#tyson x reader

He does not say monster. The word would vulgarize the architecture of belief he insists he is building. It would expose how little distance there is between his dogma and the archaic brutality it purports to replace. But you notice the way his eyes harden, the soft flesh of his cheek twitching. Luke has never surrendered any portion of his own history, not unless it works in his favor. Yours, however, has passed through his hands. He knows it well enough to weaponize.

“And once Percy realizes that his brother is on our side. Trust me, he’ll follow.” It’s the same voice he uses to ladle out his aggrandized bullshit to the other demigods.

You bristle at your own malleability, the ease with which he presses and you yield, but everything Luke says obeys a ruthless internal logic. It coheres. You turn the options over in your mind in a slow rumination, worrying them like a sore tooth you cannot stop prodding with your tongue. When camp is inevitably annihilated, there will be no sanctuary left to defect to.

The empirical truth is that they would be safer here. 

“Show him other Cyclopes,” Luke suggests, the words offered lightly, as if he were proposing a tour rather than a stratagem.

“I’m not stupid,” you scowl, unabating ire building up.

Luke’s demeanor alters at once. The edge drains from him. His expression loosens, features rearranging themselves into something approximating gentleness. His body goes pliant, almost boneless, and he pivots so that his attention gathers fully on you, concentrated and intimate. 

“I never said that,” he replies, palliatively.

You refuse to meet his eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, the word softened into something coaxing, and his hand reaches out to curl around your wrist, careful, proprietary without being forceful. “I didn’t mean it that way.” His brown eyes travel your face, assessing, until he reaches a conclusion that looks like restraint. “If it bothers you, you don’t have to do it. I’ll find someone else.”

“No one else can do it,” you interject.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Luke,” you sigh. “Just save it.”

He steps closer, breaches the fragile perimeter of your space, hands settling on your shoulders with an intense familiarity. The pressure is light but unmistakable. A reminder. “I won’t forget this,” he promises. 

—

“This whole time you’ve been with Luke?” comes Annabeth’s accusatory and truculent demand, her hand already locked around her weapon as if the answer alone might lunge at her. 

Annabeth determinedly advances forward. You don’t retreat — there’s no reason to. The space between you tightens and it’s Tyson who reacts first. He has been unnervingly taciturn until now, his usual openness shuttered, his massive frame held in abeyance. Annabeth’s movement is what snaps the restraint. His shoulders tense, sudden and defensive, his bulk angling toward you to intercept any deluge of attacks. 

Percy moves at once, faster now, voice low as he wedges himself into the line of escalation — in front of Annabeth, you note amusedly. Cute. “Tyson. It’s okay.”

Tyson does not look at him. His eye flicks to Annabeth’s weapon, then to your face, searching for damage not yet inflicted, for some kind of social cue that will tell him whether he is already too late. When he finally holds your gaze, it hurts. There is something there that looks like he’s been betrayed, raw and uncomprehending, as though you have placed yourself in danger, as though you had broken a promise you made to him.

Whatever compelling argument had once cohered in your chest collapses under that look. Reason disintegrates. Your mouth opens, then closes again, the air suddenly dry, unusable. You look away before he can see you break.

Luke’s voice slides in smoothly, seizing the opening. He is addressing Annabeth now, calm and reasonable. To her credit, she listens. She wants his choices to make sense. Percy, less charitable, does not.

“I want to show you something,” you blurt, the words absconding before you can refine them, aimed at Tyson alone. You cannot summon the persuasive cadence Luke wants. Only the alternative surfaces, unvarnished and urgent.

Tyson hesitates, big calf-brown eye darting to Percy with the uncertainty of a neophyte on unfamiliar terrain. 

“We’ll be okay,” Percy says.

—

“There’s a forge below deck,” you say. “I think you’ll like it. I thought of you the second I saw it.”

The sentence comes out brighter than you intended, pitched high, as though enthusiasm might serve as ballast. Unbridled energy emanates from you, the restless kind that usually sparks an answering quickness in him — Tyson’s attention snaps toward you, his curiosity catching like tinder, questions already inchoate before you’ve finished speaking. He has always been easy to excite, easier still to please, his interest a generous thing that pours itself toward whatever you offer it.

This time, it goes nowhere.

“Oh.” The motion is small, as though he’s rationing himself. His quiet doesn’t feel empty so much as occupied, full of something you can’t see. It sits between you, a low obstacle you keep bumping your shins against.

Then, after a moment, as if he’s racking his brain for the appropriate response and finding it by process of elimination, “That’s good.”

It’s the right answer. You recognize that immediately. It just doesn’t… open. There’s no follow-up, no brightening, no familiar lean toward you as though the idea itself were a handhold. The word lands and stays where it falls.

Your smile breaks formation, then falls back into line. You don’t let the lapse show. 

“They’ve got hammers with grips this thick,” you add, holding your hands apart, filling the space with motion, with proof. “Not like the little ones that bite into your palm. And the fire runs hot. Hotter than camp’s.”

You’re talking faster now, stacking details like kindling, hoping one of them catches. You can hear it in your own voice — the faint edge of insistence, the way your sentences lean forward before you do. It’s not persuasion exactly. It’s closer to pleading with the universe to restore a familiar rhythm.

He glances at you then, quick as a flinch, the look almost involuntary.

“Camp’s fire is okay,” he says immediately. Loyal. Reflexive. The words come out as though he’s defending something more than just camp. 

“I know,” you say at once. “I just meant—”

“I know,” he repeats, gently, as if he’s smoothing something down before it can snag. As if he’s saving you from yourself.

You barrel on anyway, because stopping feels dangerous, like silence might widen into something you can’t cross. “Luke says the Cyclopes here make shields,” you say. “Real ones. Not just for show.”

You feel the change before you see it. It’s subtle, barely a thing at all, but you’ve learned to read him in the margins. Tyson’s step stutters, just a fraction, his weight shifting unevenly as though the deck has pitched beneath him. Then he continues on, steady again, as if nothing happened.

“Luke,” he repeats.

The name sits between you, heavier than it should be.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Luke—he’s been organizing things. He thinks they’re important.”

You hear yourself, the way his name has threaded itself into your explanations, how often you’ve let it do that. You don’t like it. You don’t know how to extract it now without drawing attention to the knot.

There’s a pause. Long enough that you start to count the sounds around you: the creak of timbers, the distant call of someone above deck, the low, constant complaint of the sea against the hull.

“He talks to you a lot,” Tyson says.

It isn’t a question. There’s no accusation in it either. Just an observation offered carefully, like something that might bruise if mishandled.

You hesitate. The moment stretches, thin as a gossamer. “He talks to everyone,” you say finally.

It’s true, insofar as truths go. It’s also incomplete, and you both know it.

Tyson hums, a small sound that doesn’t quite resolve into agreement. “Not like that.”

You don’t answer. You can’t find a version of the truth that doesn’t tilt the ground under your feet. Instead, you reach for safer terrain, the argument Luke gave you, polished and ready, the one that makes sense when you keep your distance from it.

“They’d treat you better here,” you say. “You wouldn’t have to explain yourself all the time.”

He nods. Not in agreement, but in recognition. As if the reasoning has passed through him already, worn smooth by repetition. As if you’re not the first person to frame his worth as a problem that can be solved by geography.

“That sounds really nice,” he says, carefully.

The word careful applies to everything about him right now: the way he holds his shoulders, the way his hands hang at his sides without swinging, the way his voice avoids corners it might catch on. He isn’t shutting you out. He’s handling you gently, like something that could crack if set down wrong.

You brighten at once, seizing the opening, mistaking caution for concession. “Yeah. I thought so too. I just—” You stop yourself, jaw tightening around the words you don’t allow out. I miss you presses hard against your teeth, demanding release. You swallow it back. “You’ve been quiet.”

Tyson’s mouth tilts, almost a smile. Almost. It doesn’t quite assemble itself, as though he’s unsure it would be honest.

“I’m listening,” he says.

It’s true. That’s the problem.

Your chest aches with it, a dull pressure that has nothing to do with breath. You want to reach for him, to anchor yourself in the solid familiarity of his presence, but you don’t dare. Not yet. Not like this.

“It’s hard not to listen to you,” Tyson admits finally, gaze fixed ahead. “Even when I try.”

There it is. The thing you both know and never say out loud: that his loyalty is not a switch he can flip, that he doesn’t retract his affection once it is given. He loves you with an openness that makes every conversation a risk.

You glance around the deck, suddenly aware of how exposed you are — how many eyes and ears might be skimming past without you noticing. There are places on the Princess Andromeda better suited for confabulating; they make meetings more furtive, and keep the younger recruits inoculated from the horrors of what Luke’s vision meant for you.

You guide him to the edge of a stairwell, where the corridors open up into something indecently lush. Polished, honey-warmed wood gleams beneath low, gilded lighting; the walls are inlaid with brass and pale stone, their curves seamless and soft-edged as if the ship were meant to be admired rather than endured. It smells faintly of citrus and salt, recycled air filtered until it forgets the sea entirely.

You’re never able to smell the seawater these days.

The opulence tugs at an old memory. You’re back at camp, slipping through the quiet after curfew, leading Tyson out of Poseidon’s cabin with a conspiratorial glance, one hand already braced for trouble. The stakes are different now, significant, but the thrill is the same: moving unseen, knowing you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. Away from Luke’s prying eyes and ears.

You gesture subtly. “Come here,” you murmur. “It’s… quieter.”

Tyson hesitates. One enormous hand brushes the edge of the stairwell, fingers grazing the worn wood as if grounding himself. For a moment you think he might refuse, might choose the open deck and the distance it affords. Then he nods.

He moves beside you, careful, measured, adjusting his pace to yours without comment. You lead him down a few steps, into the pocket of shade. The noise of the ship fades, dulled and distant, as though you’ve stepped into a held breath.

He stops, turning slightly so his broad shoulders block the space behind him. It’s an instinctive thing. You notice it anyway.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. “Quiet.”

You let a moment pass, giving him time to settle, to decide whether he’s comfortable here. Then you start again, more cautiously now, each word placed with care. “I wanted to show you the forge before,” you say softly, “but… I didn’t mean for it to feel like a lecture. I just… I want you to see that there’s more than camp out there. More than… all of that.”

You trail off, because all of that is too large to unpack here. Tyson’s opinion of Poseidon shifted when he found out he had a brother. He had called the god mean once, without malice. Later, he apologized for it, earnestly and wholeheartedly, as if Poseidon might hear him after all. Sorry I said Poseidon was mean. He sent me a brother.

All that confused bitterness Tyson had harbored seeped into you, a silent contagion threading its way through your veins. You were already envenomed, Luke’s words percolating like vitriol through every fiber of your body. The apoplectic fury you carried only propagated, a fire  that threatened to erupt. Tyson had been mollified far too expediently, leaving the full force of your ire concentrated, a latent tempest poised behind your ribs.

Tyson shifts his weight, glancing at you with that searching look that always makes you feel both seen and exposed. His single eye narrows slightly, as if he’s weighing your words against something he’s been carrying quietly.

“I know,” he says at last. 

“You left… before,” he continues. There’s a pause, just long enough for you to realize he’s choosing each word instead of letting them clumsily tumble out. “You didn’t tell me.”

His throat convulses ever so subtly, breath hitching and reassembling itself like fragile bellows in a forge. When he speaks again, the words carry a weight that belies their volume.

“I thought you were dead.”

The air congeals around you, thinning to a brittle, tremulous edge. A glassy film crawls across your vision, smearing the world into uncertain, fragmentary shapes. You swallow hard and when you speak, your voice frays at the seams.

“Tyson, I’m sorry,” you say. “I couldn’t tell you. I—I couldn’t tell anyone. Luke made me p—”

The sound of his body straightening cuts you off. He draws himself up, shoulders squaring with a sudden, stubborn resolve, the gentleness tightening into something more rigid. His jaw sets with a readiness to defend.

“He made you?” he asks.

The question is sharper than the first, honed with a protective, unyielding weight. It is easier, you realize, for him to imagine coercion than choice, easier to root around for a scapegoat and impute all the blame onto that.

“No,” you say immediately, the word falling like stone into stagnant water. You need him to hear it, to carry it with him, to understand that the choice was always yours. Luke had only found it, taking all that pain and darkness and sheathing it, gentle and purposive, into a weapon worth using — the empyreal blade of Castellan — cajoling it open until it bled light and shadow. “No. He didn’t make me. I couldn’t tell anyone. It would have unraveled everything. Left nothing whole.”

The explanation sounds thin even to your own ears, a scaffold erected around a truth that feels much larger and much uglier when examined too closely. You brace yourself, waiting for his disappointment to surface, for the hurt to sharpen into something accusing.

Instead, his voice softens.

“Not even—” He stops, breath stalling, then tries again. “Not even me?”

The question is quiet enough that it feels almost private, as though he’s asking it for himself more than for you. There’s no outrage in it. Just something wounded underneath that he hasn’t learned how to name.

Your chest tightens painfully. You take a step closer without quite realizing you’ve decided to do so, the distance between you shrinking until it feels charged, fragile.

“I wanted to,” you say. The words come more easily now, loosened by the ache they carry. “I wanted you to come with me more than anything. I still want you here—with me. I want you with me.”

“Are you safe?” he asks finally.

You try not to let confusion show, but nod. 

“Do you feel safe?”

You hesitate. Not because the answer is no, but because the truth is more complicated than that.

“I feel… better when you’re close,” you admit.

His shoulders ease at that, the tension draining in a way you can see. He nods once, decisive, as if something has quietly settled inside him that you can’t quite place.

“I’m always close.”

It presses against you, a tenebrous offering that speaks to you more than anything. You mount the counter, cool beneath your thighs yet luminous against the fire of your pulse, letting yourself sink just enough for him to close the interstice between you. 

Tyson advances and then, he leans in. Your arms rise instinctively, and for a heartbeat, everything is just the press of warmth. His scent, the heat of his skin, the solidness of him, all close enough to lose yourself in. The hug lingers, the world outside narrows to this — close enough to breathe, to trust, to feel… safe. The tension between you dissolves into something simple and soft. Everything else feels trivial in comparison.

When you press into Tyson, your nails sharply dig half-moons into the bulging swell of his bicep. It’s not painful, his skin barely registers it, inured to worse, but it twists on itself, bright and ticklish in a way that makes a low, rumbling laugh flutter across your skin as he fidgets slightly. He brings a hand to your cheek, large and steady, and you lean into it, letting the warmth of it settle against you. His palm almost dwarfs the side of your face, the weight of him somehow both grounding and soft.

You glance up at him, and a laugh escapes. His grin stretches wider in response, the corner of his mouth pulling in just the way it always does, a faint crease on one side deepening in the lines of his face.

You take his hand, guiding it beneath the hem of your shirt, and for a moment, everything seems to slow down, as if the simple action holds some significance you hadn’t expected. His fingers brush your naked skin. He inhales sharply, the breath rough, uneven. His touch is clumsy at first, an accidental graze against the soft curve of your hip, like it’s too much and too little all at once, but then something shifts, and his fingers delicately find the steady rhythm of your body.

His fingers linger for a second, as if testing, waiting for some kind of signal. The softness of his touch is almost too much to bear, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into it, your body shifting just enough to coax him further.

There’s a slight tremble in your voice when you finally speak, barely above a whisper, but the space between you is so charged that it’s almost like he can hear your thoughts.

“Don’t stop,” you murmur, your eyes meeting his, letting the weight of the request fall between you like an unspoken truth. The words hang in the air, heavy and open, but it’s not just the ask — it’s the trust. You can feel him absorb it, feel him process the shift in the room as he follows your cue, his hand moving just a little lower, a little deeper, finding its place with more confidence now. “Need you close, Ty.”

And Tyson melts.

He doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t pull back. His hand shifts lower, sliding beneath the waistband of your pants, fingers brushing against the warm skin of your lower back. You feel the careful press of his palm against the small of your back, his fingers pressing you closer to him.

His hand slides lower with purpose now, no longer tentative, his grip at your back tightening as he pulls you flush against him. There’s no mistaking it anymore: he wants you there. Wants you open to him.

When his hand slips beneath the line of your clothes, you gasp. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t immediately give you what you’re bracing for. Instead, he drags it out, touch maddeningly light, tracing where you’re already aching, already pliant. It would have been cruel if you didn’t already know Tyson. 

Tyson could never be cruel.

You squirm, breath stuttering, and he makes a low sound at that — pleased, rough, nothing like the uncharacteristic reticence from before. He leans closer, forehead hovering near yours, intent on watching what he’s doing to you, on seeing his fingers slide into your cunt.

The relief is immediate: having him knuckle-deep inside you leaves you lightheaded, a soft, involuntary sigh spilling from you as your body finally yields.

“This?” he presses, voice reverent, a note of awe threading through it. “You needed this?”

You nod fervently, a keening moan. “Don’t even have to do anything, just need them in me. Always make me feel so full and finished. Need you close.” 

You cling to him, nails biting into muscle again, and this time he doesn’t laugh. This time he groans.

Then he looks at you, expression tightening as though the thought forming behind his eyes is too heavy to be released without consequence, his mouth parting and closing again, internally deliberating. “I heard Luke talking to you.”

You barely hear him, your mind in a frenzied state, a trembling thigh pulling him closer; “What?” comes out dumb and sincere, an empty syllable born of the fact that you are too far gone to grasp the question at all.

“Earlier today.” He reminds you. He closes one eye, his throat pulsing once, and when he speaks it’s as though Luke has found a second mouth in him — his cadence ventriloquized, the words resurfacing verbatim, polished and cruel. “Wear him down.”

He opens his eye. He doesn’t need to repeat the whole thing. It’s enough. You know what he’s referring to. You don’t answer and not because it’s wrong, but because it’s true, and because the truth sounds worse when spoken aloud. You’re just not doing it very well.

“Is this—” He glances down, gaze caught on the slick curl of your cunt stretched out on his fingers. His long fingers, firm through the arches of bone, press insistently, each knuckle and span purposeful against you. “You’re tricking me.” The words fall sharp as if finally admitting aloud what he’s been holding close the entire time.

You wish you had thought of something so audacious, so impossibly inventive. Your mind wanders, unbidden, to a moment that could only exist in stolen thought: the weight of him pressing in your mouth, a heat that drags itself across your tongue, and your fingers curling tightly around the base of him, a desperate anchor to the sensations that coil through your body. The memory, or the fantasy, it’s impossible to tell, leaves you aching and clenching around his fingers.

“You’re getting my hand all wet,” he breathes out and it doesn’t necessarily sound like a reprimand but you’re factoring his earlier statement into the equation and treating it as such.

“Sorry,” you gasp out. “Tyson.”

His mouth is held ajar, his own chest heaving in tandem with yours. “Don’t be,” he soothes. Soothes. And the gentleness has a culpable tide inveighing through you. “I— I really like it.”

His thumb settles into the tender confluence of your folds, a careful, deliberate press that sends a shiver up your spine, and you inhale sharply as he teases the nexus of nerves, breath quickening with every languid stroke.

The motion slackens, his head tilting in instinctive alertness toward the closed door, ears straining for the faintest susurration of the world beyond this sequestered enclave. When his fingers retreat, it is with a dolorous carefulness, as though the act of withdrawal exacts a toll upon him, leaving a residue of restrained ardor between you.

“I don’t want you to go anywhere without me,” he says, the words earnest and unfortified, as if they’ve been waiting their turn.

“Yeah,” you promise quickly, pushing yourself upright on the table, the lingering warmth of him still humming under your skin. Your eyes are bright, hopeful, a question already rising. “Does this mean—”

“I’ll stay with you,” he says at once, shy and resolute all at once, a small, bashful smile breaking across his face like a vow he’s relieved to finally speak aloud.

You vaguely hear a familiar voice in the distance but Tyson straightens suddenly. His lips press together, a fine line of disbelief, as though he cannot credit himself for the audacity he is about to commit; and yet, conviction threads through his limbs, lacing his movements with irrevocable purpose. Before you can protest, he sweeps you up, lifting you with the inexorable strength of a tide, cradling you across his broad shoulder.

The swiftness of the act robs you of comprehension. Your lungs seize as the world tilts for a moment. Then, with a voice that trembles yet booms, he bellows, “in here, Percy!” The timbre of his call reverberates through the corridors, a clarion summons that drags your pulse into rapid, furious alignment.

Finally, comprehension catches you in its sway. Breathless, you gasp incandescently: “You tricked me!”

As if she’d felt you staring from all the way inside, the girl you knew all too well stepped out onto the porch and sent you a knowing look from ten yards away. With her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised in the air, she knew she was slowly beckoning you into the house with her mind. And it must have been working by the way your feet were slowly moving you towards her. A comforting pair of arms wrapped around your neck once you finally stood close enough for her to reach you, and you felt yourself relax for the first time all day.

She complimented your outfit, a half assed costume you’d pieced together after pacing around your room for forty five minutes and taking two tequila shots. It’d been safe to say that you were not excited about whatever sat behind the door in front of you. She hadn’t even waited for your acceptance of her compliment before her hand was intertwined with yours and tugged you in behind her.

The room held a smokey haze you could only assume was coming from a smoke machine hidden in some nook of the house you’d yet to discover. It took you several seconds to recognize people around you due to their get-ups and you had to shield your eyes from the strobe light in the room beside you. You couldn’t help but comment on the pumpkin wreaths you’d seen on the door just seconds after Caroline shut it, a smile and a cheer of excitement coming from her in response.

Your presence hardly went unnoticed for even a minute. It was as if your arrival to the house had alerted everyone in the house you’d met before because several seconds after you were done listening to Caroline’s process of constructing the orange wreath, you were being lifted up into the air and spun around while caged between two thick arms.

“You’re here! You came!” it was a reflex to hook an elbow around the man’s neck, knowing he would ignore any and all protests to being swung around in the air. It wasn’t unusual for Nate to greet you with such booming excitement. As long as you’d known him, he’d been a happy person that radiated nothing less than sunshine. It was hard to feel glum around Nate, which is part of the reason you were so glad that things between him and Caroline had never ceased to progress.

“Care’s not really one to take no for an answer!” it came out a little softer than you’d expected, dimmed by the music bouncing off the walls, but he’d heard you. The rumble in his chest told you as much before he’d finally returned you to your feet. He knew his girlfriend had many methods of persuading you to join in on the fun you were reluctant to have any part in. Not that you’d normally flaked out on events like these but given the current circumstances, you weren’t thrilled to spend much time in the same room as a majority of the Avs roster.

“Y/N!” your eyes widened as a body barreled into yours, almost twice as aggressively as Nate’s had just moments prior, but how could you be surprised? Mikko had been deprived of your company for far too long and he seemed to be bursting at the seams with things to tell you.

“Mikko!” you yelled back at him, hardly exuding half of the excitement that he was. He put you back down but kept a firm grip on your shoulders, smiling at you like he thought he’d never see you again.

“I’m going to get you a drink.” you were about to say something when a finger pressed itself to your lips and the 6’4 winger ran off in the direction of the kitchen.

Before you could have a moment to think for yourself, Nate was pulling you into a conversation about how your interview had gone the day before. He’d meant to call you about it but by the time he got home yesterday, Caroline had informed him that you had fallen asleep on the phone with her over an hour before. Knowing better than to even attempt to wake you up, he pocketed the question for tonight in hopes that his girlfriend was telling the truth when she said you’d be there.

He was happy to hear that it’d gone well, recalling all of the times he’d witness you freaking out about the very interview. It was a big deal for you, applying to be a nurse at one of the biggest hospitals in the city. It’d been everything you’d dreamed of since you were in middle school watching soap operas with your mom. Now you were here, in Denver, doing the damn thing.

Nate and Caroline couldn’t have been happier for you. They’d watched you grow into the person you are now. Caroline had gotten past the point of seeing you as her little freshman roommate that she grew to love and adore over your first year together. Nate had still called you short stack regardless of begging him to drop the name for going on three years now. They were so happy for you, pursuing your dreams in spite of all that had been thrown at you.

“Nate! You’ve gotta come see this, man. EJ’s convinced he can- Oh shit, sorry.” his eyes couldn’t be broken from their line of sight once he’d seen you. It was like the wind had been knocked out of him, any and all thoughts he previously had now wiped from his mind as he asked himself if he was seeing things correctly. “Hey.”

“Hi.” you forced a not at all convincing smile to the surface, feeling your fingers twitch in anticipation of what the next few hours were going to look like. “Nice hat.”

His hand flew up to the object, somehow forgetting he was even wearing one until now. It sent a wave of uneasiness through him, remembering the first time you’d ever seen the hat in his closet and teased him about it relentlessly.

****

“You weren’t supposed to find that!” he shouted through a mess of laughter, standing on the opposite side of the room as you, his bed creating a roadblock from him moving fast enough to shut the closet door.

“Why? Scared it’s gonna look better on me than you?” you placed the black cowboy hat on your head, pretending to shoot finger guns at him before blowing on them and shoving them back into your nonexistent holster.

It almost made Tyson double over in laughter before you were looping your fingers through your belt loops and pretending to chew on a string of wheat. “I will admit, it suits you.”

“You’re not from around this here town, are ye?” the smile that shot up the corners of his mouth were almost enough to have you break character. The way his cheeks wrinkled from smiling too hard for too long captivated you in every which way.

“You’re in my stomping grounds here, partner.” you bit your lip to suppress the giggle at his awful attempt at a southern accent. He’d call it a failure had you not kneeled on his bed and crawled your way over to his side. Now his hands were on your hips and your noses were less than an inch from one another.

You lifted the hat from your head and put it atop his own, using your fingers to part the hair that had flopped in his face. “So what’s the verdict? Who wore it better?”

With a kiss to the tip of his nose and a playful smile, you shrugged. “It hides the curls too much.”

It wasn’t even a second later that he was looping his arms around you and throwing you down on your back, fingers nipping at your sides until you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

****

“Yeah, thanks.” Nate rolled his eyes at the lack of subtlety Tyson possessed, a teasing comment dancing on the tip of his tongue until your savior appeared seconds later with a drink in hand a knowing look in his eyes.

“One tequila sunrise for the lady.” you bit back a laugh at Mikko’s attempt at breaking through the conversation smoothly but accepted the red solo cup held in your direction. The urge to gulp down the entirety of it sat in your chest but you refrained, deciding it would be too telling of your mental state at the moment. “I’ve also been ordered to bring you back to the kitchen with me.”

He offered his elbow out to you and while your fingers twitched in relief to grab onto and let him waltz you away, you were also aware that three pairs of eyes were surveying you carefully. So with ease and patience, you smiled at the three of them and promised you’d find Caroline soon enough as you followed Mikko towards the kitchen.

You were met by a group of boisterous hockey players, varying age and size as they congregated in the room you were being summoned to. Various greetings were thrown in your direction while their captain practically danced you around the room in a hug you felt comfort in. Gabe had been like an older brother to you over the years, after Nate and Mikko of course. He kept your best interest at heart which you always appreciated, but there were some forms of comfort the captain couldn’t provide. He couldn’t fully take your side when things went south a few months ago. He needed to keep his team under control, had to babysit the blubbering idiot, as he called him, out of trouble and in the zone. Gabe had other responsibilities but that never meant he left you behind.

Mikko had made sure you kept a steady drink in your hand, never letting your cup dry before he was pressing a new one into your hand. You had tried to wave him off after a time or two, concerned about how many cups he had you blowing through but amidst your lecture about plastic’s effect on the environment, he explained that he’d been rotating both of your cups back and forth and had therefore not used nearly as much as you had assumed moments prior.

You weren’t sure you’d ever been so grateful for Mikko, noticing the way he would take a step in front of you to shield you from an unwanted pair of eyes or the way his hands grabbed your side every time you wobbled slightly too much. His worry and protective nature for you seemed to come so naturally, like it took no effort at all to make sure you never stumbled too far or felt too vulnerable.

It hadn’t even taken him five minutes to realize your absence had gone on much longer than abnormal pee break. He found you out back, leaning against the side of the house you desperately wish felt more comfortable to you at the moment. With your eyes shut softly and your arms crossed over your chest, Mikko could only assume how you were feeling right now.

“It’s cold out here.” you snorted at his attempt at small talk, a soft smile resting on his lips once you’d cracked open your eyes.

“It’s October in Colorado, ko. We’re lucky we don’t have to wear gloves yet.” his laugh comforted you then, the slight droop in your shoulders not going unnoticed by the boy.

“Well if I know you well enough, which I'm positive I do, you’re about five minutes away from complaining about your nose going numb.” you rolled your eyes but moved from your place against the wall, knowing he wasn’t too far out of reach with that assumption.

“Fine, but I want a drink when we get inside.” he nodded his head then and agreed easily.

It was hard to let go, especially when you couldn’t seem to shake away the image of a curly head of hair out of your mind. All you could think about was the last time you were at one of these parties, Mikko wasn’t your saving grace for the night. It wasn’t the boy from Finland that was making you laugh and lifting your heart up off the ground. Last year your eyes hardly left the boy from Alberta. His hands were planted on your waist for the whole night, teasing lilts pouring out of him while he commented on how pathetic your outfits were.

****

Most of the people scattered throughout the house had put in a decent amount of effort into their costumes. Sure there had been the occasional football jersey played off as a costume, but as the two of you stood in bright orange jumpsuits, it was apparent you had fallen to a last resort. Tyson didn’t seem to mind though, not as his eyes scanned over you one too many times for it to be passed off as “just looking at the jumpsuit”.

After an hour or two of dancing together, you’d retired to a chair amongst your friends that had been previously up for grabs. Tyson took the chair and wasted no time at all before pulling you to sit on one of his thighs before you dove into a playful argument with EJ about which Bad Boys movie was the best.

You hadn’t noticed Tyson’s eyes on you, or the way you were absentmindedly playing with his fingers while you spoke so animatedly to his friends. The fond smile that found its home on his lips made your best friend’s heart soar as she caught the moment in time. You smiled at the feeling of a pair of lips pressed lightly to your shoulder blade and instinctively leaned back into his embrace despite you being in the middle of a sentence in defense of Bad Boys 2.

A familiar melody broke your train of thought though as the bounce of the bass thumped through you. A sharp gasp fell from your lips and before he could even refuse, you were up and pulling Tyson by the hand.

“Baby we just sat down.” he was whining but in all actuality he could never refuse your offer to dance. Especially not when you jutted out your bottom lip and reminded him how much you loved this song.

Sounds of whips cracking and various chirps were thrown out the second he stood up, no hesitation in his movements before there was a middle finger held in their direction. His hands found their home on your hips and while you jumped in place to the best of the song, Tyson couldn’t help but remind you just how much he loved you.

****

Mikko waving his hand in front of your face broke you from your thoughts and pulled you back to reality. Standing in the middle of a new living room in a new costume with the wrong Avalanche player weighed heavily in your chest before you excused yourself to find the bathroom. When a hum of disapproval met your ears you were quick to assure him that you’d be back in a jiffy before turning on your heels and making a break for the stairs.

You were thankful to find the bathroom upstairs unoccupied as you flung yourself inside of it and gripped onto the edge of the sink. The alcohol swimming through your system was surely helping you hear your heartbeat as you tuned out the music shaking the walls. Your grip on the sink tightened hard enough for your fingertips to scream at you to loosen up your hold on it. It was enough to have you let go of the porcelain and your next plan of action was to splash cold water on your face. You had to bring yourself back down to earth, quickly.

A knock at the door told you the universe didn’t quite seem to have that in mind for you though, a familiar voice calling through the door about how much he had to pee. You shut your eyes and let out a deep breath because of course he was the one that needed to use this bathroom right now. His look of shock was evident enough to tell you that he had no idea you were the one inside and before an apology could fall past his lips, you were pushing your way out of the door.

“Y/n, listen-“

“I gave you all the time in the world to explain things to me and you fucked it up.” while he’s not sure what he expected you to say to him, but it definitely wasn’t that. “You ruined everything Cale.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking, I'm so sorry, y/n.” but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to patch things back together again. He’d had two months to say his piece and while he tried at the beginning, his efforts were sorely misconstrued. He gave up quickly, falling under your exuding intimidation and the fear that you’d out him to the rest of the group.

“I just can’t believe that at this point.” his heart dropped into his stomach and you saw it on his face. You saw the lost boy look in his eyes and the heartbroken puppy dog look. He was breaking in front of you it seemed, and you couldn’t find it in you to try to help piece him back together.

You took one step away from the door before he was dragging you into the bathroom with him and shutting the door behind him.

“You have to listen to me. I don’t know what I was thinking, okay? I- I wasn’t thinking! I was just following my instincts, I didn’t think about what it would lead to and I’m sorry, I swear.” if too little too late had been compressed together and turned into a person, you were convinced it would be the sorry sap in front of you.

“You knew exactly what you were thinking. I love Tyson, I've always loved Tyson. It’s always been him and you knew that. You knew that I wanted to be with him, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and you still ruined it.” his head fell forward in shame, like he had finally accepted the fact that he had indeed played a critical role in the downfall of you and Tyson.

“I just couldn’t pretend like it didn’t matter to me anymore; like you didn’t matter to me.” perhaps if it had been any other day, and other situation, you would’ve softened up at the look in his eyes. You would’ve stepped into his embrace and told him it would all be okay, but Cale had lost that privilege with you a long time ago.

“I never asked for this.” you muttered to yourself, unwarranted guilt hanging heavily in your chest. “I never wanted any of this. I was happy-“

“Were you?” the question cuts through like a thousand degree blade. His eyes have seemingly lost their puppy dog-like quality and are replaced with dark eyes you’d never seen on him before.

Cale was supposed to be the sweet one, the baby of the group that had everyone’s best interest at heart. You thought he’d be kicked around as a young rookie on the team and when he got occasional chirps thrown his way, you’d stick up for him. He helped you set up decorations for holiday parties and you'd help him find his spot in Denver’s hierarchy.

Unbeknownst to you, somewhere along the line Cale’s feelings had moved away from platonic and shoved deep down into a lovesick pool he’d made for himself. You couldn’t say you didn’t feel bad, worried that you’d thrown him mixed signals or led him on unintentionally but those thoughts had been thrown out the second he kissed you. It had been quick and he had apologized for it the second you’d stepped away from him, insisting that you were in a happy relationship with a boy you loved more than anything. He promised it’d never happen again, and you’d promised that you wouldn’t tell Tyson as long as nothing progressed from it. You didn’t need there to be a mess amongst teammates over one misstep on Cale’s part. He was already struggling with his place on the team and you refused to be the wedge between him and his teammates.

Regardless of his apologies and promises to never act similarly again, he did. He still cared about you, still loved you. He hadn’t meant for it to come crashing down all at once, didn’t mean to pour his heart out to you in the middle of a team cookout. All you had gone inside for was a few beers for the table and had been sorely met with a very vulnerable Cale that had recently found his voice.

It wasn’t the confession all on its own that ruined the lot of it though, it was the aftermath. Your rejection shouldn’t have come as a surprise, and you’d done your best to let him down easy while also being stern about your devotion to one of his best friends. He took this, however, as an opportunity to remind you of the problems you had been having with Tyson as of late. It was nothing too serious, just a bump in the road that everyone eventually came across.

Cale saw it differently though, taking the opportunity to tell you all the things that Tyson had said about you when you weren’t there. Most things were said in the heat of the moment, holding no merit to them at all. Cale knew this, but conveniently left that detail out. After all, Tyson had come to him in full confidence that Cale had been a safe space for him to let out everything he didn’t mean.

But it had been a small detail, a somewhat misconstrued statement that Tyson had uttered in a drunken haze months ago after a rough away game. It came in the form of certainty from Cale, the look on his face convincing you more than you wished it would’ve as he muttered, “he doesn’t think you’ll last.”

It hit you like a rollercoaster going full speed, like you’d been pushed off the top of a cliff with no warning. You felt your confidence slipping, your shoulders slumping. Cale was Tyson’s best friend, if he had said it to Cale it had to have meant something to him.

But that’s not what Tyson said. He was in fact listing a constant fear of his, that the arguing would lead to the end. This relationship had been everything to him, and he felt as if he’d been left standing on his own in the middle of nowhere. Cale’s feelings for you mixed with Tyson’s fear of losing you and what you got was a jumbled mess of different truths.

Tyson had been thrown off by your question at the end of the night. He had just wanted to climb into bed and sleep the day off but your question struck a nerve, and his once half asleep mind had completely woken up to the crack in your voice.

“Do you think we’ll end up with different people?” he hadn’t thought that far ahead in all honesty. He hadn’t brought himself to think about what the next step after you was. He hoped he wouldn’t have to come to that conclusion but the waver in your voice let him know something was seriously wrong.

“Why would you ask me that?” if avoiding the answer had been any indication for you, you were certain the tone in his voice told you your answer. “Do you?”

“I think that it’s hard to end up with someone who doesn’t think they’re meant to be with you.” he sighed then, not because you were into something but because he couldn’t help but feel slightly annoyed at your indication that this was the universe’s doing.

“It’s not about who’s meant to be with who. I want to be with you, do you want to be with me?” and you did, he knew you did. He was hoping you’d answer with full confidence and no hesitation that yes, you wanted to be with him. His heart cracked when the confidence never came and instead he got tears and a voice that clearly was fighting the lump in one’s throat.

“I want you to be happy.” his shoulders slumped then as he saw a sad smile stretch across your lips. “All I've ever wanted was for you to be happy, Tys.”

To this day, he’s still not sure why he allowed you to press your hand to his chest and leave him with a soft kiss on the corner of his jaw. It had been the last time he felt your lips on his skin, the last time he’d felt you between his hands.

He still has no idea of Cale’s feelings for you, still has no idea that you were driven to have that conversation. You found no use in telling him something that would lead to the loss of his girlfriend and his best friend in one full sweep. You figured he’d be better off with someone by his side, someone who would be there for him to call if need be.

“I was happier than I'd ever been in my life.” your words cut through Cale’s heart like nothing else he’d ever experienced. He didn’t think he was hurting you by giving you an out. He thought he was helping, thought that maybe after you’d gotten over Tyson, he could help put the pieces back together. He was planning on being there for you, truly, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what you wanted and it wasn’t nearly enough to help.

“And what are you now?” you looked at the boy one last time and gave him the same sad smile you gave Tyson all those nights ago.

“Lonely.” you left him with that, and rubbed the underside of your nose one time before you descended down the stairs and joined Mikko once again.

You found him out back, sitting on half of a loveseat with two drinks by his side. Amidst a conversation with the owners of the house, he noticed the back door slide open and you step out onto the back porch. He smiled at you fondly and motioned to the empty seat beside him with a drink that had your name on it. You could feel your heart swell at the gesture and while you were determined to soak in it for the time being, you found yourself taking the drink from him and gulping it down in no time.

“Oh shit.” Nate mumbled to himself, his fingers dancing on his thigh as he saw the pain swimming in your eyes. You smiled fondly at him before falling beside your friend and laid your head on his shoulder.

“I put like four shots in that drink.” Mikko gaped at you before you merely shrugged your shoulders and let your eyes wander across the lawn to find the mop of curls you’d so efficiently avoided all night.

“It was good.” you tapped Mikko’s chest softly just before a familiar laugh swam through your ears. You sighed at the sound, almost finding comfort in it after not hearing it for so long. It had been your favorite sound on earth, the only thing that never failed to warm your heart and make you smile. Now it wasn’t yours to relish in, but yours to witness from afar. The smile that matched it wasn’t yours to hold and wasn’t your doing. You were merely a bystander to the joy that Tyson was exuding and while there had been a slight weight of pain in your chest, you couldn’t help but beam at the happiness you were witnessing.

“He looks happy.” you mumbled to yourself, catching Nate beam at you from your peripheral vision.

“He’s back on his feet.” Nate spared his teammate of the gory details of Tyson showing up to practice hungover and exhausted for days on end. He left out the part where Tyson had a breakdown in the locker room after he’d claim to cost them the game. You didn’t need to know about those parts of the story, not when you looked so happy at seeing him happy.

“That’s good. He deserves to be happy.” Nate just nodded along with you while Mikko kissed the top of your head in an attempt to pull your eyes away from your ex.

The two of them were quick to dive into a conversation about their next game and while you began listening to every word and even playing along, somewhere down the road you found yourself looking at Tyson again. His lips still held a smile as he and EJ did an awful attempt at a square dance and you couldn’t help but smile fondly at the sight. Tyson shook his hips and kicked his feet up to the beat of a country song you couldn’t quite hear and before you knew it, his eyes were locked with yours and his smile was falling ever so slightly.

You shook your head to clear your thoughts and excused yourself from the group and felt Caroline’s hand squeeze your thigh softly before you stood up and whisked yourself away. Tyson’s smile had completely washed away by that point and he was across the yard to find you walking around the side of it in no time.

“Y/n-“

“Don’t, please.” you couldn’t do this, you couldn’t give him a moment because you’d fall back into his embrace. You knew you would, you’d never had much self restraint when it came to Tyson.

“Baby please just listen to me.” you shuddered at the nickname, a chill running down your spine when his hand found yours. His fingers interlocked with yours and while you could feel your muscles relaxing, your heart rate was picking up simultaneously.

“Tys we’ve been down this road.” he remembered the night you spent together after you’d broken up. He remembered knocking on your door at one in the morning wanting to talk and slipping out just a few hours later with his shirt inside out. He remembered saying things he didn’t mean and leaving before he made a fool of himself when in all actuality, him leaving had been the most hurtful part of it all.

“It’s not like that this time. I swear honey, please. I need you to listen.” his hand on your cheek and fingertips softly caressing your skin had you instinctively leaning into his touch. He took this as a sign to keep going. “I don’t think there’s anyone else in the entire world that could fill the void that you left me with.” when your eyes narrowed and confusion presented itself he tried to backtrack. “That’s not what I meant. Not that you left me with a void, because you didn’t really leave, I know that- that’s now what I-“

“Tys.” you whispered softly, bringing his eyes to yours and ceasing his rambling. “Just say what you need to say.”

“I can’t do this without you. You’re it for me, you know? You’re the moon and all of the stars. You’re the cup of fresh coffee in the morning and the sun on a cloudy day. There’s no one else, there’ll never be anyone else. You’re it for me. You’re meant for me.” you were looking in his eyes intently, searching for alcohol driven thoughts and any justification that this was fueled by anything other than truth. You found nothing, not a trace of hesitation or uncertainty lying within the heart of Tyson Jost.

“What about everything said and done? What about the crippling fear that things were going south before they could ruin us for good?” your use of his past words made him flinch, regret flooding his mind in a matter of seconds.

“I was scared, I still am. I’m scared that things won’t work and I’m scared that it’ll all come crashing down again but now I know why. I’m scared because you’re it. You’re the one I'm supposed to be with, the girl of my dreams. I want to- I need to spend the rest of my life with you. Everything else is pointless, nothing else matters. But nothing in the world matters if I can’t live life with you.” you tried to tell yourself you were dreaming, that you were making all of this up but the feeling of thumb prints on your cheek bones was enough to pull you from that thought.

“I can’t just pretend nothing happened between us.” and he told you that you didn’t have to, that he wouldn’t expect that from you. He promised to work towards what the two of you had, to work through the bumps in the road before turning on cruise control.

It all would’ve been sunshine and flowers to you had you not had the nagging thought in the back of your mind that you still had to deal with Cale’s feelings and actions towards you. Things wouldn’t go back to normal even if you and Tyson tried.

“Just give me a shot. Give us a shot.” he was begging, pleading with you to agree to this. “No guarantees needed, just one try, one more go at it. I need to try one more time.” the spark in his eyes was almost enough to pull you back in, to have you falling at his feet and agreeing to this one last chance.

You were torn. On one hand Tyson was everything, this was everything, but things had been said and done that you’re not sure you’d ever recover from. Could you be around Tyson and Cale anymore? Could you be with Tyson without telling him everything that had happened with Cale? You didn’t have these answers, nor did you have any solutions. All you had was your mind going at a mile a minute and your heart following close behind. You wanted to try with Tyson but something was telling you that it wasn’t a good idea, that things would get a lot worse before they got any better.

But then you looked into his eyes and you saw the happy boy you’d fallen in love with all those years ago and you felt yourself split down the middle. On one hand this is everything you’ve wanted for the entirety of your time away from him. On the other, your gut told you this was a bad decision, that things would go south quicker than you could ever imagine.

“Just let me take you on one date.” he gave you that sweet look you caved into every time in hopes you’d still fall for it just as hard as before but the nagging voice in the back of your mind told you to tread lightly.

You were utterly and completely torn down the middle.

-

I know a few of you have changed your @ since i've posted/made my taglist so if it's different and you want me to change it just lmk lovelies