buster won

aweekofsaturdays  asked:

Any giants pairing (Brandon squared being competitive little shits?? Something with buster being huffy and mad? Whatever tickles ur fancy) + 4. In the moment kiss!

4. In The Moment Kiss - Maybe it’s in the middle of an argument or you just looked to damn beautiful not to kiss, but their lips were hot against yours and it felt too good to stop.

They sweep the Angels on the final night of the series. Tim pitches eight innings of shutout ball, gets two singles and a walk, and kisses Buster Posey.

Buster hasn’t caught him since sometime early last year, well before the World Series. They’re both happier that way. With all Tim’s been dealing with the last few years, he doesn’t need the stress of Buster glaring at him from behind the plate, calling for the pitch low and away when Tim just knows he can strike the guy out with an inside fastball. Buster’s probably happier at first base on Tim’s starts too, though Tim can still practically feel him calling pitches from over there. It’s better all around.

But there’s a C by Buster’s name on the sheet that morning, and they get through their meeting with Bochy just fine. Tim’s had a couple wins this season already, and it seems like maybe things are finally turning around, which is why he feels good enough to say to Buster, “Maybe let’s play it by ear, see how the guys are swinging today.”

And Buster, a stack of scouting reports under his hand and the wire rim glasses he’s started wearing this year perched on his nose, gives Tim the shock of his life by shrugging and saying, “Sure.”

They play it by ear. Tim strikes out four, gives up three hits, and walks one guy; that’s it. He doesn’t have the velocity, but he has the stuff. Sometimes he throws what Buster calls and sometimes he shakes, going through two or three pitches before getting the right one, and it works.

The Angels are awful, but that doesn’t matter. It still works.

Tim feels like he’s going to grin his face off, in the handshake line after. Everybody’s happy for him too, slapping his back and rubbing his head, knocking his cap askew. He likes making the team feel good, doing his job right, and he has to admit it feels even better when Buster’s behind the dish. This is what they’re supposed to do, be the anchors of the team, carrying the load.

And okay, he likes Buster. Has always liked him, since he came up all fierce blue eyes and thick muscle, looking and acting like he’d walked out of a baseball movie from seventy years ago. This thing that grew up between them, tense and angry, like they’re fighting on the field all the time, was never how he wanted it to go.

It was easier just to let Sanchez to catch him last year, and then it didn’t matter at all in the postseason, since he only got into a game once before his back locked up on him. Buster not catching him isn’t why Tim’s dropped to where he is, but it’s been like the final sign the team isn’t counting on him long term. They’re going to ease him out, just like they did to Zito.

In the meantime, he’s still got games like tonight, and he’s still got Buster grinning at him from across the locker room, flashing a thumbs-up as he checks his phone.

Media’s cleared out, and so have the other guys, already showered and heading home, maybe a few of them to the bars. Team’s different than it used to be, more family guys and less fun. Tim doesn’t really like going out by himself, and when he looks around he doesn’t see anyone he’d want to hang with anyway.

He finishes tying his shoes, messes with his hair in the mirror for a minute, and then grabs his bag to go. Buster’s the only guy left, still sitting on the bench packing up, and on impulse Tim crosses the room to his locker.

“Hey, nice game tonight,” he says. Buster had a couple of hits, too, so he clarifies. “I mean, it felt good tonight. Our game.”

He doesn’t know why he says it that way, or why he flushes after. He doesn’t know why he can’t just say “good job catching” or “you made some nice calls,” except that it would feel like giving in. No matter how well they get along, there’s still that weird thing under the surface, a tension that makes him feel like he has to hold back.

Buster looks up at him and Tim flushes again, really feeling the heat now when he meets Buster’s eyes. Buster looks at him for a few moments before he says, slowly, “Thanks. It did feel good.”

He keeps on looking at Tim, and smiles a small, secret smile, before he adds, low, “Our game.”

Tim doesn’t know if Buster’s laughing at him or being serious or what. He’s always like this, cracking sly jokes out of the corner of his mouth, pretending he really meant it when he gets caught out. Tim hates how Buster’s always got to have the upper hand, no matter what the situation is.

He squares his shoulders suddenly, stepping closer, right between Buster’s wide-spread knees. He likes that he’s taller like this, with Buster sitting on the bench; it reminds him of being on the mound, staring down at Buster behind the dish. He pitched a good game tonight, a great game. That’s gotta count for something.

Tim wants to say something cocky, put Buster in his place for just five seconds, but now that they’re so close he has a flashbulb memory of Buster on the field today, physical and strong. Home whites stretched tight across his shoulders and thighs, his grin another slice of perfect white against his tanned skin.

The heat has never really left Tim’s face, and when it flares up again he knows Buster can see it, the way he smiles smugly again. It probably says something about Tim that that’s what does it for him, makes him reach up to cup Buster’s face and lean down to kiss him, hard. But the last thing he sees is Buster’s startled, too-blue eyes, and that feels like he won something.

Buster kisses back, surprised or not. Rests his warm, broad hands on Tim’s waist, holding him there, and cranes up to press their mouths together more. Lets Tim lick into his open mouth a few times and bite his lower lip, making a noise like he likes it.

Tim wants to ruin him. Keep kissing his plush lips and mark up his strong, tanned neck; scratch his nails down his chest and back. Take everything Buster will give him, and even more than that. Have him, any way he can.

But he makes himself finish the kiss, slow and lingering, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s the one with the upper hand. He feels Buster chasing his mouth as he finally leans away, and that feels like victory too.

“Anyway,” Tim says, and clears his throat, like they’ve just been talking this whole time. “Nice game tonight.”