between them narrowing, his
voice quieter now, meant only for Miran. “But this time… I don’t
want to screw it up. Not with you. Not when you keep letting me
catch you.”
Apollon’s hand brushed lightly along the strings of the guitar
still resting across his lap, the faint hum of the wood
resonating with the weight of his words. His smile deepened,
gentler now, the glow of his gaze softening.
“I’ll try my hardest to make sure I don’t.”
He rose slowly, following Miran toward the door, his tone
lightening just enough to add with a smirk: “Though if you keep
calling me sunshine, I can’t be held responsible for chasing you
with songs till the stars *do* burn out.”
-fin-
Miran paused at the doorway, his hand resting on the frame as he
turned back to Apollon. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at
him, taking in the warmth that clung to the edges of that smirk,
the quiet vulnerability beneath those golden eyes.
He stepped closer, enough that the distance Apollon had closed
felt like it truly disappeared. “I’m not asking for perfect. I
don’t even need promises. Just… don’t run from me when it gets
hard. Alright?”
Miran’s gaze flicked toward the guitar, and he huffed a quiet
laugh. “And for the record, sunshine… I don’t mind being chased
with songs. Just make sure they’re in tune when the stars start
burning out.”
With that, he leaned back against the frame, the faintest spark
of challenge in his eyes. “Come on, before I start thinking
you’re all talk.” He said before sauntering out, his sway of his
step, acting like a lure into the night.
—fin—
Apollon’s golden gaze steadied, the faint smirk softening into
something fiercer, resolute. He rose from the beanbag with
unhurried grace, the weight of his presence filling the small
room as he stepped closer, close enough that Miran’s hand on the
frame brushed the warmth of his arm.
“Run?” he echoed, his voice low but firm, carrying a steel edge
beneath the velvet. “Little fox, I don’t run from fire. I step
into it—especially if someone I care about is caught in the
flames.”
He held Miran’s gaze, unflinching, the faint glow of his eyes
betraying the truth beneath his words. “So don’t mistake me for
someone who’ll vanish when it burns. That’s not who I am.”
The corner of his mouth curved again, softer this time, though
the steel didn’t leave his tone. “Chasing you with songs,
staying when it’s hard… I can do both. And when the stars burn
out?” His smirk deepened. “I’ll still be here to strike the next
chord.”
He let the silence breathe between them for a beat, golden eyes
gleaming with the weight of a vow he hadn’t meant to make—but
couldn’t stop himself from speaking.
The night air outside was cool, heavy with the scent of rain
lingering from earlier. Apollon watched Miran’s retreating sway,
the lure deliberate, teasing, but underneath it—trust. That
trust settled into him like a flame refusing to gutter out, even
against the mortal chill. With a faint chuckle, he slung his
guitar over his back and followed into the dark, the quiet of
the streets wrapping around them both until the city’s hum was
only a whisper.
— ✦ —
Morning crept in with the soft haze of dawn, the air brisk and
tinged with the scent of dew on pavement. Apollon leaned
casually against the gate outside Miran’s place, his guitar case
propped beside him. His golden eyes caught the sunlight,
gleaming like molten metal, but his expression was surprisingly
relaxed—as if waiting here was as natural as breathing.
When Miran finally stepped out, skateboard tucked under his arm,
Apollon straightened, falling into step beside him without
hesitation.
“At some rate,” Apollon began, his voice carrying that familiar
mix of dry humor and warmth, “I might have to get a motorcycle
or a car to get around.” His gaze flicked toward Miran, a small,
curious smile tugging at his lips. “Which do you think is
cooler?”
A beat passed, and his smirk curved into something softer. “Of
course, I’d probably need to get a job first.” He shook his
head, golden hair catching the light. “But that would cut into
the time I get to spend with you.”
His tone was casual, but the words hung between them, steady and
unflinching—a subtle admission tucked inside the banter, waiting
to see how Miran would play it.
-Fin-
Miran stretched lazily, the soft rays of the morning sun
filtering through his window. He blinked a few times, rubbing a
hand through his messy hair, and rolled out of bed with that
casual, unbothered air that made it seem like mornings were
effortless for him. A quick change into a clean shirt and jeans,
a splash of water over his face, and he was ready—no fuss, no
hesitation.
He pushed open the front door, the crisp air brushing over his
skin as he stepped outside slinging his backpack on. At the
gate, Apollon was already waiting, leaning against the post with
that patient presence. Miran smirked, fishing a cigarette from
his pocket and lighting it with a lazy flick of his lighter. The
thin trail of smoke curled up into the cool morning.
“Working, huh?” he said casually, catching the mention of a
motorcycle in Apollon’s voice. That earned him a short chuckle.
“Funny thing,” Miran added, exhaling a puff of smoke, “I’ve got
a place I’ve been working at. Pays enough to cover rent and all
that. You should check it out—it might be worth your while.”
With a grin and a shrug, Miran started toward the gate, the day
unfolding ahead with the same effortless ease he carried
everywhere he went.
“..and for my answer- motorcycle.. but that’s just me.” Said the
fox with a wink.
—fin—
Apollon fell into stride beside Miran with his usual calm grace,
the morning light catching on his golden hair. The faintest
smile tugged at his lips as he glanced sideways, taking in the
lazy trail of smoke curling from Miran’s cigarette.
“So,” he began, tone light but edged with curiosity, “you’re
already working, hm? I shouldn’t be surprised.” He shifted his
guitar case higher on his shoulder. “What kind of place is it?”
Then, a touch of humor flickered through his voice. “If I could
get shifts when you’re there, I might actually survive the
mortal work grind. Besides”—his smirk curved into something
playful—“watching you at work sounds like its own reward.”
They rounded the corner, the early city buzz picking up around
them, neon lights still humming from the night before. Apollon
slowed his pace briefly as they neared a convenience store,
tilting his head toward the glass doors.
“Coffee?” he asked. “Or something else before school starts?”
His golden eyes softened, warmth cutting through the usual fire.
“My treat. It’s only fair, since you’re showing me how to live
like one of them.”
Apollon smirked at Miran saying he should get a motorcycle. "I
imagine you wouldn't mind accepting rides with me if I did?" He
teased back.
-Fin-
Miran took a final drag from his cigarette and flicked the ash
into the gutter, his dark eyes sliding toward Apollon. “Yeah,”
he said, voice low and almost lazy, “I’ve been working over at
an auto shop. Mostly repairs, sometimes helping out with custom
builds. It’s not glamorous, but I like getting my hands dirty.”
He smirked, tugging his jacket tighter against the morning
chill. “You? Surviving the mortal grind? You’d probably get
bored in twenty minutes unless we let you polish hubcaps or pose
with the cars.”
As they approached the convenience store, he shoved his hands in
his pockets, glancing at the neon reflection in the glass.
“Coffee sounds good. Wake me up more for the morning art class.”
He nudged Apollon lightly with his shoulder. “I don’t mind
accepting rides- course- next time could totally take you on my
motorcycle tomorrow.” He said with a smirk.
—fin—
Apollon arched a brow, an amused spark lighting his golden eyes
as he followed Miran into the convenience store. “An auto shop,”
he repeated, clearly intrigued. “Didn’t peg you for the
grease-and-engine type—but I stand corrected.”
He paused at the drink section, studying the rows of canned
coffee before selecting two, tossing one lightly to Miran.
“Welding parts together with my bare hands might make me a
workplace hazard,” he mused, tone wry, “but I’m sure your boss
would appreciate the craftsmanship.”
Moving toward the counter, he added a few breakfast pastries—one
sweet, one savory—and passed the cashier some cash. Turning back
to Miran, that teasing grin returned. “Though I can already
picture you covered in oil, cursing at a stubborn engine. It’s a
strangely fitting image.”
As they stepped back outside, the morning sun broke through the
clouds, casting gold over the pavement. Apollon handed Miran his
coffee, watching him over the rim of his own drink.
“Oh, you have a motorcycle?” he asked, surprise mixing with
genuine interest. “Why haven’t you ridden it yet? Do you prefer
the skateboard, or are you just saving the bike for a grand
reveal?”
He took a sip, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth.
“Something tells me you’re not the type to hide your shine
unless there’s a reason.”
-Fin-
Miran caught the can of coffee with an easy flick of his wrist,
cracking it open as they stepped into the sunlight. He took a
sip before answering, the faint hiss of carbonation giving him a
moment to gather his thoughts.
"A grand reveal, huh?" he said, smirking. "Honestly it’s in the
shop. It needed some maintenance and some parts. Should be in
today” Said miran thoughtfully.
He glanced at Apollon over the rim of his can, brow raised in
mock challenge. "And for the record, I’m not always covered in
oil. Sometimes it’s grease. Sometimes paint." He shrugged, the
corner of his mouth twitching in amusement. "I like building
things. Granted it’s always been that way since two lives ago?”
He said tapping in his chin.
Miran leaned against a sun-warmed lamppost, sipping his coffee,
eyes flicking toward the horizon. "Maybe I’ll bring out the bike
when it’s done and you can get rides from me."
He tilted his head, a spark of playfulness in his gaze before he
moved.”better pick up the pace or Mr Jenkins is gonna give me an
earful when I walk late into English.” He joked as he strode.
—fin—
Apollon’s grin widened as Miran picked up his pace, the teasing
glint in his golden eyes unmistakable. “I was slowing down for
your short legs, little fox,” he said, his tone smooth and full
of barely contained amusement.
He took a leisurely sip of his coffee, then added, “Would’ve
hated to leave you behind before we even made it to the gate.
You might’ve gotten lost in my shadow.”
The laugh that followed was warm and genuine, rolling low in his
chest as he quickened his steps just enough to stay a half
stride ahead. “Come on, then. Prove me wrong. Let’s see if those
tiny legs can keep up with a god.”
He tossed a look over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place. “If
you’re late, I’ll tell Mr. Jenkins you tripped over your own ego
again.”
- - -
Apollon laughed softly at Miran’s retort, but as they neared the
edge of the school grounds, something shifted. The golden warmth
in his eyes dimmed for a fraction of a second, replaced by a
sharp, wary glint. His steps slowed, his head tilting slightly
as though listening to a voice no one else could hear.
A faint shimmer rippled in the air by the school’s gate—a figure
only Apollon seemed to see. The sunlight bent around it in
strange, fractured hues, like glass refracting light underwater.
His easy grin faltered.
“Of all the times…” he muttered under his breath.
Casting a quick glance toward Miran, who was a few steps ahead,
Apollon veered off the path, stopping near a stretch of trees
just beyond the parking lot. His tone dropped, quiet but firm.
“You’re supposed to check in when I’m home,” he said sharply to
the unseen presence. “Or at least use the phone. People seeing
me talk to air will think I’ve gone mad.”
A shimmer of laughter—soft, ethereal—brushed against the wind in
reply. Apollon’s expression hardened, his jaw flexing as he
listened to whatever the fae messenger whispered next.
“I’m doing what the court asked,” he said finally, voice tight
but controlled. “The boy’s fine. He’s… adapting. So tell the
others to relax.”
The air seemed to pulse once more, then stilled. The shimmer
dissolved, leaving only the faint echo of that inhuman giggle
fading into the wind.
Apollon exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he rejoined
Miran, his composure snapping back into place like armor.
“Sorry,” he said lightly, catching up again. “Some… persistent
obligations from home. You know how it is.”
-Fin-
Miran rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth betrayed
the grin he was trying to suppress. “Persistent obligations?
That’s one way to describe talking to the wind and laughing like
a lunatic.” He bounded forward with a quick hop to match
Apollon’s longer stride, refusing to be left behind so easily.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice that little… moment,” he went on,
voice low and threaded with mischief. “You vanish into your own
world for ten seconds, then reappear all serene, like nothing
happened. If that’s what being a god looks like, I think I’ll
stick to being a fox, thanks.”
He shot Apollon a side glance, his dark eyes glinting as he
flirted.. “And for the record,” he said, a grin curling wider
now, “I’m not tripping over my own ego. I’m tripping head over
heels for you-.”
—fin—
Apollon stopped dead in his tracks, the faintest twitch tugging
at the corner of his mouth. For a heartbeat, his golden eyes
burned bright—half amusement, half something far more dangerous.
Before Miran could blink, a firm hand caught his wrist, and
Apollon tugged him through a side door just inside the school’s
entrance. The sudden dimness of the storage closet wrapped
around them, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of old
chalk and cleaner.
“Head over heels, hm?” Apollon murmured, his voice low enough to
vibrate against Miran’s skin. The teasing lilt was still there,
but softer now—threaded with warmth that wasn’t all mischief.
“Then maybe I should make sure that fall was worth it.”
He leaned in, one hand braced against the wall beside Miran’s
head, and stole a kiss—swift but deep enough to leave the fox
breathless. When he finally drew back, his grin was pure fire.
“That’ll have to hold you over,” he said, voice dropping to a
silky whisper, “until the mortal torture classes end for the
day.”
With that, he straightened his shirt collar, golden eyes still
glinting with that unshakable confidence. “Try not to get
detention before lunch, fox,” he added with a smirk, before
slipping out the door and vanishing into the flow of students
like nothing had happened.
-fin-
Miran stood frozen in the dim closet, the echo of Apollon’s lips
a phantom spark on his own. Time held its breath around him, the
faint scent of dust and old wood mingling with the dizzying rush
of heat in his chest. He, the incorrigible teaser, the one who
always danced circles around Apollon’s composure, was struck
silent—undone with a single kiss.
His heart thrummed an erratic rhythm against his ribs, shaking
his whole frame. Slowly, as though he feared to break the spell,
he raised trembling fingers to his mouth. A whisper slipped out
before he could stop it, fragile and quivering:
“Oh… oh no.”
The words dissolved into the heavy air. He leaned back against
the wall, letting the cool surface steady his spinning thoughts.
But every blink summoned golden eyes—mischievous, warm,
triumphant. That grin. That impossible, infuriating grin. If
he’d had a tail, it would have been lashing furiously, betraying
the storm he couldn’t name.
When he finally dared to push the closet door open, the
hallway’s light felt too bright, too aware. He shuffled forward,
shoulders tight, the flush in his cheeks refusing to die down.
“This isn’t fair,” he muttered under his breath. “He’s not
supposed to get the drop on me…”
By the time he slipped into the classroom, the fiery red had
faded into a softer pink, but the heat in his chest lingered. He
kept his gaze on the floor, as though the tiles might save him,
and slipped into his chair like a shadow. He didn’t need to look
to know Apollon was there—by the window, relaxed, scribbling in
the margin of his notebook, perfectly at ease. No flicker of
guilt or hesitation. Only that maddening feeling the smug calm…
and something quieter, warmer, that made Miran’s stomach twist.
“Mr. Kobiyashi,” Mr. Jenkins barked, arms crossed, brow lifted
in mock severity. “Late again.”
Miran flinched. “I—I was in the bathroom,” he mumbled, throat
dry.
>>>
“You’ve got five minutes between classes for a reason,” Jenkins
said, voice sharp as a ruler’s edge. “Not for dawdling.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry,” Miran muttered, biting the inside of his
cheek.
“First warning,” Jenkins replied curtly, gesturing at the empty
seat. “Sit. Let’s try to all be on time, shall we?”
Miran sank into his chair, wishing the desk would swallow him
whole. His pulse hadn’t slowed since the closet. He’d been in
flings before, played games like this before—but this… this felt
different. Apollon felt different. And he didn’t know whether to
run from that truth or let it catch him.
—fin—
Apollon, seated by the window, looked for all the world as
though he belonged in a painting rather than a high school
classroom. His notebook was half-filled with lazy sketches of
stars and symbols, but when Mr. Jenkins began his usual lecture
on the Civil War, something shifted.
The teacher’s voice faltered mid-sentence when Apollon’s hand
lifted.
“Yes, Mr. Stollos?” Jenkins asked, surprise flickering behind
his glasses.
Apollon tilted his head slightly, the faintest smile playing on
his lips. “You mentioned the Battle of Antietam being decisive,”
he began, voice even, smooth, and strangely captivating.
“Technically, it was more of a stalemate. Both sides suffered
catastrophic losses, but it shifted the war politically, not
militarily. The European powers—especially Britain and
France—were already on the fence about intervening. Lincoln used
the moment to push the Emancipation Proclamation forward.”
The teacher blinked, then frowned slightly. “That’s… true, but
that level of detail isn’t in the textbook.”
Apollon smiled, all gentle confidence. “Most things worth
knowing aren’t,” he said, tone not arrogant but thoughtful,
carrying the kind of authority that turned heads.
The class, normally dead silent and half-asleep, leaned in. Even
Jenkins seemed caught between skepticism and fascination.
“Please, continue,” Jenkins said, gesturing with the faintest
flicker of curiosity.
For the next few minutes, Apollon wove context into
history—economics, culture, the human cost beneath the
statistics. His words made the dull pages come alive, painting
images of soldiers writing letters home, of politicians
balancing idealism and desperation, of a country learning what
freedom truly cost.
When he finally stopped, the room was quiet, the usual restless
shifting gone. Jenkins let out a slow breath. “That,” he said,
tapping his book, “is the kind of insight that makes history
more than dates and names. Well done, Mr. Stollos.”
Apollon inclined his head politely, though his eyes flicked
sideways just once—to Miran. The fox was slouched in his seat,
pretending to doodle, but his ears were faintly red, the
telltale twitch betraying that same internal storm from earlier.
When the bell rang, the class broke into low chatter, a few
students actually smiling as they filed out—something that never
happened after history.
Apollon lingered by the desk. “Mr. Jenkins,” he said lightly,
“about earlier—Miran was late because of me. I distracted him
before class. It won’t happen again.”
Jenkins paused, surprise crossing his face before softening into
something that looked suspiciously like approval. “That’s…
considerate of you, Stollos. I appreciate the honesty.”
Apollon offered a mild smile. “Honesty’s easier than excuses.”
By the time he left the classroom, Miran was already halfway
down the hall. The faintest smile curved Apollon’s lips as he
caught up, brushing his fingers against Miran’s wrist in a
subtle, silent greeting as they turned the corner toward their
next class.
— ✦ —
Lunch was loud, chaotic, the air thick with chatter and
clattering trays. Apollon found Miran at a spot near the window,
idly poking at his food. Apollon sat down without a word,
setting his tray next to Miran’s.
“Relax, fox,” he murmured, just loud enough for Miran to hear
over the din. “You survived history class—and me.”
He leaned back, eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. “Though,
I’ll admit, watching you blush through the entire lesson
might’ve been the highlight of my morning.”
_fin_
Miran’s fork paused mid-air, and he tilted his head just enough
to give Apollon a sly smile, the kind that could almost pass as
easy confidence. “Blush? Please. Must’ve been the lighting,” he
said, voice smooth—flirtatious in that practiced way he always
used to deflect. His ears, of course, betrayed him, red against
his hair.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily as if the weight
of the morning hadn’t settled somewhere deep in his chest. “You
keep staring like that, Apollon, people might start wondering
who’s really the distraction here.” He teased.
For a heartbeat, he didn’t know what else to say. His usual
armor of charm felt heavier than usual, every glance from
Apollon pressing on the truth he wasn’t ready to face yet. Lunch
passed in scattered bits of small talk, Miran’s jokes a shade
lighter than normal, his laughter a touch delayed.
When the end-of-day bell finally rang, he slung his bag over his
shoulder and ambled toward the exit, pausing just long enough to
glance back over his shoulder. “If you’re serious about
this—about… working at it—follow me to the shop,” he said, the
words casual but his ears burning again.
Then he turned, letting the familiar stride carry him down the
hall before he could change his mind.
—fin-
#Post#: 1455--------------------------------------------------
Re: Miran/ Apollon (teen version)
By: Minyaagar Date: February 17, 2026, 9:37 am
---------------------------------------------------------
Apollon’s grin faded into something softer as Miran turned away,
the usual fire in his eyes tempered by understanding. He could
tell when he’d pushed far enough—the shift in Miran’s laughter,
the faint tremor beneath the easy charm. The god knew the
difference between a playful wall and one meant to protect
something real.
“Alright,” he murmured to himself, standing as the hallway
emptied, slinging his bag and guitar over his shoulder. “The
shop it is.”
— ✦ —
The city’s hum deepened with the sinking sun as Apollon followed
Miran’s trail through the winding backstreets. The smell of
metal, oil, and smoke thickened the air before he even saw the
place—a squat building with faded lettering, the sound of
wrenches and low music drifting from within.
Inside, the garage was alive with motion. The clang of tools,
the hiss of air compressors, and the scent of motor oil created
a rhythm all its own. Miran fit perfectly into it—sleeves
rolled, hair tied back, grease streaked across his arm as he
leaned over the open hood of a half-restored motorcycle.
Apollon lingered near the entrance for a moment, quietly taking
it in. The way the fox moved here was different—no masks, no
teasing smirks to deflect with. Just focus and precision,
confidence born from creation instead of performance.
“Guess this is your temple, then,” Apollon said finally,
stepping inside, his voice low but edged with warmth. “Never
seen a priest so at home with grease and fire.”
He set his guitar case down near the wall and crouched slightly
beside the bike, tilting his head. “You weren’t kidding about
getting your hands dirty.” His tone softened, sincere curiosity
replacing the earlier teasing. “What are you working on?”
He smiled faintly, glancing toward the fox’s hands as they moved
with quick efficiency. “Or maybe I should just watch. You look
like you’re summoning something, not fixing it.”
-Fin-
Apollon followed Miran into the garage, the scent of motor oil
and warm metal filling the air. Miran glanced up from the
motorcycle, catching Apollon’s silhouette in the doorway. A slow
grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, though a guarded edge
lingered in his eyes.
“Glad you came ,” he said, his voice carrying over the hum of
the compressor. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek,
leaving a new streak of grease. “Summoning hm?- more like
upgrading.”
Concentration showed on his face as he asked. “Mind handing me a
wrench?”
It was then the familiar sound of boots on concrete would stop
where Miran is at.
“Hello docker! This is apollon- he mentioned wanting work and
figured maybe could show him the ropes?” He asked as he took the
wrench and tightened a part.
Docker would look at Apollon.”how much do you know about cars?”
He asked the teen.
—fin—
Apollon straightened from where he’d crouched beside the bike,
turning toward the gruff voice that had cut through the clatter
of the shop. The man—Docker, clearly—had the broad shoulders and
steady hands of someone who’d spent decades coaxing machines
back to life.
“I know the basics,” Apollon said easily, his tone polite but
not self-deprecating. “Engines, combustion, gear systems… how
everything connects to make motion happen. I’ve taken apart a
few, though I can’t promise the mortals I borrowed them from
were thrilled about it.”
The faintest flicker of amusement curved his mouth as he glanced
briefly toward Miran, then back to Docker. “No formal training,
though. I learn by watching—and listening. Machines aren’t so
different from people. They tell you what’s wrong if you’re
patient enough to hear it.”
Docker studied him for a beat, one brow arched as though
weighing whether to be impressed or skeptical. The silence
stretched long enough for Miran to stifle a grin behind his
hand.
Finally, the older man grunted. “We’ll see about that. Grab some
gloves. If you’re serious, I’ll find you something simple to
start with.”
Apollon inclined his head respectfully. “I wouldn’t have come if
I wasn’t.”
Then, turning slightly toward Miran, his voice dropped low
enough for only the fox to hear. “Though if you’re my teacher, I
expect a fair mix of discipline and praise, hm?”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears twitched, and the grin he’d barely been hiding
widened into something sharp and playful. He leaned just enough
to murmur back, keeping his voice low but laced with amusement.
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, eyes glinting. “I’ve got a whole
treasure chest of praise ready for you. Every time you manage to
tighten a bolt without dropping it, I’ll throw you a parade in
your honor. Maybe even fireworks if you really impress me.”
Then, in a flicker of movement, he straightened and slipped back
into his usual aloof posture, hands tucked casually into his
pockets as he regarded Docker’s workspace with apparent
disinterest. “But first,” he added with a dry edge, “let’s see
if you can tell the difference between a wrench and a spanner
before we get to the confetti.” He joked back to hear docker.
“What I say about flirting in my shop?”
Miran shut up quick to blush furiously and got back to work.
—fin—
Apollon blinked at Docker’s gruff interruption, his golden eyes
flicking from the man to Miran—who, for once, looked genuinely
flustered. The sight drew a slow, amused smile to his lips.
“Is there an official rule about that?” Apollon asked, tone mild
but threaded with mischief. “Or is it more of a strong
suggestion?”
Docker shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Rule. Written
in grease and sweat, kid.”
Apollon inclined his head solemnly, though the corner of his
mouth still curved upward. “Duly noted,” he said, before
crouching beside the tool bench. His hand hovered briefly over
the scattered instruments before he plucked one up without
hesitation. “And before you ask, yes—this one’s the wrench.”
Docker grunted, clearly not sure whether to be impressed or
annoyed. “Good. Let’s see if you can use it.”
Apollon passed the wrench to Miran with a faint smirk. “Told you
I could tell the difference,” he murmured. “Guess I’ll have to
earn that parade now.”
-fin-
Miran caught the wrench with a soft clink, his fingers
tightening instinctively as if expecting it to slip. For a
moment, his pulse thundered in his ears, and he forced a crooked
smile, hoping it disguised the flutter of nerves in his chest.
“Mhmm… in more ways than one,” he muttered, barely loud enough
for Apollon to hear, careful not to attract Docker’s attention.
He crouched beside the motorcycle, the cool metal and faint
scent of oil grounding him. Sliding the wrench into place, he
let out a quiet breath. “You can keep watching if you want,” he
said with a teasing lilt, though the faint pink in his cheeks
betrayed him. “Just… maybe don’t start a fan club in the
meantime.”
As the moments passed, the rhythm of the work took over. Miran’s
hands steadied, the sequence of bolts and alignments pulling him
into familiar territory. Explaining each step—unscrewing the old
part, checking the fit of the new piece, tightening it just
enough—gave him something to focus on beyond the lingering heat
in his face. With each instruction to Apollon, the flustered
edge dulled, replaced by the calm precision of a teacher in his
element.
By the time the next upgrade piece clicked into place, Miran’s
confidence had settled over him like a second skin. The nervous
fox had faded, leaving someone steady, composed, and maybe just
a little proud of the lesson he was giving.
—fin—
Apollon stayed quiet while Miran worked, the teasing ember in
his gaze dimmed to something softer—focused, intent. His hands,
steady and sure, followed Miran’s instructions without question,
tightening bolts, adjusting pressure, matching the rhythm of
Miran’s movements with silent precision. The god didn’t need to
show off here; there was something almost reverent in the way he
let Miran lead.
Docker’s occasional glance over his shoulder found Apollon calm,
composed—an unusual sight in a shop where tempers and noise
usually ruled.
That calm, however, cracked a little when the front door slammed
open hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.
A man stomped inside, red-faced and breathing hard, a stained
receipt crushed in his hand. “Which one of you idiots messed
with my car?” he snapped, voice booming across the space. “You
said it’d be ready two days ago! Now it’s making that same damn
noise again!”
Docker’s shoulders tensed. Miran froze mid-motion, wrench still
in hand, as the man’s shouting bounced off the walls.
Before Docker could respond, Apollon straightened from where he
crouched. His movements were unhurried, but his presence filled
the room instantly—an aura that demanded attention without a
single raised word.
--
“Sir,” he said evenly, his voice cutting through the tension
like clean steel, “if you have an issue, we’ll sort it. But
shouting won’t make the problem fix itself.”
The man turned, ready to snap back—but the words faltered on his
tongue when he met Apollon’s steady, gold-tinged gaze. Something
about it—calm, unblinking, unwavering—made the heat drain from
his face.
“I… yeah, okay,” the man muttered, his tone dropping. “I just
want it fixed.”
Apollon nodded once, quiet authority in the gesture. “Fair
enough. Docker can take a look, or Miran and I will handle it.
Either way, you’ll leave here with your car running right.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the cooling
engine nearby. Then Docker exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding
from his shoulders.
“Apollon,” he said gruffly, turning back toward him, “you ever
get tired of turning wrenches, you’ve got a knack for handling
hotheads. How about you stick around for a while? Could use
someone who keeps the place from blowing up.”
Apollon offered a faint smile—half humility, half quiet triumph.
“I’ll take that as a yes to the job offer.”
Docker grunted, already heading toward the back office.
“Congratulations. You’re the new peacekeeper.”
As the door swung closed behind him, Apollon turned back to
Miran, that glimmer of humor returning at last. “Well,” he said,
leaning casually against the workbench, “looks like I just got
promoted. Do I get a welcome celebration, or is the boss still
mad about the flirting policy?”
-fin-
Miran let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and
leaned the wrench against the bench. His lips curved into a
small, weary smile as he finally met Apollon’s golden gaze.
“Honestly?” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been
waiting for someone to take that role off my shoulders. I’m
tired of playing peacemaker around here.”
He stepped closer, giving Apollon a friendly nudge with his
elbow. “Congratulations… officially, I guess. You handled that
better than I ever could have. Feels like the shop just got a
lot quieter already.”
Miran glanced toward the back office where Docker had
disappeared, then back at Apollon with a grin. “Welcome to the
team, peacekeeper. You’ve earned it. And don’t worry—if the boss
has a problem with your flirting, I’ll make sure your welcome
celebration more than makes up for it.”
—fin—
Apollon wiped his hands on a rag Docker had tossed him, still
fighting a quiet laugh. “A peacemaker,” he said, tasting the
word like it was something foreign. “That’s a new one. I’ve
spent centuries walking into wars—never out of them.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “The court’s going
to love this. ‘Apollon, breaker of sieges, calms angry customers
at mortal auto shop.’ Very heroic.”
Apollon couldn't help but smirk.
“Still, I’ll take the irony,” he added, quieter now. “Maybe it’s
good practice—fighting without drawing blood. Fixing things
instead of breaking them.”
He leaned one hip against the workbench, golden eyes catching
the light from the open bay door. “Besides, if it means I get to
keep seeing you look this focused,” he said with a faint,
teasing edge, “I think I can handle being the shop’s official
peacekeeper.”
He nodded toward the motorcycle, the grin returning. “Now,
what’s next, teacher?”
-Fin-
Miran chuckled as he wiped the last bit of grease from his
fingers. “Next,” he said, glancing at the motorcycle, “we see if
all this work actually paid off.”
The shop was quieter now, most of the day’s noise tapering off
with the setting sun. He rolled the bike toward the open bay
door, the metallic clinks echoing off the concrete. With a
practiced swing, he mounted the seat, the scent of oil and warm
metal hanging in the air.
“Moment of truth,” he muttered, turning the key. The engine
coughed once, then roared to life, smooth and steady. A grin
spread across his face.
He revved it lightly, satisfied. “She’s alive,” he said, leaning
back and catching Apollon’s eye. “Want to take her out for a
ride with me?”
The hum of the engine filled the quiet shop, and Miran waited,
the invitation hanging in the warm evening air.
—fin—
Apollon stepped out into the golden wash of sunset, the soft hum
of the motorcycle vibrating through the concrete. His eyes
caught the gleam of chrome, then the confident curve of Miran’s
grin—and that was all the invitation he needed.
“Wouldn’t dream of missing the maiden voyage,” he said, voice
smooth as silk. With a low chuckle, he swung a leg over the back
of the bike and settled in, the warmth of Miran’s body
immediately grounding him. His hands slid around the fox’s
waist—steady, sure, but never possessive.
“Not too far though,” he murmured near Miran’s ear, his tone
teasing but gentle. “Wouldn’t want to lose my new job on the
first day.”
The engine’s growl deepened as Miran revved the throttle, the
air around them thick with the scent of gasoline, dusk, and the
faintest trace of ozone that always seemed to follow Apollon.
The bike lurched forward, smooth and sure, tires catching the
fading light as they pulled out of the garage and into the open
street.
Behind him, Apollon’s chuckle rumbled low. “Lead the way, little
fox,” he said over the roar of the engine. “Let’s see if mortal
roads can keep up with us.”
-Fin-
Miran swung a leg over the bike, the leather of his jacket
creaking softly as he settled onto the seat. He glanced back at
Apollon, who was watching him with that lazy, infuriatingly
charming smile.
“Not so fast,” Miran said, holding out a helmet. “Safety first.
Even gods need their heads in one piece.”
Miran smirked, twisting the key and feeling the familiar
vibration roar to life beneath him. “Good. Hold on tight.”
He kicked off from the curb, the bike surging forward into the
streaked amber light of evening. Apollon’s arms settled around
his waist, firm and warm, and Miran felt a thrill run through
him as they wove between the quiet streets. The wind caught his
hair, the hum of the engine harmonizing with Apollon’s deep
laugh from behind him.
Miran grinned, the city unfurling before them in golden blur and
shadow. He would travel till he would make it to a park to slow
down and kicked the stand out to get off and let a breath
off.”she runs beautifully- now I can just take her to school!”
—fin—
Apollon took the helmet with an amused shake of his head, his
golden eyes glinting in the waning light. “I’ve got a much
harder head than you do, little fox,” he said, tone light but
teasing. Still, after a beat, he slipped the helmet on anyway.
“But I’ll humor you—wouldn’t want to ruin your craftsmanship
with divine recklessness.”
The ride had left a faint flush across his skin, his usual calm
replaced by something freer, lighter. As the motorcycle idled
beside the park, Apollon swung off the back and stretched,
removed the helmet, and ran a hand through his mussed up hair.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” he admitted, glancing toward the
bike with genuine admiration. “She runs beautifully. I can see
why you like this—the sound, the control, the rush.”
He turned toward Miran, smile softening into something a little
more sincere. “Though, for the record, I’m not sure taking her
to school is the best idea. You might distract half the student
body—and get in trouble for it.”
He stepped closer, the dying sunlight catching the faint gold
shimmer that always seemed to follow him. “But,” he added
quietly, “I’ll admit—it suits you.”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears flicked forward, and a grin tugged at the corner of
his lips as he leaned back casually against the bike. “Damn
right I love the rush,” he said, as he leaned against his bike
and rested his helmet on one of the handles. “It’s that same
fire that made me pick music over wandering the world like the
rest of my kin. They wanted to get rich, own monopolies, or be
professions in health or one hell of lawyers. Me? I want to hear
the roar of guitars and engines. I want to be wild instead of
uptight and refined.” He admitted.
He tilted his head, the last slants of sunlight glinting off his
fox-like eyes. “I’m gonna be one hell of a musician, Apollon. By
the time I hit my ninth tail, I’ll either be teaching the next
generation how to make magic out of sound… or I’ll be leading
*my own* band one day that shakes the heavens themselves.”
His grin widened, sharp and full of mischief. “Either way, I’m
not slowing down for anyone. The rush… it’s who I am. Guess
that’s why I envy humanity. They love the rush, the build to
their goals- and I know why. Their lives are short… but still to
accomplish that much with what they are given?.. it’s amazing.”
He mused.
—fin—
Apollon listened in silence, the faint hum of the bike’s engine
fading into the background as Miran spoke. The way the fox’s
words flowed—earnest, fierce, alive—pulled at something deep in
him. The fading sunlight caught in Apollon’s eyes, turning them
molten as he let out a quiet breath.
“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice low but sure. “They
burn so brightly because they know the flame doesn’t last. It’s
what makes them fight, love, create—all in the same breath.
Every heartbeat matters because they don’t get infinite ones.”
He leaned against the other side of the bike, his posture easy
but his gaze thoughtful. “That’s the part I’ve always admired,”
he continued. “Their stubbornness. Their drive to build
something that outlives them, even if it’s just a song, a child,
or a story whispered centuries later.”
Apollon’s expression softened into a faint, wistful smile. “I’ve
guided a lot of mortals. Watched them rise and fall. And no
matter how many I see, they still surprise me.” His eyes flicked
toward Miran then, glinting with quiet amusement. “You’ve got
that same spark. Doesn’t matter how many lives you live—you
chase that rush like it’s your first and your last.”
A small pause hung between them, warm and comfortable. Then his
grin returned, a flash of sunlight through clouds. “But I’ll
warn you, little fox,” he teased lightly. “If you ever do lead
that band that shakes the heavens, the Fae courts will never
stop bragging about you. And I’ll have to deal with their
endless smugness.”
He leaned forward just slightly, voice dropping to a softer
register. “Still… I think I’d like to see that day. The world’s
going to be loud when you make it happen.”
-Fin-
Miran’s ears perked, and his tail gave an eager flick, unable to
hide the bubbling energy in his chest. “Then you better get
ready to cover those immortal ears, Apollon!” he said with a
bright laugh. “Because I’m not just going to shake the
heavens—I’m going to set them singing. You’ll hear my band
echoing across every corner of the world, and maybe even the Fae
courts will dance for once!”
He hopped lightly off the bike, spinning in a small circle as
the last rays of sunlight lit his fur. “Mortals burn fast
because they know—they feel—every second counts. And me? I’ve
got a chance to make every life I live a spark that lights
another fire. I can’t sit still knowing that. I have to keep
chasing the next song, the next heartbeat, the next burst of
joy!”
With a grin as wide as the horizon, Miran leaned toward Apollon,
eyes gleaming with unshakable hope. “And when that day comes, I
hope you’re there, front row, so you can brag with them. Because
I swear it, you’ll hear me coming long before you see me.”
—fin—
Apollon watched Miran spin in the fading golden light, tail
flicking, laughter bright enough to outshine the sun itself. The
fox’s words weren’t just dreams—they burned with conviction,
wild and boundless. It stirred something deep in him, something
ancient and fierce.
He stepped closer, quiet but certain, closing the distance with
the same ease he walked into battle.
“You’re going to do it,” Apollon said, voice warm and steady
like a hearthfire. “Not someday. Not maybe. You will. And when
the world trembles from the sound of your music, I’ll stand
front row—no, I’ll stand beside you.”
His gaze softened, molten gold reflecting Miran’s wild
ember-bright spirit.
“I’ve seen empires rise and fall. Songs fade, monuments crumble…
but the ones who burn for something greater? Their legacy
becomes immortal. Just like you’ll be.”
He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair behind Miran’s
ear—slow, reverent.
“And I want to be there for every spark. Every triumph. Every
wildfire you start.”
Then he leaned in—no hesitation this time, no teasing smirk to
soften the moment.
The kiss was tender, deep, and lingering.
A promise more than a claim.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against
Miran’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet dusk.
“So burn bright, little fox,” Apollon murmured, voice barely
above a breath.
“I’ll follow the sound of your fire—always.”
Silence sat warm between them.
Heavy with meaning.
Soft with something neither dared name just yet.
Only then did Apollon smirk, thumb brushing Miran’s jaw with
gentle affection.
“And besides… if the heavens dance, I’d rather dance with you.”
-fin
*****************************************************