May 6
Tele and Ody
Slight redesigns. Happy father son duo!
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from Brazil
seen from Croatia
seen from T1
seen from Germany
seen from Croatia
seen from Italy
seen from Malaysia
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Netherlands
seen from France
seen from Croatia
seen from Brazil
seen from China
Tele and Ody
Slight redesigns. Happy father son duo!
You write Odyssey!Telemachus so well I’m knawing on my phone! Could you perhaps write some Odyssey!Telemachus and reader? Maybe like they’re married n have an argument and Telemachus is like ‘awh shucks I fucked up’ but then goes back into his alpha male mindset but then they kiss and make up. You don’t have to do this btw I just really loved both of your Telemachus books and your Odyssey!Telemachus. Hope you have a great day/night!
The palace courtyard was quiet, bathed in amber light from the setting sun, but the echo of raised voices was anything but peaceful. “You never listen when I’m trying to explain something!” you snapped, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
“I do listen,” Telemachus growled, pacing in a frustrated circle. “I just don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal out of it.”
“Because it is a big deal! Gods, you can be so—so thick sometimes.”
Achilles wasn’t pure, Patroclus wasn’t pure, Odysseus wasn’t pure, Neo wasn’t pure, Telemachus wasn’t pure, Menelaus wasn’t pure, Perseus wasn’t pure, Aeneas wasn’t pure.
your hero’s weren’t inherently good nor evil, they were complex people who lived in a time period where the bad deeds of the times weren’t the same. The rules were different, the exceptions for men and women were different.
Don’t usually do digital art but I’m super proud with how this turned out!
AAHHH, I've had this idea for a Yandere Odyssey Telemachus x Reader fic, mostly an enemies-to-lovers story. Telemachus is too annoying to admit he likes Reader, but at the same time, he's incredibly jealous and sadistic when anyone gets close to them. Reader is so confused about what he's supposed to be doing that he just keeps backing away
A/n: heh...more odessey Telemachus when????
Warnings!!!!: kinda yandere guys...
~~~~♡~~~~
Telemachus does not like you.
He tells himself this every morning, the same way he tells himself the suitors don’t bother him, the same way he tells himself the palace isn’t rotting from the inside out. Lies repeated often enough begin to sound like truth.
You are inconvenient.
You speak when spoken to. You do not lower your eyes. You do not tremble when his voice sharpens.
Worst of all—you withdraw instead of reacting.
Telemachus has never known what to do with someone who refuses to fight back.
“You’re avoiding me.”
The words fall from his mouth like an accusation sharpened on purpose. The courtyard is mostly empty, afternoon light pooling across marble, cicadas buzzing lazily as if the world itself isn’t holding its breath.
You stop walking.
Slowly, carefully, you turn.
“I wasn’t aware I owed you my presence,” you say.
Not rude. Not submissive. Just… factual.
Something ugly twists in his chest.
“You were speaking to him earlier,” Telemachus continues, ignoring your answer. “The sailor. The one with the scar.”
Your brows knit together. “I asked him about the weather.”
“You smiled.”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “I—what does that have to do with anything?”
Telemachus steps closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that you notice. Enough that your shoulders tense despite yourself.
“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
Your pulse jumps. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Encourage people.”
You stare at him, disbelief flashing into something colder. “Encourage them to do what, exactly?”
His jaw tightens. He hates this part—the way you make him explain himself, the way you refuse to simply understand.
“People mistake kindness for invitation,” he says. “You should be more careful.”
You laugh once, short and sharp. “With respect, Prince, I didn’t ask for your guidance.”
There it is again.
That refusal to shrink.
Telemachus watches you walk away, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ache.
-
That night, the sailor with the scar leaves Ithaca.
You start noticing the pattern before you understand it.
Anyone who lingers near you too long finds a reason to disappear. A reprimand. A sudden reassignment. A quiet warning delivered by someone who won’t meet their eyes.
And always, somewhere nearby—Telemachus.
Not touching you. Not speaking to you. Watching.
It makes your skin crawl.
You try to solve it the way reasonable people do: by removing yourself.
You stop sitting in open courtyards. You take meals early. You avoid gatherings.
You think distance will starve whatever this is.
It doesn’t.
It feeds him.
“You’re quieter,” Telemachus remarks one evening, appearing beside you where you hadn’t heard him approach. “Have I intimidated you at last?”
You stiffen, then deliberately take a step back.
“I’m tired,” you say. “That’s all.”
He watches the space you put between you with narrowed eyes.
“Everyone is tired,” he replies. “That doesn’t make them withdraw.”
You say nothing.
Silence stretches. He hates it.
“Why do you keep retreating from me?” he demands.
Your patience finally cracks.
“Because every time I don’t,” you snap, “someone else suffers for it.”
His expression goes blank.
Then—slowly—he smiles.
“You noticed.”
Your stomach drops.
“You did this,” you whisper.
He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s finally solved. “I protected you.”
“By hurting people?”
“By teaching them boundaries.”
“That’s not protection,” you say hoarsely. “That’s control.”
Something dark gleams in his eyes.
“Call it what you want,” he says. “The result is the same.”
You turn and walk away before he can see your hands shaking.
Telemachus watches you go, pulse pounding, something feral curling tight in his ribs.
You’re learning.
Good.
The first time he corners you, it isn’t violent.
That’s what frightens you most.
It’s late. The corridors are dim. You turn a corner and find him already there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.
“Don’t,” you say immediately. “I don’t want to talk.”
“You don’t get to decide that,” he replies calmly.
You try to step past him.
He blocks you with one arm.
Not touching you. Just there.
Your breath stutters.
“Move,” you say.
“No.”
“Telemachus—”
“Why do you keep pulling away?” he asks softly. “Do you enjoy being chased?”
Your eyes flash. “I’m not being chased. I’m being hunted.”
That makes his smile sharpen.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Predators don’t like being named.”
You swallow, heart pounding.
“I don’t belong to you.”
He leans in just enough that you feel his breath against your cheek.
“You act like that’s a choice.”
Fear flashes hot and bright—but underneath it, something else: confusion. Hurt. A horrible, creeping doubt.
“If you don’t like me,” you whisper, “why do you do this?”
For a moment—just a moment—his composure cracks.
Because he doesn’t have an answer that doesn’t expose him.
“I don’t like you,” he says too quickly. “I wouldn’t waste this much effort on something so small.”
“Then leave me alone,” you plead.
His voice drops, dangerous and low.
“I don’t leave things unfinished.”
From then on, he stops pretending.
He appears where you least expect him. He speaks to you like you are already claimed. He watches your reactions with obsessive precision—how you flinch, how you breathe faster, how you still refuse to scream.
You confront him in anger. You confront him in fear. You confront him in tears.
Each time, he grows calmer.
“I don’t understand what you want from me!” you shout one night, backed into a stone alcove, nowhere else to go. “You don’t treat me like an enemy. You don’t treat me like an ally. What am I to you?”
Telemachus stares at you, silent for a long time.
Then:
“Mine.”
The word lands like a blade.
“I never agreed to that,” you whisper.
“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just need to stop running.”
Your voice breaks. “You’re scaring me.”
Good. Bad. Everything, all at once.
“I would never hurt you,” he says earnestly.
You laugh, hollow. “You already have.”
He steps closer, crowding your space until you have nowhere left to retreat. His hand comes up—not to grab, but to brace against the wall beside your head.
“You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “The world takes what isn’t defended. I am the only thing standing between you and that.”
“And who stands between me and you?” you whisper.
His gaze darkens.
“No one.”
You stop resisting slowly.
Not because you want to—but because resistance costs others.
People stop talking to you altogether. You are isolated, surrounded by silence Telemachus carefully cultivates. When he’s near, no one approaches.
When he’s gone, you feel exposed.
That realization horrifies you.
He notices.
“You’re learning,” he murmurs one evening when you sit beside him without being asked.
“I hate you,” you say weakly.
He smiles like that’s a compliment.
“You won’t,” he replies. “Not forever.”
And the worst part—the part that keeps you awake at night—is that when he looks at you like this, possessive and cruel and devoted—
—you don’t feel alone anymore.
Imagine being Odysseus and not knowing what your son looks like for 20 years
I tried to organize the most important things at the end... From the phrase, the owl for Athena, the dog for Argos, the olive branch for Ithaca, the wooden horse for Troy, and the sickle and salt for that little incident before the war where Odysseus tries to feign madness
I spent my entire weekend doing this... I love it
Its been like, 4 months? Had a small hiatus so heres a telemachus for a comeback
Telemachus: If a dead ancestor doesn’t appear in the sky to stop me, it can’t be that bad of a decision