Can you write about buddy heild feeling insecure about his stutter and reader reassuring him
say it again.
a buddy hield fic
summary ~ requested !
includes ~ angst to fluff/comfort
word count ~ 2,140
a/n ~ as someone who has a speech impediment and stumbles and stutters like buddy does, thank you for introducing me to him. this fic is truly a representation of how good it feels to be represented.
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Buddy hated when people finished his sentences.
He hated it more than missed shots, more than bad calls, more than the way reporters sometimes asked questions they already had an answer prepared for. He hated the little flash of impatience in people’s eyes when his words caught in his throat. Hated the way some people tried to be helpful by jumping in too soon, like they were saving him from himself.
But you never did.
That was one of the first things he loved about you.
You waited.
Not awkwardly. Not with pity. Not with that careful, uncomfortable silence that made him feel like everyone in the room had suddenly become aware of his mouth.
You simply waited like he had all the time in the world.
The first time it happened around you, the two of you had only been dating for a few weeks. You were sitting across from him at a late dinner after one of his games, your curls pinned up, lip gloss shining under the restaurant lights, one hand wrapped around your glass while you listened to him tell a story about growing up in the Bahamas.
He had been relaxed, smiling, leaning back in the booth with one arm stretched along the seat beside him. Then he got caught on a word.
“My m-m-m—”
He stopped.
You looked at him softly, but you didn’t move.
He tried again. “My m-m—”
His jaw tightened.
He looked down, frustration flickering across his face.
You could tell he wanted to skip the word. Change the sentence. Laugh it off before you could notice. But you had noticed. Not because it bothered you, but because you noticed him. The tiny shift in his shoulders. The way his fingers tapped once against the table. The embarrassment he tried to bury before it reached his eyes.
So you waited.
Buddy took a breath.
“My mama,” he finally said, voice quieter.
You smiled, gentle and warm. “What did your mama say?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
Something softened in him.
Like he had expected you to rush past the moment, but you stayed. Not on the stutter. On him.
He finished the story.
And you listened to every word.
After that, he fell a little harder than he meant to.
But loving you did not make the insecurity disappear.
It still showed up in small ways.
Before interviews, he sometimes got quieter. Before speeches, his hands moved more than usual. If he had to speak in front of a crowd, he practiced under his breath, pacing the room like he was preparing for a game seven.
You never made it a big deal.
You would just sit nearby, doing your makeup or folding clothes or scrolling through your phone, and let him practice. If he asked how it sounded, you gave him honest feedback. If he didn’t, you left it alone.
That was another thing he loved about you.
You knew when to hold him and when to let him keep his pride.
But the night it got bad, he couldn’t hide it.
It was after a charity event.
Buddy had been invited to speak to a group of young athletes about discipline, family, and believing in yourself. It was supposed to be sweet. Meaningful. Something close to his heart. You knew he cared deeply about giving back, especially to kids who reminded him of himself.
He wore a navy suit that fit him perfectly, his chain tucked beneath his shirt, his hair freshly cut. Before the event, he had stood in front of the bathroom mirror at home, practicing his remarks while you sat on the counter swinging your legs.
“You sound good,” you told him.
He looked at you through the mirror. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You not just saying that because you love me?”
“I love you, but I am still very capable of telling you when you sound a mess.”
That made him laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
“I know that’s right,” he said.
You slid off the counter and walked up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. Your cheek pressed against his back.
“Buddy.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to be perfect.”
He looked down at your hands resting over his stomach.
“I know.”
But he didn’t say it like he knew.
You kissed his shoulder. “You just have to be you.”
He turned in your arms, looking down at you with a softness that always made your chest ache.
“You always know what to say,” he murmured.
“No,” you said, fixing his collar. “I just know you.”
At the event, everything started fine.
He smiled with the kids. Took pictures. Signed jerseys. Laughed when one boy told him his jump shot was “almost as good” as his. You stood near the side of the room, watching him with pride in your chest.
Then it was time for the speech.
At first, Buddy was steady. His voice filled the room, warm and familiar, his accent wrapping around his words in a way you loved. He talked about being a kid with a dream bigger than his circumstances. He talked about discipline. About family. About how talent meant nothing if you didn’t work when nobody was watching.
The kids listened.
The room was quiet.
Then he got stuck.
It happened on the word “believe.”
“B-b-b—”
His mouth stopped.
His eyes flicked down to the paper in his hand.
You saw the change immediately.
The tension in his jaw. The way his throat moved. The way his hand tightened around the microphone.
He tried again.
“B-b-b—”
A couple of kids shifted in their seats. Not meanly. Just naturally. Someone near the back whispered something. It was small, barely anything, but Buddy heard it.
You knew he did.
His face changed.
Not much. Most people probably wouldn’t have caught it.
But you did.
He forced himself through the word and finished the speech, but the light in him had dimmed. He still smiled afterward. Still shook hands. Still thanked everyone. Still posed for pictures like nothing happened.
But you knew.
The ride home was quiet.
Too quiet.
Buddy drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. The city lights moved across his face in flashes, showing you pieces of him: the tight mouth, the distant eyes, the exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders.
You didn’t push at first.
You let the silence breathe.
When you got home, he loosened his tie before the front door was even closed. He slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the couch, then stood in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips.
You set your purse down gently.
“Baby,” you said.
“I’m good.”
You hated how fast he said it.
“No, you’re not.”
He gave a short laugh with no humor in it. “I said I’m good.”
You crossed your arms. “And I heard you.”
He looked at you then, frustration sparking. “Then why you asking?”
“Because I know you.”
He looked away.
You softened your voice. “Buddy.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that thing where you look at me like you feel sorry for me.”
Your chest pinched.
“I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No,” you said, firmer now. “I don’t.”
He turned away from you, running a hand over his face. “You saw it.”
“I saw you get stuck on a word.”
He laughed bitterly. “That’s one way to say it.”
“That is what happened.”
“Nah.” He pointed toward the door like the event was still outside waiting for him. “What happened was I got up there in front of them kids and sounded like I ain’t know how to talk.”
Your face fell. “Buddy.”
“I hate it,” he said, voice cracking at the edges. “I hate when it happens. I hate when I can feel it coming and I can’t stop it. I hate seeing people’s faces change. I hate when they start waiting for me to finish like I’m making them uncomfortable.”
You took a step closer. “You didn’t make anyone uncomfortable.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know what I saw.”
“And I know what I felt.”
That stopped you.
Because he was right.
You could comfort him, but you could not argue him out of an insecurity he had carried longer than he had known you.
So you nodded slowly.
“Okay,” you said. “Tell me what you felt.”
His shoulders dropped slightly, like he had expected you to fight him.
He looked tired.
“I felt embarrassed,” he admitted. “Like I was a little boy again. Like everybody looking at me and waiting for me to hurry up. I’m a grown man. I play in arenas. I can hit shots with thousands of people screaming, but then one word gets stuck and I feel…” He swallowed. “Small.”
Your heart broke quietly.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just enough to hurt.
You moved closer, careful, giving him room to step away if he wanted. He didn’t.
“You are not small,” you said softly.
His eyes glistened, but he blinked it back fast.
“Don’t just say that.”
“I’m not.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”
“You’re right,” you said. “I don’t know exactly how it feels. I won’t pretend I do. But I know you. And I know that stutter is not bigger than your heart, or your mind, or your voice, or anything you were trying to give those kids tonight.”
He looked down.
You stepped in front of him so he had to see you.
“You think they needed you to sound perfect?” you asked.
He didn’t answer.
“They needed you to be real. And you were.”
His mouth tightened.
You kept going, softer now. “Baby, do you know how many kids in that room probably needed to see someone successful not be perfect? Do you know how many of them might have something they’re insecure about? A voice, a body, a fear, a learning disability, anxiety, anything. And they watched you get stuck, breathe, keep going, and finish anyway.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“That matters,” you said. “More than perfect ever could.”
He stared at you for a long moment.
Then his voice came out low. “I don’t want you to be embarrassed by me.”
The sentence hit so hard you almost flinched.
“What?”
He looked ashamed the second he said it, but he didn’t take it back.
“I don’t,” he said quietly. “When we out somewhere and it happens, I don’t want you standing there wishing I sounded different.”
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
“Buddy, no.”
He looked away again, but you reached for his face, gently turning him back to you.
“Look at me.”
He did.
And you let him see everything.
The hurt. The love. The certainty.
“I have never been embarrassed by you,” you said. “Not once. Not for one second.”
His face shifted.
You moved your thumb along his cheek. “When you stutter, I don’t hear weakness. I hear you trying. I hear you choosing to speak anyway. I hear a man who has something to say and deserves the space to say it.”
His eyes shone now.
You smiled a little through your own tears. “And honestly? I love your voice. I love the way you talk. I love your accent. I love when you get excited and start talking fast. I love when you call me baby under your breath. I love when you tell stories and get dramatic with your hands. I love every version of your voice because it belongs to you.”
He exhaled shakily.
“You mean that?”
“Every word.”
He lowered his head, pressing his forehead to yours.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You just stood there in the living room, his hands slowly finding your waist, your fingers still resting against his face.
Then he whispered, “Sometimes I wish I could just say it right.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Say what right?”
“Anything.”
Your heart squeezed.
“You do say it right,” you whispered. “Because it’s yours. You don’t have to sound like anybody else to be worth listening to.”
His arms tightened around you.
“I love you,” he said.
It caught slightly on the first word.
“L-l-love you.”
He closed his eyes, frustrated.
But you smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was beautiful.
You reached up and kissed him softly. “Say it again.”
His eyes opened.
“What?”
“Say it again.”
He searched your face, unsure.
You nodded. “I want to hear it.”
His throat moved.
“I l-l-love you.”
You kissed him again. “Again.”
This time, a tear slipped down his cheek.
“I love you.”
You smiled against his mouth. “Again.”
A shaky laugh escaped him. “You greedy.”
“Very.”
His hands slid around your back, pulling you closer.
“I love you,” he said again, softer. Stronger.
You cupped his face. “I love you too.”
The kiss that followed was not rushed. It was slow, tender, and full of everything words could not hold. His mouth moved against yours like he was letting himself believe you, piece by piece. Like maybe love could be a place where he didn’t have to outrun embarrassment. Like maybe with you, he could stop bracing for impact.
When you pulled away, you wiped his cheek with your thumb.
“Come here,” you said.
You led him to the couch and sat down first, opening your arms. He gave you a look.
“I’m too big for all that.”
“You are never too big to be held.”
That made his face soften.
He lay down carefully, resting his head in your lap, one arm wrapped around your waist. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, feeling the tension leave him little by little.
The TV stayed off.
The house stayed quiet.
After a while, he said, “I almost didn’t wanna do the speech tonight.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“You practiced it twelve times and cleaned the kitchen twice.”
He huffed a small laugh. “I was nervous.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say nothing.”
“Because I figured you didn’t need me pointing at your fear. You needed me nearby.”
He turned his face slightly into your stomach. “You always nearby.”
“Always.”
His hand found yours, fingers lacing together.
“I don’t know why you love me like this,” he murmured.
You looked down at him. “Because you’re easy to love.”
He gave you a doubtful look.
You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t argue with me while your head is in my lap.”
His mouth twitched.
“There he is,” you whispered.
He smiled reluctantly, and you felt like you had won something precious.
A few days later, Buddy received a stack of handwritten letters from kids who had attended the event.
He sat at the kitchen table opening them while you made tea. At first, he read silently. Then he stopped.
You looked over. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Then he handed you one of the letters.
The handwriting was messy, uneven, clearly young.
Dear Buddy,
Thank you for talking to us. I get nervous reading out loud at school because sometimes my words mess up. But you kept going, so I think I can too. My mom says brave means doing it scared. I think you are brave.
You read it twice.
When you looked back at Buddy, his eyes were wet.
“See?” you whispered.
He pressed his lips together, trying to hold it in.
You walked around the table and wrapped your arms around his shoulders from behind.
“That baby saw you,” you said.
Buddy covered one of your hands with his.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
“And they didn’t see something broken.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“They saw brave.”
He bowed his head.
This time, he let the tears fall.
You kissed the side of his head and held him there in the quiet kitchen, sunlight spreading across the floor, letters scattered across the table like proof.
Proof that his voice mattered.
Proof that perfection was not the same as power.
Proof that the part of himself he had spent years trying to hide might be the very thing that made somebody else feel less alone.
Later that night, as you were getting ready for bed, Buddy leaned against the bathroom doorway watching you tie your scarf.
You caught him in the mirror. “What?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You're beautiful.”
You smiled. “Thank you, baby.”
He stepped into the bathroom, wrapping his arms around you from behind. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and for a moment, both of you looked at your reflection.
Then he said, “I’m trying to be kinder to myself.”
Your chest warmed.
You placed your hands over his. “Good.”
“It’s hard.”
“I know.”
“But I’m trying.”
You turned in his arms and looked up at him. “That’s all I ask.”
His eyes moved over your face with quiet gratitude.
“I love you,” he said.
The words came smoothly this time.
But you knew something now.
They would have meant just as much if they hadn’t.
You smiled, rose onto your toes, and kissed him.
“I love you too.”
Buddy held you close, his face tucked into your neck, breathing you in like peace.
And in the soft quiet of your shared home, with no microphones, no crowds, no impatient faces, he let himself believe it a little more.
That his voice did not have to be flawless to be loved.
That he did not have to rush through his words to be heard.
That with you, he could take his time.
And you would still be there.
Listening.
