#uhhhhhhh..

[summerwasjuly]

WONT YOU LET ME TEACH YOU HOW TO LOVE?

Telemachus had never learned how to stop loving gently.

It was in his nature — not a choice, not something he could switch off like a flame. His heart had always been wide, a soft and open landscape, and perhaps that was his curse: that he felt too much and said too little. That he carried tenderness like a wound he never tried to stitch up. He loved like the sea loved the shore — persistent, forgiving, never asking to be held in return.

And when he met Neoptolemus, he didn’t expect to love him.

No — he expected to endure him. To study him from a distance like a strange, wounded animal with teeth too sharp for its own good. Neoptolemus had always looked like someone who had been shattered young and learned to walk around with the shards still sticking out of him. The kind of man who’d rather bleed out than ask for help pulling them free.

At first, there was only intrigue — the kind born not from attraction, but from quiet sorrow. Neoptolemus looked like someone carved from ice and leftover war, a walking scar dressed in quiet defiance. His silences were louder than most men’s words. He moved like a soldier who had forgotten how to rest, who only knew how to brace for the next wound. Telemachus had seen people like him before — brittle in the bones, all sharp corners and haunted glances. But there was something else in Neoptolemus. Not weakness. Not softness. Something buried. Like a single ember flickering inside a dying hearth. Something that said: I was not always like this.

But there had been something about him — something buried beneath all that cold steel and storm — that pulled at Telemachus. A flicker, a tremor. Like hearing music behind a closed door. And Telemachus had always been the kind of person who tried to listen. Who lingered. Who waited.

He wasn’t sure when he fell in love.

It wasn’t sudden — more like dusk folding over a sunlit sky, quiet and slow, until he could no longer tell where the light ended and the dark began. It happened in moments. The way Neoptolemus’ voice would soften unintentionally when he spoke of his mother. The way his brows furrowed when he was confused, the way he never asked for help but always remembered when Telemachus gave it. The rare, almost imperceptible times he allowed himself to laugh — a sound so raw and unexpected it made Telemachus’ chest ache, like he was hearing a ghost sing.

But most of all, it was the silence between them — the kind that felt less like absence and more like understanding. Like maybe, just maybe, Neoptolemus saw him, too.

Telemachus thought… he hoped… that love would be enough.

That if he stayed steady, if he kept offering warmth without demand, then Neoptolemus would eventually realize that he didn’t need to be afraid anymore. That not everyone who reached out was going to hurt him. That not every open hand was a weapon.

But slowly, something changed.

It was subtle at first — a colder tone here, a glance that didn’t linger. Neoptolemus began withdrawing into himself like a wounded animal retreating into a cave. And Telemachus, gods, he tried not to panic. He told himself it was a phase. That maybe Neoptolemus just needed space. But the more space he gave, the more distance grew between them — until it felt like he was yelling across an ocean and getting only silence in return.

Then came the day Neoptolemus showed up — eyes dull with something unreadable, jaw tight like he was trying to choke back the world.

And Telemachus knew. The way you know a storm’s about to break. The way you feel it in your bones before the lightning ever splits the sky.

Still, he tried. He always tried.

“I—I know that you are…” he said, and hated the way his voice shook, how it felt like he was unraveling in front of him. “Listen, Neo — come on, you can’t just show up and tell me I can’t talk to you anymore.”

He wanted to reach for him. Wanted to understand. Wanted something — anything — to explain the sudden coldness.

But Neoptolemus' eyes didn’t soften. Neoptolemus looked at him like a man about to start a fire.

“We’re not even friends,” he said, and Telemachus felt the world tilt slightly. “Telemachus, I hope you know that I hated you from the very first.”

The sentence was a blade, and it sliced through something sacred. Telemachus stood there, the breath knocked from his lungs, as if someone had reached inside him and torn out the part of him that hoped. And still… he didn’t believe it.

“You’re lying,” he said, not as a challenge, but as a prayer. “I know you are.”

Because love had a way of knowing the truth, even when the truth was hidden under a thousand layers of pain. Because Telemachus had seen him. The real him. Not just the bitterness, not just the hatred. He’d seen the flickers of light — the tenderness Neoptolemus tried so hard to kill. He’d watched him tremble under kindness and pretend it didn’t matter. But it had. It had.

Neoptolemus looked at him then — really looked at him — and his eyes were wild with something almost like panic. That look… gods, that look hurt more than any blow ever could. It was the expression of someone who had convinced himself he didn’t deserve love and was now trying to destroy it before it could destroy him.

“Stop acting like you know me, because you don’t!” he shouted, and Telemachus flinched — not from fear, but from heartbreak. “You are— you are so annoying, you know that? I wished I never met you. Gods, I fucking hate you so much.”

And just like that, something inside him cracked.

Telemachus didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just stood there, his vision starting to blur at the edges, like the world had become too bright, too loud. He felt like he was standing on a cliff with the wind screaming around him, and all he could do was not fall.

But he couldn’t look away.

Because beneath all that fury, all that spitting hatred, Telemachus saw it. The truth. Neoptolemus’ pain was palpable, clinging to his skin like sweat. And he realized — with a kind of hollow sadness — that Neoptolemus didn’t hate him.

It wasn’t the words that hurt most. It was the fear behind them. The desperation in his voice. The way Neoptolemus’ hands were clenched like he was trying to hold himself together. And Telemachus saw it — all of it — and still, all he could feel was sorrow.

Because Neoptolemus didn’t hate him.

He hated being seen by him.

He hated the way Telemachus made him feel — like he was real. Like he was worth something. Like he didn’t have to stay broken forever. And that was terrifying. To someone who had only ever known love as loss, as pain, as manipulation — real love was unbearable.

And gods, Telemachus understood. But it didn’t make it hurt less.

He didn’t cry. Not right away. He just stood there, his hands at his sides, his throat burning with unsaid things. Because what could he even say to that? What was the point of trying to reason with someone determined to self-destruct?

But part of him still wanted to scream: I would’ve walked through fire for you. I would’ve stayed. Even when you pushed me away. I would’ve carried your pain in my own two hands if you’d let me.

Instead, he said nothing.

Because love — real love — sometimes means walking away.

And gods, how that burned. Even after all that… Telemachus didn’t hate him. Not even close.

Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t vanish under the weight of rejection. It bends. It bruises. But it lingers, even when unwelcome. Even when it hurts.

He stood there in silence, hands clenched, heart splintered, and wondered if this was what love really was — not warmth, not safety, but choosing someone even when they tried to destroy you with their own self-loathing.

In that moment, Telemachus realized something painful: He could not save Neoptolemus. He could only love him.

And maybe that was the most devastating thing of all.

— tele's pov :333 i have not been posting a while, also the neomachus fic i planned, i made it into a oneshot bc i cannot write a fanfic for shi..

— hehe enjpy! and please dont plagiarize..

[forgetlove]

always that one crazy coworker am i right

[mitathemita]

i think he wants to cuddle maybe

evil closeups 😏

wild animal (affectionate)

[fioblah]

tip jar

[mossytrashcan]

klaus sketch in honor of me rewatching s1 rn

[pand1on]

twirls my hair

[angel-in-shibari]

[st-hedge]

Tears of the something or other idfk

[roachedtea]

fellas is it gay to calibrate your robot oomfie's receptors inspiration

[kirby-the-gorb]

[melonsharks]

like a thing, make a character lineup to figure out how i would draw them. thats the way my brain works! you can find close-ups under the cut!

these were fun :] theres a lot of characters in this show that would be fun to draw, is there anyone you guys wanna see next? 🤔

[bananananurr]

DnD

Will the wise dropping wisdom about the power of friendship or something

Their outfits are based off the gothic cathedral that is my brain :))

[quibbs]

oh, have i seen your beautiful 10 foot tall immortal angel goddess girlfriend? yeah, man, she really seems like she could rise in moonlit glory to carve a path of brightness to the accursed one's second death. hm? oh yeah, the wings were the first thing i noticed. those things are massive, yeah. huge. happy for you bro

[pink-vacancy]

Hirai Momo - 'Money in my Pocket' 24.11.02 (src)

[jojaxcola]

I discovered your Shane Muppets art. Ahhhhh they're so adorable!!!! I love them so much 🥹

Would it be okay if you made a post of each individual Muppet from that drawing? I low-key wanna use them as pfps

Thank you!! I hope these work <3

for fun, here's the sketch for that one!

[risibledeer]

Happyyy birthdayyy to the number one horse hater, lord jumperman himself

commence the sacrifices to our saviour jeremy