maree⋆˚࿔

[bbabycamehomee]

maree °❀⋆

she/her ໒꒱ currently hyperfixated on silly brits who upload silly videos on the internet ໒꒱ hopeless romantic with terrible social skills ໒꒱ ukyt ໒꒱ the nbhd ໒꒱ new girl ໒꒱ AA23 ໒꒱ autumn apologist ໒꒱ noah kahan ໒꒱

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divider by @diviniyae

[bbabycamehomee]

True Brit

summary: A rebound date, a ghosting, and one very indecisive Iron Curtain kiss later

contains: alfie buttle x reader, alcohol consumption, mild injury

word count: 5251

a/n: omg i've been waiting for this plotline for soooo long!!! the "True american" was so hard to write it took years off my life, but I hope you enjoy itt!!!

maree's new girl au

Thea let herself in, having apparently intimidated Chip into giving her the spare key in the short amount you’d lived with them, and dropped a duffel bag on your bed hard enough thud that you were fairly certain she’d overpacked.

“You texted me ‘they’re making me go out’ with zero context,” she said, already yanking the zip open, clothes spilling out in a wave of colour across your duvet, “so naturally I assumed that my help was needed.”

“I didn’t need saving, I just wanted your opinion on what to wear.”

“Same thing, honey.” She held a low-cut tip against your chest, studying it with the critical eye of someone assessing a crime scene, then tsked as she tossed it onto the growing reject pile. “Also, who’s ‘they’? You said roommates, plural, like it’s a hostage situation.”

“It’s not a hostage situation. They decided I need to leave the flat and stop watching Titanic or La La Land.”

“Good,” Thea replied, but her mind was focused elsewhere as she held out another top, only for it to be discarded once again. “Still doesn’t tell me who’s actually making the decisions in this flat, though. There’s always a ringleader.”

From down the hall came the unmistakable rise of Alfie’s voice, thoroughly invested in convincing Chip that his trainers counted as acceptable footwear for a night out, Chip’s flat, unimpressed reply making it clear they very much did not.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your mouth before you could stop it. “That one,” you said, without really meaning to say it out loud at all.

“Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter.” You reached for the nearest top on the bed just to have something to do with your hands.

Thea didn’t say anything straight away. She just looked at you for a beat too long, something slow and knowing creeping across her face, which was somehow worse than if she’d actually said whatever she was thinking.

By the time you were ready, dress finally chosen after Thea vetoed roughly six other options; she’d also, somewhere in the middle of that chaos, decided that she was coming out with you and the boys.

“You’re not invited,” you told her, only half joking.

“I invited myself.” She was already reapplying her lipstick in your mirror, entirely unbothered. “Besides, someone needs to keep an eye out on you around a certain someone.”

“There is no ‘certain someone.’”

“Mm.”

You found the other three waiting for you by the couch when you finally emerged. Alfie still mid-argument with Chip, tugging at the collar of the shirt that he had been forced to wear.

He caught the sight of you before you’d even said anything, and for a second, just a quick second, his eyes doing a quick, unmistakable once-over before he caught himself and looked away just as fast, clearing his throat, his hands settled on his collar entirely, like he’d forgotten what he was doing with them.

“Right,” he said, recovering quickly, though not quickly enough that you and Thea hadn’t noticed. “You scrub up well, don’t you.”

“High praise,” you said, aiming for dry and mostly landing it, ignoring the small, stupid flip your stomach gave in response.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Beside you, Thea’s eyebrows had shot somewhere near her hairline, and she opened her mouth, clearly about to say something devastating, before Cal, appearing from the kitchen with his keys already in hand, cut across the moment entirely.

“Cab’s outside,” he said, utterly unbothered by whatever undercurrent had just passed through the room. “Anyone dying to finish getting ready, or can we go?”

“We can go,” you said quickly, grabbing your bag and moving towards the door before Thea could utter a single word.

She stood beside you in the lift, leaning just enough that you could only hear, her voice drowned out by the banter between the three men. “So, that was subtle.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I have a lot of things I want to say,” she admitted, grinning, “but I’m saving them. For later. When there’s wine.”

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The cab dropped you all outside a bar tucked down a narrow side street, the kind of place easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, string lights put up haphazardly across the ceiling inside, adding a warm, amber glow to the room. It was already loud, a low hum of chatter overlapping with the bar’s badly chosen playlist, with the occasional crack of a cue ball from the pool table near the back, glasses clinking somewhere behind the bar.

Chip headed straight for the counter, like a man on a mission, weaving through the crowd. Cal trailed after him at a far less urgent pace, hands in his pockets, clearly unbothered. Alfie held the food a beat longer than necessary for you and Thea, before following the other two, and you caught him glancing back once, checking you’d made it through the crowd okay, before disappearing toward the bar.

“Right,” Thea said, looping her arm through yours, scanning the room over. “Where do we want to sit?”

“Anywhere’s fine.”

“Not anywhere. Somewhere good.” She steered you toward a free spot near the end of the bar, sliding onto the high stool, and flagged down a waiter before you’d even properly sat down.

The drinks arrived a few minutes later, something bright pink and suspiciously sweet, and by your third one, the sharp edges of the past few weeks had started to blur at the corners, the noise, the lights and Thea’s running commentary on nearly everyone who walked past making it easy, for the first time in a while, to just exist without thinking too hard about anything.

That’s when you noticed him. A few tables down, dark hair, a pint loosely held, watching you a beat too long before looking away when you caught him at it.

“Don’t look now,” Thea murmured, not even remotely subtle about it, elbowing you lightly, “but someone’s been staring for the last five minutes.”

You looked anyway, because of course you did.

He caught your eye properly this time and, rather than looking away again, raised his pint in your direction, an easy, small smile tugging at his mouth.

“Oh,” Thea said, delighted, practically vibrating in her seat. “This is happening.”

“Nothing’s happening, you’re overreacting.”

“Something’s about to happen. I have a very good eye for these things.”

He made his way over to your table a couple of minutes later, hands in his pockets, unhurried, weaving past a group by the pool table.

“Can I get you a drink,” he said, “or is that a line you’ve heard a thousand times tonight already?”

“Depends on how good the follow-up will be,” you said, surprising yourself slightly with how easily it came out.

“George,” he said, holding out a hand as if this was a business introduction.

“Nice to meet you, George. I’m reader,” you replied, a smile on your face.

Somewhere across the room, though you weren’t looking, weren’t going to look, you were fairly certain you could feel a very specific set of eyes staring at the back of your neck.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

Getting ready for the actual date, three days later, was a considerably calmer affair than the bar night had been. Mostly because Thea had declared herself “off duty” and instead just supervised from your bed, scrolling through her phone and occasionally offering unsolicited commentary.

“Wear the dark blue one,” she said, not even looking up. “It matches your, I don’t know, whole vibe tonight.”

“What vibe?”

“Nervous but pretending not to be.”

“Who says I’m nervous?”

“You’ve changed earrings twice.”

You ignored that comment, mostly because it was true, and finished getting ready with what felt like the right amount of effort, not so much that you looked like you were trying too hard, not so little that you didn’t care.

Walking through the living room on your way out, you found Alfie sprawled across the sofa, remote in hand, very deliberately not looking up as you passed, which was somehow more noticeable than if he had.

“Off to the date then?” he said, to the television rather than you.

“Yep,” you replied as you fiddled with your dress, your nervousness clearly showing.

“George, is it?”

“That’s the one.”

“Right.” A pause, longer than it needed to be. “So what’s he do, then?”

“He’s in finance.”

“Right, ’course he is. Have fun, I suppose.”

“I will, thanks.”

“Text one of us if he’s weird,” Alfie shouted back just as you were about to close the door.

“He’s not going to be weird, Alfie.”

“They’re always weird eventually,” he said, finally looking over at you properly, something unreadable in his expression before he caught himself and turned back to the telly. “Just, y’know, safety and that.”

You didn’t respond to that, so you just grabbed your bag and left before you had a second to think about why your chest had gone slightly warm at the phrase “safety and that.”

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The restaurant George had picked had actual tablecloths, low lighting, candles everywhere. The kind of place where conversation came easier than you’d expect, drifting from work to terrible classmates to some elaborate story about a disastrous trip that had you laughing from your chest rather than out of politeness.

“So what do you actually do?” he asked, topping up your glass with more wine without making a big show of it. “Beside surviving three roommates who apparently question you about your dates.”

“They don’t question me.”

“You mentioned one of them asked what I do for a living within ten seconds of hearing about tonight.”

“That’s just Alfie being Alfie,” you said, and found yourself smiling slightly at the thought of him despite yourself. “He’s weirdly protective, told me to have my phone at the ready.”

“Sounds like more than protective.”

“It’s not,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly, and changed the subject before he could push on it further, though something about the conversation lingered longer than it should’ve.

By the time the night had wound down, you’d checked your phone twice, entirely out of habit rather than actual need, and when he walked you to your apartment afterward, hand lightly against the small of your back, you found yourself thinking that maybe, this was exactly the kind of normal and uncomplicated thing you needed right now.

“I’ll text you,” he said, holding the door open.

“Looking forward to it,” you said, and meant it.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

You came home practically glowing, and made the mistake of recapping the entire date in detail sitting on the kitchen island, tea in hand. Chip was half-listening while making tea for himself, Cal reading something on his phone, Alfie leaning against the fridge with an expression that suggested he was cataloguing every detail for later cross-examination.

“Did he pay?” Alfie asked, cutting you off before you’d even finished the story about the dessert.

“Yes, Alfie, he paid.”

“’Course he did.” A nod. “Big finance energy, that.”

“What is your problem?”

“No no, no problem, just, you know? Vetting.”

“Vetting,” Cal repeated slowly, not looking up from his phone, a ghost of a smirk on his face. “Right. That’s what this is.”

“It’s basic friend due diligence.”

“You didn’t do any due diligence when I moved in,” you pointed out.

“That’s different, you had a folder with you.”

Chip, wisely, said nothing, though the look he exchanged with Cal spoke volumes.

The text came three days later. Or rather, it didn’t. You’d sent one, casual, not too pushy, something about getting drinks again sometimes soon, and watched that ‘delivered’ tag sit there, unanswered, for an increasingly humiliating stretch of time.

By day four, you were staring at the phone you’d thrown on the sofa with a specific, hollow kind of dread that came from knowing, deep down, exactly what it meant, and refusing to admit it out loud.

“He hasn’t replied,” you finally said, to nobody in particular.

Alfie, who had wandered in at exactly the wrong moment, paused. “Since when?”

“Three days.”

“That’s not that long. People get busy.”

“He works a normal job, he’s not busy for three days straight.”

Alfie sat down slowly next to you, and for once, in the month and a bit that you’d known him, didn’t have an immediate joke at the ready. “He’s an idiot,” he said simply. “Finance bros. Told you.”

Alfie didn’t say anything for a moment, just shifted closer on the sofa and pulled you into a hug before you’d properly even registered what was happening, one arm looping around your shoulders, solid and warm. It was weirdly comforting being hugged by such huge arms, almost like being squished.

“He’s genuinely an idiot,” he said again, quieter this time, into the top of your head. “You know that, right? Nothing wrong with you. Some men are just idiots.”

You let yourself lean into it for a second longer than probably necessary, breathing in something that smelled like fabric softener and, faintly, the inside of his hoodie.

“Thanks,” you managed to mumble out into his shoulder.

“Don’t mention it.” A pause, his arm didn’t move. “Ever. To anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”

You laughed, voice muffled against him, and he squeezed your shoulder once more before letting go, clearing his throat like he needed to remind himself what normal distance looked like between you two.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The flat was quiet, properly quiet. The kind that a person would be concerned about if they were the only one in it. Cal had gone to pick up Josh and his girlfriend from somewhere, Alfie had disappeared to the gym, and you’d settled in for a night alone with a face mask and low expectations.

It was fine. It was completely fine, right up until the pipes groaned somewhere behind your bedroom wall with a long, low creak that sounded suspiciously like a door scratch, and you nearly levitated off of your bed.

“It’s just the pipes,” you said out loud, to nobody in particular, as if that would help in comforting you. “Old building, old pipes. That’s all that is.”

You were fully aware, in some detached, horror-movie-logic part of your brain, that you were doing the exact thing that every girl in every slasher film did right before something terrible happened to her, and yet you found yourself creeping toward the kitchen anyway to check the windows were locked for the third time, gripping the wooden spoon you’d grabbed for reasons you couldn’t entirely justify.

The sound of a key turning in the lock nearly sent you into orbit.

“Oh my god,” you said, spoon still raised as a makeshift weapon as the door swung open to reveal Cal, Chip, Alfie, and Sabina, all four of them stopped dead at the sight of you standing in the hallway mid-swing. You ran towards them and hugged Alfie and Josh with a thud as they stumbled a step back. “Finally. Thank god. I’ve been hearing noises for like an hour, I thought someone was breaking in, I was fully prepared to fight someone with a spoon.”

“With a spoon,” Cal repeated, deadpan, stepping past you into the flat.

“It was the only thing within reach!”

“It was the pipes,” Josh said gently, removing himself from the hug. “They do that, I keep telling you. Every building on this street does that, it’s ancient plumbing.”

“I know that now.”

Alfie was grinning at you in a way that suggested he wasn’t letting you forget this any time soon, but he didn’t say anything now, just squeezed your shoulder briefly on his way past.

“Right,” Alfie said, clapping his hands together, clearly delighted with what he was about to suggest. “Since someone’s had a near-death experience with the heating system of London, I think this calls for a distraction. Sabina, love, can you help me get the packs from the freezer?”

“What packs?” you asked, already slightly nervous about the answer.

“The beer we keep for True Brit,” Josh said, with the weary registration of a man who’d clearly lived through this before. “God help us all.”

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The cans went up around the whiskey and vodka bottles in some vague, ever-shifting formation that Chip insisted had rules, though nobody could name them consistently twice, and within minutes the entire flat had descended into something between a drinking game and a full-scale drill.

“FLOOR’S LAVA,” Alfie bellowed, from somewhere on top of the kitchen chair, on hand braced against the wall.

“You said that ten minutes ago!”

“I’ll keep saying it until someone falls in!”

“THE QUEEN’S CORGIS,” Sabina screamed, entirely without warning, and everyone froze mid-motion, Cal caught with one leg extended over the ottoman, Josh halfway through pouring a shot, you yourself locked in an undignified crouch on the arm of the sofa.

“That’s not fair, I was mid-jump—”

“Rules don’t care about your jump, Cal.”

Someone shouted a name, then, half genuine British history and half completely invented on the spot. “WIMBLEDON,” Cal announced from flat on his back on the floor, having lost to the ottoman, and Sabina appeared above him with a bottle, pouring a shot directly into his open mouth while the rest of you cheered.

“That’s not even how the rules work,” Josh protested.

“I make the rules now,” Cal said, sitting up and wiping his chin. “Crowned via head injury. New law, effective immediately.”

“You can’t just declare laws, that’s not democratic—”

“IT’S THE PM’S PREROGATIVE,” Alfie shouted, still on his chair, apparently in support of literally anyone who wasn’t Chip.

The paper laws kept coming out of the box, each one read aloud by Sabina with theatrical seriousness while everyone else groaned or cheered depending on how it affected them personally. Anyone who says “innit” removes a sock. Anyone caught sitting names a Prime Minister or drinks. A whole five minutes was lost to Josh failing to name a single Prime Minister under pressure and being made to drink three times in a row as penance, Alfie howling with laughter the entire time. If someone shouts “God Save The King,” everyone must curtsy, badly, immediately. You lost what remained of your dignity attempting a full curtsy mid-lava-crossing while holding a lukewarm can, and were fairly sure Alfie got the whole thing on video, cackling the entire time from his perch on the chair.

“ELIZABETH THE FIRST,” you shouted back at him, entirely at random, mostly out of spite, and got a shot poured into your own mouth for the trouble you caused, coughing as Sabina cackled and Cal gave you a solemn nod of respect from the floor.

“DAVID ATTENBOROUGH,” Josh yelled a moment later, apparently determined to reclaim some dignity, and immediately tipped over a cushion mid-lunge toward the safe zone, sending an entire round worth of cans scattering across the carpet.

“THAT’S A FORFEIT ZONE,” Sabina screeched, delighted, as Josh groaned from the floor. “Sock. Off. Now.”

“I’ve already lost one sock—”

“Then it’s the other one, isn’t it?”

By the time the whiskey bottle was noticeably lighter and at least two socks had been sacrificed to the cause, Cal was slumped against the sofa reciting something increasingly nonsensical about the Magna Carta, Josh had lost track of how many Prime Ministers he’d successfully named, and you were laughing hard enough that your ribs ached, the entire flat a wreck of cushions and abandoned cans and half-shouted rules nobody could fully agree on anymore.

It was somewhere in the middle of that chaos that Josh pulled a folded slip from the box, unfolded it with exaggerated ceremony despite barely being able to focus on it, and read it aloud.

“Iron Curtain,” he announced, swaying slightly. “Whoever’s got the same number goes behind the door.”

The five of you sat in a circle on the kitchen island, hands ready to put up a number.

“ONE, TWO, THREE!” Josh screamed, and all of you held up numbers at once, fingers right near your forehead, as all of you looked around nervously.

You looked around and it took a second for it to actually register, three fingers, held up on your hand and, directly across from you, on Alfie’s. Your gaze snapped up to his at the exact same moment his found yours, his usual cheeky gring faltering just slightly before it reasserted itself, a little too quickly.

“Oh,” Josh said, glancing between you two, delighted. “Oh, no. Iron Curtain.”

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The door shut behind you both, muffling the noise from the living room into a low, distant hum, leaving you standing in the narrow, dim hallway with Alfie a foot away, both of you suddenly aware of how small the space actually was. “Right,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “So.” “So.” “House rules and all that. Not really up to us, is it?” “No. Completely out of our hands.”

“Democratic process. Very binding.”

“Very binding,” you agreed. “Shame, really.” Neither of you moved. “We could just tell them we did it?” you offered.

“They’ll know. Cal always knows.” “How would he know?” “He just does. It’s bare unsettling.” Alfie exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Right. Let’s just get it over with, then.”

“Fine.”

“Fine, yeah, quick, easy, no big deal.”

“No big deal at all.”

Neither of you moved again. It was somewhere in that stillness that you became suddenly, painfully aware of the ridiculous state of both your outfits, forfeits from earlier rounds neither of you had bothered to change out of, you in a poofy pink skirt, your bra, and a polka dot headband slightly askew, Alfie in your short red leather jacket, sleeves straining at the shoulders, and an eyemask with some girly floral print pushed up onto his forehead like a headband of his own. It should have killed the moment outright. Somehow, infuriarily, it didn’t. “You are not moving,” you pointed out. “I’m building up to it.”

“How long does the build-up take?” “However long it takes, apparently.” He rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for something physical, which, given the state of the two of you after the game, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. “Right. Okay.”

“Okay.” “I’m going to do it now.”

“Please do.”

He leaned in, then stopped himself halfway, squinting at you. “You’ve gone tense.” “I’ve not gone tense.” “Your whole face has gone tense, you look like you’re bracing for a jab at the doctor’s.” “That’s just my face, Alfie.” “It’s not usually like that.”

“How would you know what my face is usually like?”

“I look at you sometimes,” he said, entirely too casually, and you both seemed to realise what he’d said at the same time, an awkward beat passing where neither of you addressed it, the air in the narrow hallway going very still around the words he clearly hadn’t meant to let slip out loud.

“Right, well, don’t look at my face, then, look at literally anything else, and just do it.” “Fine. Doing it.” He stepped closer again, close enough that you could smell the leftover whiskey on his breath, mixed with something warmer underneath it, and his hand hovered somewhere near your jaw without quite landing, fingers curled slightly like he couldn’t decide what to do with them. “Actually, hang on, is this a closed-mouth situation or?” “Alfie!” “I’m asking a valid question!” “Just kiss me!” “I’m getting there!” “You’ve been getting there for actual minutes now, some countries have had elections in less time!”

“I don’t want to just lunge at you, that feels rude.”

“It is significantly less rude than whatever this is—”

“Fine! Fine, okay, I’m doing it, ready?”

“Yes.”

“Ready properly?”

“Alfie, I swear to—”

He kissed you. It lasted approximately one second, stiff and off-angle, his nose bumping awkwardly against yours, before he pulled back with a small, pained noise, one hand coming up to rub at his own jaw like something had gone structurally wrong with it. “That was terrible,” he said, wincing. “That was awful,” you agreed, pressing the back of your hand briefly against your mouth, as if that might undo it. “Whose fault was that?” “Yours, you tilted the wrong way.” “I tilted a completely normal amount.” “You went right when I went right, that’s not how it works, one of us has to go left.” “Nobody told me the rules of which way to tilt!”

“It’s instinct, Alfie, it’s not meant to need rules.” “Right, fine, let’s just, again. Properly this time.” “Fine.”

He leaned in again, slower this time, and you both hesitated at the exact same moment, foreheads a breath apart, close enough that you could see the small furrow of concentration between his brows, and you let out an involuntary, slightly hysterical laugh that he immediately caught, some of the tension in his shoulders breaking for a second, his own mouth twitching despite himself. “Stop laughing.” “I’m not laughing.” “You’re absolutely laughing, I can feel you laughing.” “You can’t feel someone laughing.”

“I very much can, you’re vibrating, it’s put me off completely now!” “I’m sorry, I don’t know why this is funny!”

“It’s not meant to be funny, this is meant to be normal, this happens to people all the time, kissing is a completely normal human activity that people do successfully every single day—” “Then do it normally.”

“I’m trying to!”

“You’re really not.”

He huffed out something between a laugh and a groan, stepping back half a pace, running both hands down his face like he was trying to physically reset something in himself. The hallway light caught the side of his face for a second, and underneath the joking, you could see something else flickering there too, something he didn’t quite have words for yet. “Right. New approach. We do it properly, no talking, no tilting discourse, nothing. Just—” “Just kiss me, Alfie.”

Something in his expression shifted at that, the joking edge slipping away entirely, replaced by something quieter and far more uncertain than you’d ever seen on him before, his hand falling back to his side like it had lost its purpose.

“No,” he said, voice low. “Not like this.” You blinked, the sudden change in his tone catching you off guard.

“What?”

“I don’t— that’s not— uncomfortable—” He dragged a hand through his hair again, the motion agitated now, refusing to properly meet your eyes, his usual easy rhythm gone completely. “It’s stupid. Forget I said anything. It’s just a game, we don’t have to…”

“Alfie, what does that mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” He was already turning for the door, hand closing around the handle, knuckles pale against the wood. “Night.”

“Alfie?”

“Night,” he said again, firmer this time, and pulled the door open, the noise of the living room spilling back in around the both of you.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

You didn’t sleep much after that, lying in the dark replaying the whole ridiculous exchange, the missed kiss, the almost-real one, the way his voice had dropped when he said not like this, like it meant something he hadn’t planned on admitting out loud. By the time you finally drifted off, it was gone three, the last of the whiskey buzz fading into a heavy, restless kind of sleep.

You woke sometime later to the flat gone properly quiet, the kind of silence that felt different when you were half-convinced you weren’t actually alone in it. You lay still for a moment, heart already going faster than it should have been, telling yourself it was nothing, the whole flat had settled down hours ago, everyone gone to bed after the game finally wound itself out.

Then it came again. A soft creak from somewhere near the hallway, followed by something that might have been a footstep, might have been the pipes doing their usual nonsense, might have been your own overtired brain filling in gaps that weren't actually there.

“Not again,” you muttered to the ceiling, already sitting up despite yourself, blanket falling away as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.

You crept out into the corridor barefoot, phone gripped loosely in one hand out of habit rather than any real plan for what you’d do with it, and made it a few steps down the dark hallway before a door creaked open ahead of you, and you very nearly screamed.

“Whoa, hey, it’s me,” Alfie said quickly, hands up, hair sticking up on one side like he’d properly been asleep only a few minutes ago, an old t-shirt hanging loose off one shoulder. “Heard something. Thought I’d check.”

“I heard something too.”

“Right.” He glanced past you into the dark hallway, then back, and you were both close enough now, in the narrow space, that you could see he wasn’t entirely steady either, whether from sleep or the leftover whiskey from earlier you honestly couldn’t tell.

“So it was probably just the pipes, then,” you said, some of the earlier tension dissolving into something lighter now that the panic had worn off, both of you still a little bleary from sleep and leftover whiskey.

“Has to be. Nothing else groans like that in this flat except Josh’s knees.”

“That’s a low blow.”

“It’s an accurate blow. Man sounds like a haunted house going up the stairs.”

You laughed, quiet enough not to wake anyone, and he grinned properly now, the earlier awkwardness from the hallway seeming to fade into something easier between you both, just the two of you standing there in the dark in old pajamas, laughing about nothing in particular.

“Right,” you said eventually, stifling a yawn. “I’m going back to bed before I properly convince myself the fridge is sentient.”

“Probably wise.”

“Night, Alfie.”

“Night.”

You turned, already half facing your own door, when his hand closed gently around your wrist, and before you’d fully registered it, he’d turned you back around to face him properly, close now, closer than either of you had been all night.

He didn’t say anything else. He just kissed you, slow and sure, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, the other still loosely holding your wrist like he hadn’t quite decided to let go of it yet. It was nothing like the fumbling, laughing disaster from earlier in the hallway, no stalling, no commentary, just steady and certain in a way that made your breath catch somewhere in your chest.

When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead lightly against yours, you were both a little breathless, and he huffed out something that was almost a laugh.

“That’s what I meant,” he murmured.

You blinked up at him, still processing the fact that your legs felt distinctly unreliable. “Took you long enough.”

“Had to get the timing right.” His thumb brushed once, gently, against your cheekbone before he finally stepped back, the reluctance plain on his face. “Night, properly this time.”

“Night,” you managed, and stood there in the hallway long after his door clicked shut, fingers pressed lightly to your own lips, entirely unable to wipe the smile off your face.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

[bbabycamehomee]

is it coming out today..?🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

hi nonnie!!! i just posted the second part here

hope you enjoy <33

[bbabycamehomee]

Cathartic

summary: three grown men versus one iceberg-induced breakdown

contains: alfie buttle x reader, mentions of infidelity, crying

word count: 2476

a/n: thank you so much for all the love on the first part!!!!!

maree's new girl au

“So you know how in movies, the main character always ignores the signs?” you said, chuckling at the irony, one leg bouncing under the table as you still couldn’t quite believe the situation you were in right now. “‘Guysss, that’s his girl best friend, they’ve known each other since middle school. They’re always like that.’ And all you want to do is scream at her ‘he’s obviously cheating, you stupid, stupid girl. What is your problem?’ Well my story is kind of like that.” 

Nobody said anything for a second, which gave you the perfect opportunity to barrel on anyway. 

“Because I was that girl. I was the girl in the cinema with her best friend, laughing in my seat going ‘oh he’d never,’ for like two years, when clearly, in hindsight, there were signs everywhere. I mean the amount of times he was late to dinner because he had ‘work drinks,’ who has work drinks that often, he didn’t even like his coworkers! That should have been sign number one, but noooooo, I just kept making him dinner, asking him about his day at work like an absolute—”

Suddenly you were fully aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that you’d been talking for a while. You just couldn’t seem to find the off switch. 

“—and then there’s the whole kitten heels, which, by the way, who wears tiny kitten heels to someone else’s apartment, at least commit to a proper heel. And I just keep thinking about the fact that I bought that mattress, I picked out that mattress, I spent an entire Saturday testing mattresses in that awful showroom, alone, and he, he just let some girl with god awful kitten heels —”

“Sorry,” you said abruptly, aware that the room had gone very quiet and three sets of eyes were on you with varying degrees of concern. “What was your question again?”

Cal, who hadn’t touched his coffee once during your entire monologue, looked at you with the flat, unbothered expression of a man watching a mildly interesting TV show. “We asked you if you have any pets.”

You stared at him. He stared back, entirely unfazed, like he hadn’t watched you spiral through the five stages of grief in under ninety seconds. 

Beside him, Alfie had a hand pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking slightly, very, very obviously trying not to laugh. Josh looked like he was debating whether it would be rude to offer you a hug.

“Nope, no pets,” you said weekly, cheeks burning. “Sorry. I don’t know what that was.”

“You know what’s funny? When I saw your ad, I thought you were women.”

He room went quiet for half a second before Alfie let out a bark of laughter he clearly hadn’t planned on. “Why would you think that? That’s crazy. I mean, what-”

“Josh wrote the ad,” Cal said, not looking up from his coffee. “Oh,” you said. “I guess it was something about the words you used. It was like, ‘sun-soaked.’ And ‘girls night snacks.’” Alfie and Cal both burst out laughing at that, and Chip’s ears went slightly pink.

“What are you doing?” Josh said, alarmed, as Alfie suddenly reached for the hem of his gym shirt and pulled it off in one motion, entirely unprompted. “Wow,” Cal said, sipping his coffee unamused like this happened every day. Which you were starting to suspect, it did. 

“What about these?” Alfie asked, flexing with far more confidence than the moment had called for. “These look girly to you?”

"What are we looking at here," Josh muttered, rubbing his temples. "That's baby smooth."

"This is LLA," Alfie declared proudly. "Ladies Love Alfie.”

Cal turned to him very slowly. "What did you just say?" He nodded toward a mason jar sitting on the counter, a strip of masking tape across the front reading DOUCHEBAG JAR in blocky letters. "Go put a pound in the jar. Now.”

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Now."

"Dammit," Alfie sighed, grabbing his shirt off the floor and slinking off toward the jar, dropping a coin in with the wounded dignity of a man who had clearly made this exact walk many times before.

"LLA," Josh called after him, shaking his head. "What is wrong with you?"

You stood up slowly, glancing around the loft, exposed brick and big windows and a douchebag jar with what looked like an alarming amount of change already in it. "This place is beautiful," you said, mostly to fill the silence. "It gets so much light."

“You know what,” you said, feeling something reckless rise up in your chest, “I actually want to live here.”

“Right, well.” Josh cleared his throat. “I still have a few questions. No offence, but we barely know you.”

“Yeah. No, that’s fair.” You took a breath. “Okay, full disclosure, I'm kind of an emotional wreck right now because of a breakup, so I'll probably be rewatching La La Land or Titanic about six or seven times a week. Possibly a day, depending on how the week's going.” Cal’s eyebrow twitched upwards slightly, though whether in judgement or approval was genuinely unclear. 

"I'm a scriptwriter," you continued, gathering momentum now, "so I talk to myself a lot, full conversations, sometimes entire arguments between two characters that don't exist, out loud, in public, I've had people on the tube look at me like I've lost the plot." You paused. "Also I act things out sometimes. Whole scenes. With voices." You demonstrated, briefly, a small dramatic hand gesture, then immediately regretted it. "And I've been living with my best mate who is disgustingly good at everything, cooking, running, being a functional adult, and I just need to live somewhere I'm not constantly reminded that I once put a fork in the microwave."

"How soon can you move in?" Alfie said immediately, practically vibrating.

"Alfie, slow down," Josh said.

"Not happening," Cal said flatly, at the exact same time.

"Can you give us a second?" Josh said, already steering the other two toward the hallway. "We just need to, er, consult amongst ourselves."

"That's not a thing that happens here," Cal said.

"It's happening right now."

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

The bathroom door clicked shut behind the three of them, and you stood alone in the middle of the spacious loft, doing your absolute best to not listen to their conversation through the wall. It did not work.

"I say yes," Alfie's voice came through, muffled but enthusiastic. "She acts out whole scenes with voices, Josh. I want that in my life every day."

“I say no,” Cal said. “I like coming home, sitting on the sofa, and not performing basic humanity for a stranger. I like silence, and a woman who talks to herself is not it.”

“Right, well, look.” Josh called out again, clearly trying to referee. “I’ll admit, there are pros here, and there are cons, alright. I’ve lived with women before, my sister, for a two months, after uni, and it’s not all bad–” “That doesn’t count, Josh, that’s your sister.”

“It’s valuable data, Cal! Pros:a better smelling flat. Cons: occasionally the vibe shifts and you have no idea why. Pros: someone else who understands why you refuse to throw out a plant that’s clearly dead.”

“Make a decision,” the agitation in Cal’s voice was prominent now.

“I’m getting there, hang on–” There was a pause, then a very distinct rustling sound, followed by Alfie's voice, gleeful. "Oh, don't, don't do the hood thing, Josh, please don't do the hood thing."

"The hood helps me think."

"It doesn't help anyone think, put it down—"

"I know exactly what I'm talking about," Josh's voice said, slightly deadened now, as though genuinely speaking through fabric.

"We've broken him," Alfie said. "We pushed him too far."

There was a long pause.

"Alright," Josh's voice came again, muffled but decisive. "Executive decision. She's in."

"Yes!" you said out loud, immediately clapping a hand over your mouth, because you had absolutely not meant to let that slip through the wall you were very obviously eavesdropping against.

The bathroom door opened a second later, Josh emerging first, hood still half up, looking simultaneously proud of himself and faintly embarrassed. Behind him, Alfie was already grinning, and Cal trailed last, arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man overruled by democracy.

"You're not going to regret this," you said, before any of them could change their minds.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

You were sprawled across the sofa, blanket cocooned around you, several tissues already sacrificed to the cause, phone wedged between your ear and shoulder as Titanic played for what was, if you were being honest with yourself, the third time that week.

"I've got to go, mum," you said, dabbing at your eyes. "No, I'm not crying. I'm not watching anything sad." On screen, Rose let go of the door. You made a small, wounded noise. "I have to go."

Alfie wandered in just as you were finishing up, take-out bag in hand, and paused at the sight of you buried in blankets, tear-streaked and clutching a cushion like it had personally wronged you.

"Alright there," you said, wiping your eyes, phone still pressed to your ear. "Hey, are you gonna murder me in my sleep? Since you're basically a stranger I met on the internet."

"Yeah," Alfie said, without missing a beat, dropping his takeaway bag on the counter like this was a perfectly normal exchange to be having. "That's exactly it. Been planning it for days, actually."

"He says no," you said back into the phone, then, before your mum could respond properly, "I've got to go, mum. Love you, bye."

You hung up, and Alfie was still standing there, arms crossed, surveying the wreckage of tissues and blankets around you with something between concern and morbid fascination.

"So," he said. "Should I be worried?"

"About what?"

"About this." He gestured vaguely at you, at the blanket cocoon, at the small mountain of tissues on the coffee table, at the frozen frame of the Titanic poster still glowing on the TV. "You've been down here every night this week. I thought maybe you'd died and nobody had told me."

"I haven't died."

"Could've fooled me." He came round the side of the sofa and peered at the screen properly. "Is this the one with the boat?"

"It's Titanic, Alfie,” you said, surprised he didn’t know the name of the movie. "Right, yeah, the boat one." He nodded slowly, like this confirmed something. "How many times is that now?" You considered lying. "Three."

"Three tonight, or three total?"

"...Total."

"This week."

"...Maybe."

He let out a low whistle, dropping down onto the arm of the sofa, entirely uninvited, one leg hanging off. "That's mad, that is. You know how it ends. The boat's still going down every single time. He's still going to be freezing in that water."

"I know how it ends, Alfie, that's not the point."

"Then what's the point?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, because you genuinely didn't have a good answer, not one that didn't sound completely unhinged said out loud. "It's cathartic," you settled on eventually.

"Catha-what?"

"Cathartic. It means it helps. Watching something sad when you're sad, it's like, it lets it out properly."

"Sounds like something a therapist made up to sell more appointments."

"It's an actual psychological concept, Alfie."

"Is it, though?" He reached over and stole one of your remaining tissues before you could stop him, examining it like evidence. "Because from where I'm sitting, it just looks like you are crying on my sofa for the fourth night running, and I'm the one who has to live with the aftermath. There's used tissues everywhere. I don't know how that happened. I don't want to know how that happened."

"That's not mine," you said pointing to a mountain of tissues on the corner of the table. 

"It's got your lip balm on it."

You grabbed the cushion and threw it at him, only mildly. He caught it against his chest with an exaggerated oof, grinning despite himself.

"See, that's more like it," he said. "That's the spirit. Violence, not sadness."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." He said it easily, without any real weight behind it, like it was simply a fact of the universe, and infuriatingly, you didn't have a comeback ready.

Josh and Cal came through the front door a minute later, both slightly out of breath from a run, and stopped dead at the state of the living room, the tissues, the blanket cocoon, Alfie sitting on the arm of the sofa holding a cushion like a shield.

"Oh, for God's sake," Cal said, taking in the scene with the weary resignation of a man who had walked into this exact tableau one too many times. "Is she still watching the boat film?"

"She is," Alfie confirmed. "Cathartic, apparently."

"It's not cathartic, it's concerning," Josh said, dropping his water bottle on the counter and coming round to properly survey the damage. "Right, that's it, we're doing something about this."

"I'm fine," you said, entirely unconvincingly, pulling the blanket further up around your shoulders.

"Okay," Josh said, clapping his hands together in the manner of someone taking charge of a situation whether it wanted to be taken charge of or not. "New plan. We're all going out tonight. Properly out, not 'stand in the kitchen and have one drink' out."

"I don't want to go out."

"Nobody's asking if you want to," Cal said, already crossing the room and switching the telly off before you could protest. The silence that followed felt oddly loud. "You've been down here every night this week making the rest of us sad by association. It's affecting the whole flat."

"That's not true."

"Josh cried during the news yesterday," Cal said. "The actual news. A segment about interest rates."

"That's unrelated," Josh said quickly. "That's a separate issue."

"Don’t think it is, man."

"Right, well, either way," Josh said, steering the conversation firmly back on track, "you're coming out with us. We'll get you dressed, get some food in you, get you away from the boat for one evening. Consider it a public service."

"For who?"

"For the couch," Cal said. "Mostly."

You looked between the three of them, Alfie still grinning from the arm of the sofa, Josh already halfway to your wardrobe like he had personal opinions about what you should wear, Cal standing with his arms crossed, entirely unmoved by any protest you might attempt.

"I really don't have the energy to argue with all three of you at once," you said eventually.

"Good," Josh called from the hallway. "We leave in three hours. Actual clothes, none of this blanket-as-a-cape situation."

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

[bbabycamehomee]

WHENS THE NEXT CHAPTER IM SO EXCITED THE CLIFFHANGER IS GONNA KILL ME OFFFFFF

omg nonnie thank you for readinggg xx

i’m hoping to have the next chapter done by either today or tomorrow, so really soon I PROMISE

[bbabycamehomee]

Apartment 3F

summary: after catching her boyfriend cheating, reader doomscrolls her way into a loft listing she assumes is for three girls, only to find three guys at the door instead

contains: alfie buttle x reader, infidelity, alcohol consumption, crying

word count: 1836

a/n:  FIRST CHAPTERRR!!! I had so much fun writing this omg, I can't wait to show you guys what I have planneddddd. obviously this is a very introductory chapter, but if all goes well part 2 will be out tmrw

maree's new girl au

The flight back from your work trip had landed three hours early. A cancelled connection somewhere over the Atlantic had rerouted you onto an earlier one, and instead of texting ahead, you'd decided to surprise your boyfriend. Grab dinner from Wagamama’s on the way home, walk in with the takeout and mild jet lag and imagine his face when he saw you.

You'd been proud of yourself for coming up with that on the cab ride home.

The apartment was eerily quiet when you let yourself in, opposed to the constant hum of the TV or some game your boyfriend would always play when he was home. You almost called out for him. Almost. But it was the kitten heels kicked off carelessly by the door, ones that definitely weren't yours, that stopped you. You stood there for a second, doing the math in your brain that you had never wanted to do. 

Then you heard it. Voices, a female laugh coming from your bedroom, with his laugh following swiftly. You quietly, without even processing it, walked down the hallway to see your bedroom door slightly ajar. 

You saw enough. You saw more than enough. 

The takeout bag in your hand hit the floor before you even registered that you dropped it, the plastic crinkling loud against the floor. The two heads in the bedroom turned towards you at the same time, and frozen silence followed every corner of the apartment. 

His face went through ten different emotions in the span of a second, none of them landing anywhere close to guilt. 

“You said you were coming back Thursday,” he muttered out as if that would fix everything. You looked at him for a long moment, shocked that those were the first words to come out of his mouth. You glanced at the girl scrambling for the sheet as if that would fix anything.

"I got an earlier flight," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt, steadier than you had any right to feel. "Guess we're both full of surprises tonight."

You didn't wait for whatever he was going to say next. You turned, walked back down the hallway, picked your shoes back up off the floor, your car keys from the drawer, and left the takeout bag exactly where it had fallen.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

You ended up driving aimlessly for a few hours, debating on whether or not to call your boyfriend’s – no-no, ex-boyfriend’s mum and tell her off about what kind of son she raised. You debated burning your apartment down with him in it. But you decided on being the mature one, and texted your best friend four simple words. 

Can I come over

The reply came back almost instantly. omg yes obviously are you okay what happened

You didn’t have it in you to respond. 

By the time you knocked, more of a weak, uneven rap against the door than anything, you'd cried exactly twice in the car, both times short and furious, more anger than grief, though you suspected the grief was coming. 

Thea swung the door open so fast it almost gave you whiplash, worry and fear written across her face. She took one look at you, still in your travel clothes from yesterday that you’d sent her beforehand, hair a mess, eyes red-brimmed, and didn’t ask you a single question. She already knew what had happened. She just pulled you inside, hugged you from the side so tightly you could feel yourself getting squeezed, and just guided you towards her couch. 

She knew not to ask you questions right now, so she just held you tight as you sobbed into her arm wordlessly. "Okay," she said into your hair, voice low and careful in a way that made something in your chest loosen just slightly. "Okay. I've got you. Whatever happened, I've got you.” 

"He cheated," you finally managed, voice cracking somewhere in the middle of the second word. "I came home early and he. He was. There was someone else. In our bed."

Her arms tightened around you immediately. "That absolute—" she started, then seemed to catch herself, pulling back just enough to look at your face properly. "Okay. Not right now. Right now we're getting you a very large glass of wine and you are not going back to that apartment tonight." 

"I wasn't planning on it," you said, and something almost like a laugh escaped you, hollow and disbelieving.

"You're staying here as long as you need. Weeks. Months. I don't care. We'll figure out the rest tomorrow." You sank into the couch cushions, suddenly aware of exactly how exhausted you were, jet lag and heartbreak conspiring together into something that felt bone-deep. "I can't stay on your couch forever."

"You can stay on my couch for exactly as long as it takes for me to help you plot his downfall," she said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning a moment later with two generously poured glasses of wine, handing you one like it was a sacred offering. "Drink. Cry. We'll deal with logistics tomorrow."

You wrapped both hands around the glass, staring into it rather than at her, still faintly convinced that if you looked away for too long you'd wake up and none of it would have happened at all.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

By the time Thea had allowed herself to go to sleep, you were practically done with the stages of grief. There had been a lot of wine, a full pint of ice cream demolished straight from the carton between the two of you, and now you'd landed on the couch, settled in front of the TV ready to watch whatever movie you would find first, to give your brain something else to do besides replay the same five seconds on a loop.

Halfway through La La Land, it hit you. If you let yourself get too settled here, too comfortable on this couch, you'd never actually want to leave. You'd just keep sinking further into it, using Thea’s spare cushions as an excuse to avoid dealing with anything, and just continue to dwell on a relationship that apparently was going nowhere.

That’s how you ended up sat cross-legged at the end of the couch, with Thea’s laptop perched up on your lap, endlessly scrolling through any and all apartment listings you could find, the blue light from the screen being the only thing illuminating the room while Thea’s soft snoring drifted in from the bedroom down the hall. You kept telling yourself that you were only taking a look, you weren’t going to commit to any apartment listing, just to see what’s out there. 

But now you were three coffees deep, with the wine hangover slowly creeping in, as you constantly refreshed the listings page for what felt like the hundredth time, scrolling past overpriced and soulless studios and windowless rooms advertised as "cozy," each one somehow worse than the last. 

Just as you were about to give up, close the laptop, and drift to sleep with the possibility of being homeless, when one listing caught your eye. Spacious loft, 4th roommate wanted, close to everything, easygoing household. The photos looked genuinely decent, exposed brick, nice and thoughtful decor, natural light filling every single room through the big loft windows. 

You clicked in before you could second-guess it, eyes scanning the description, written in a casual, slightly rambling tone that read distinctly like it had been typed out at speed by someone who didn't proofread. It was signed off at the bottom with a single name: Chip.

Something about the whole listing, whether it be the weirdly descriptive writing, the soft phrasing, the mention of "girls' night snacks always stocked," the little heart emoji next to the rent price, had you assuming, without a shred of actual evidence, that you were looking at three girls looking for a fourth. 

You started picturing instantly. Girls nights, watching movies, baking and cooking together, sharing skincare products, wine nights with someone other than the person who was sound asleep down the hallway from you. 

You fired off a message to Chip before you could talk yourself out of it, fingers moving faster than your better judgment. 

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

After receiving confirmation of an interview from Chip, you had a week to stress. Thea helped you get your essentials from your old apartment, leaving you with ample amounts of time to prepare yourself for any question the girls might ask you, and how you could prove to them you would be the perfect roommate for them. 

So by the time interview day rolled around, you had a folder. An actual physical folder, complete with a printed reference letter from your old landlords, a neatly typed list of your "roommate strengths," and a laminated copy of your credit score that Thea had mercilessly mocked you for the entire morning.

“You do realize you’re applying for a room, not for a job,” she'd said, watching you rehearse your opening line in the hallway mirror for the third time. You'd spent the better part of the week building an entire mental picture of who you'd be walking into. Three girls, effortlessly put together, the kind who'd have a shared Pinterest board for the living room and a strict but fair chore rotation. 

You insisted on taking the tube to go there, telling Thea that you needed to do this on your own. You'd walked out of the station clutching your folder like a shield, running through a mental checklist of every conceivable question they might ask. What's your cleaning style? Are you a morning person? How do you feel about guests over on weeknights? You had an answer ready for all of it.

So as you approached the building you were sure that you were prepared for anything and everything those three girls would throw at you. You went up to the third floor, found apartment 3F, and cautiously knocked. What you were not ready for was the loft door swinging open to reveal, not three girls with a shared skincare drawer, but a guy in gym wear, mid-argument with someone you couldn't see. 

You blinked at him. He blinked back. 

“...Oh,” you said in an apologetic tone “I think I have the wrong apartment.” Already taking a step back to double, triple-check the apartment number. "Depends," he said, leaning against the doorframe like this was a perfectly normal way to greet a stranger. "Wrong place for what?"

“I'm here about the room. The listing." You held up your phone as if that would somehow prove you weren't insane, or in the wrong building entirely. "For Chip?" 

Something shifted in his expression, recognition mixed with what looked suspiciously like barely-contained amusement. "Ah." He turned his head, calling back into the apartment without ever taking his eyes off you. "Josh! Your little advert's here!"

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

[vattyotya]

“washable root spray”

like music to my ears

[bbabycamehomee]

New Girl AU

synopsis: After an unexpected breakup leaves her scrambling for somewhere to live, she answers a roommate ad thinking it’s posted by three women. Instead, she finds herself moving in with three men who are loud, chaotic, and somehow manage to make her feel at home. Amidst the chaos only three men could ever bring, she slowly realizes that starting over isn’t as terrifying as she thought. Falling for one of them, however, definitely was NOT part of the plan.

pairing: alfie buttle x reader

content warnings: mentions of infidelity, alcohol consumption, swearing

chapters°❀

chapter one - Apartment 3F

chapter two - Cathartic

chapter three (coming soon…)

…

a/n: i’m so excited to start this series!!!! i’ve loved new girl for a really long time and nick reminds me of alfie a lot, so it felt only fitting to create this au. i know new girl isn’t as popular as some other tv shows, and i don’t know what the crossover between ukyt and new girl might be, BUT it will still be very readable even if you haven’t watched it

[bbabycamehomee]

i’m sorry wtf is this

[bbabycamehomee]

Gordon Ramsay

summary: The cooking stream does not go as planned

contains: boyfriend!alfie, established relationship, fluff, one slightly sexual innuendo if you squint

word count: 3292

a/n: first fic!!! I haven't written fics since like 2021 so I've been super nervous to write/post this. I hope it doesn't totally suck and feedback is much appreciated!!!

The stream had been live for barely a minute when something went wrong. You hadn’t expected the overwhelming smell of burning plastic to go through the apartment. And while Alfie tried to make sure that the audio was working, you tried to identify the source of the smell.

“Alfie?” you asked in a cautious voice, “Hm?” he responded absentmindedly, eyes fixed on his monitor to try and read the chat. “What’s that burning smell?”

He finally looked over at you, a crease forming between his brows. “What do you mean, what’s burning?” His gaze wandered around the room, as if that would be a productive way to identify the source of the smell. You frowned, sniffing the air again. The smell was stronger now, somewhat chemical, unmistakably plastic.

“...Did you turn the oven on?”

“Yeah, the recipe you sent me said to preheat it,” he answered without thinking. You stared at him with wide eyes. “What?” he asked, now frightened by the look on your face. 

“Alfie…” you stood in your place, not knowing what to do. “I left the chopping board in there,” the blood drained from your face as you lunged towards the oven. 

“You left the what in there?” He said as you looked through the tinted glass of the oven, just to see the plastic board in a puddle at the bottom as wisps of gray smoke coiled upwards. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Just as Alfie said that the oven door flew open, releasing a wave of hot air combined with the thick acrid smell of burning plastic. Both of you recoiled back instantly, coughing as the smoke filled the kitchen of your shared apartment. 

“Why would you put the chopping board in the oven!?” he screamed at you with confusion and humour laced in his tone. You looked at him with an obvious look in your face, “For storage, obviously.”

Behind you, the Twitch chat had gone from asking you two questions to collectively losing its mind. 

randomolivia1234: you can tell alfie has never used that oven before

yooofamily: mind you the stream started barely a minute ago 

ukytlover89: IS THAT SMOKE??

“Move,” you laughed despite yourself, nudging him aside as he stood frozen in front of the oven. As you scrambled to turn off the oven and open the windows, making sure that the smoke detector wouldn’t turn on, Alfie just continued to stare at the melted plastic.

“I’m moving!” he protested, although he very obviously wasn't. The kitchen filled with the clatter of drawers opening and closing as you tried to find a solution to the continuously melting plastic in your oven. As Alfie looked around he found a wooden spatula beside the stove. “I’ve got this,” he declared with far more confidence than either of you felt. “Alfie, I really don’t think–” and before you could finish your sentence, he crouched in front of the open oven door and poked at the molted plastic puddle with the edge of the spatula. 

Nothing happened. 

He frowned, then pushed a little harder. The plastic stretched a little. “Oh, that’s…” he muttered, watching a glossy strand of plastic stubbornly cling to both the bottom of the oven and the spatula. 

You stared at him trying not to burst out laughing, “That’s significantly worse, you’ve just spread it,” you said that just as the spatula made a dull scrrrk sound against the enamel as another chunk of plastic attached itself to the wooden spoon. 

“Brilliant,” he sighed, dropping the spatula. “Now we have a half plastic-half wood spatula.” You couldn’t help it as you burst into laughter, doubling over as another cough escaped between giggles. 

“Don’t laugh!” he protested, pretending to be hurt, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “I’m sorry,” you wheezed through your coughs. “It’s just… in what reality did you think you could scrape off the melted plastic lava with a spatula?”

anonymousjane: this is funniest cooking stream i’ve ever watched

johnsmith45: they're serving plastic for dinner

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

“Okay, change of plans,” you said, your voice still rough from coughing. “We forget the oven ever existed, actually start baking, and just use the air fryer.” Alfie glanced from the smoking oven to the camera before nodding aggressively.

“I think that’s for the best.” He stepped in front of the counter, clasping his hands together as if he’s about to deliver a very important public announcement.

“First of all,” he began, “I’d like to clarify that all of this is the oven’s fault,” he said in a serious tone. “It should have warned me that there was a chopping board inside.” You snorted at that. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But you did do something wrong,” you said as he looked at you with shock written all over his face. “Oi! Nuh-uh woman, do not put this on me. You’re the one who decided that storing a chopping board in it was a good idea!”

“People do that if they have a tiny kitchen!” you retaliated as if it was obvious. 

He stared at you for a long second before slowly turning back to the camera. “Chat…” he said, as his eyes scanned the monitor. “Please tell my missus that I’m not the insane one here.” The messages flooded in faster than the two of you could read them.

crispychips: im with alfie here

yournightmare: no wait she’s right, my mum stores pans in ours

You leaned over to peek at the monitor.

“See? Vindicated.”

He tutted at you, “There are three people agreeing with you.” You shushed him, dismissing his words, “There are enough people agreeing with me.” Shaking his head with a laugh, Alfie reached for the bag of flour and held it up to the camera.

“Right. Fresh start.”

He paused.

“…Is the air fryer actually empty?” You both stopped moving as the apartment fell completely silent. Without a word, the two of you slowly turned to look at the air fryer sitting innocently on the counter. “I’m not opening it,” Alfie muttered.

“You should, I opened the oven,” you said as you refused to even get remotely close to the air fryer.

“And look how that turned out,” he sighed dramatically before reaching for the handle, opening it just enough to peek inside. After a beat, he let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “We’re clear. ”You patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I hate this stream already.” He glanced at the viewer count in the corner of the monitor.

“…Why are there twelve thousand more people here than when we started?”

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

Now with the kitchen finally aired out and the air fryer in the clear, you let out a dramatic sigh. “Right, Chat. We are going to attempt to make some brownies,” you started reaching for all the ingredients. “No more disasters, we don’t want to burn down this apartment,” Alfie agreed, pointing a wooden spoon hurriedly at you. “From this point onwards, we’re professionals. Call us Gordon Ramsay.” You raised an eyebrow “You melted a chopping board mere twelve minutes ago, Gordon,” you said with a sarcastic tone laced in your voice. “Tsk tsk woman, that’s all ancient history,” he waved a hand dismissing you. He reached for the bag of flour, took a handful and smacked it right on the top of your head, sending a pale cloud of flour into the air and your hair. 

A fine cloud of flour floated through the air before slowly settling onto your shoulders, the countertop, and the already chaotic kitchen. 

He looked at you as you blinked once, then twice. His grin began to falter just enough for you to know that he’d realised what he’d done. “...Worth it,” he decided. You turned to look at him, face completely blank. “Oh, you’ve done it now.” The grin on his face only widened. 

You didn’t give him time to react as you reached for the open bag of cocoa powder. His eyes immediately widened as he tried to step away but you caught his hand and before he had a chance to move even more, you dipped two fingers into the cocoa powder and dragged it across his cheek, leaving a dark brown streak from the corner of his jaw almost to his ear. 

“You wanted to be Gordon Ramsay, didn’t you?” you grinned at him, “See, it suits you,” as you stepped back to admire your work. 

Alfie looked at the camera with a mock betrayal. “You all saw what she did,” pointing at you. “Hey! You hit me first.”

“I barely touched you,” he retaliated. “You gave me a flour shampoo.”

“I moisturized your hair, far better than all of the expensive haircare you make me buy.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you reached for the digital scale. “Can we actually make the brownies before we invent another form of disaster?” He agreed and confidently grabbed the bag of flour again. 

“Two hundred grams,” you reminded him sternly. “I know.” You watched the numbers climb on the scale.

84

85

86

87

88

89

90

“Alfie…” you warned him, your voice taking on the same tone a parent would use with a toddler holding a permanent marker. “I’m getting there,” he dismissed you without so much as looking down at the scale. His attention fixed on the steady stream of flour falling into the bowl.

“Somehow,” you sighed, folding your arms across your chest, “I fear you’re getting further away.” He let out an exaggerated scoff, “Have a little faith.”

“I had faith in you, until you melted my chopping board.”

“ I think you mean our chopping board,” he said, amusement laced in his tone

“No no, I’ve never seen you use that thing. That’s my chopping board,” he smiled to himself shaking his head as he adjusted his grip on the flour bag. “You’ll be eating your words in a minute.”

As if the universe decided to intervene at the worst possible moment, the folded top of the bag slipped open in his hands. It happened so quickly that neither of you had time to react as the bag lurched forwards. A thick waterfall of flour poured into the mixing bowl, spilling over the sides as a white cloud erupted across the kitchen once again. 

“Alfie!!”

“I’m trying, woman!” he said as the bag continued to spill away its contents into the bowl. “No, you’re still pouring!” he fumbled with the bag, trying to wrestle it upright as flour continued to tumble out. By the time he’d finally managed to yank it away from the bowl, flour had completely overfilled it, leaving your countertop beneath a blanket of flour. The number on the digital scale was barely visible, as it flickered wildly trying to register the sudden weight before it read 986g. 

You slowly turned your head towards him, as he blinked at you once, then looked back at the scale, tilting his head as though seeing the number from another angle might change it.

“...I think I overshot,” you let out a slow breath through your nose. “You think?”

“I mean…” he scratched the back of his neck, “...986 isn’t that far from 200.” You looked at him, then at the bowl, then back at him “Alfie, that’s almost a kilogram.”

“...When you say it like that, it does sound worse.” You couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped before you could stop yourself. You shook your head, still laughing as you reached over and gently took the bag from his hands before any more damage could be done. “Alfie I’m demoting you,’ his face fell. “What? You’re firing me?” “Yup, you’re now the designated mixer. You mix what I give you and if you mess that up as well, I’ll demote you to a mere spectator.”

He looked at the monitor as if the chat that was flowing through would be able to save him somehow, “Chat do you see this, demoted by my own missus. Nepotism is fake I’m telling you.”

You chuckled to yourself as you measured out the cocoa powder, carefully tipping it into the bowl before adding the sugar and the melted butter. The rich smell of the chocolate almost instantly replaced the still lingering smell of the burnt plastic. 

“Now,” you slid the bowl towards him, “start mixing.”

Alfie, still hurt by his demotion, started muttering under his breath as he mixed the batter. “Can’t believe I’ve been demoted from baker to a human stand mixer.”

“You should be grateful I didn’t kick you out of my kitchen,” he let out a dramatic gasp. His mixing movements were slow enough that the flour wasn't flying everywhere, you looked over at him suspiciously. “You’re being competent.”

“I always am.”

“You’ve been competent for…” You glanced at the clock on the microwave. “...Thirty-seven seconds.”

As Alfie continued to mix, you cracked two eggs in a separate bowl, waiting for him to finish. After he was done, you poured the eggs into the bowl before handing him a spatula. “This time you have to fold it over.”

“I know how to fold.”

“Yeah well I have a hard time believing you, because you said that about measuring as well.” He ignored your comment, scraping around the edges of the bowl exactly as you instructed him to do. 

The batter went in with surprising smoothness. No further flour avalanches, no forgotten kitchenware, just the rich glossy chocolate settling into the tin as you smoothed the top with a spatula. Alfie hovered behind you, peering over your shoulder like he was supervising.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

"Right," you said, straightening up and wiping your hands on your apron, which was now more flour than fabric. "Oven's off-limits forever, so..."

"Air fryer it is," Alfie said, already reaching for it with the confidence of a man who had learned absolutely nothing.

"Check the tin actually fits before you put it in."

"I know how an air fryer works, woman." He set the tin down next to the basket, eyeballing it for approximately half a second before nodding to himself. "See? Fits perfectly. Professional."

"You've been professional for..." you checked the microwave clock again, "...forty whole seconds now. New record."

"I'm on a hot streak."

"You melted a chopping board."

"That was a different hot streak."

The chat, predictably, was having the time of its life.

noodle_enjoyer: the confidence of a man who has caused 2 kitchen fires in 20 minutes

babygorlmeg: ALFIE DID YOU ACTUALLY MEASURE THAT TIN I AM BEGGING

ukytlover89: this is better than masterchef

You slid the tin toward him. "Put it in. Carefully. Like a person who knows how to use his hands."

"I know how to use my hands," he said, smirking suggestively as you hit him at the back of his head. He slotted the tin into the basket, and it stopped about a centimetre from sitting flush, wedged at a slight angle against the sides.

You frowned. "That doesn't look right."

"It's fine, it's in, it's basically fine."

"Alfie, it's tilted."

"Slightly tilted." He shoved the drawer shut before you could argue further, and set the timer with the wild overcorrection of someone trying to make up for lost time. "Twenty minutes. Nothing can go wrong in twenty minutes."

You gave him a long, unimpressed look. "You said that about the oven."

"I did not say that about the oven."

"You said, and I quote, 'the recipe said to preheat it,' which is basically the same."

"That's completely different."

"It's the exact same thing, Alfie."

He opened his mouth to argue, then seemed to think better of it, and instead reached over and flicked a bit of leftover flour at your nose. You gasped, swiping at your face, and he grinned like he'd just won something enormous.

"You're going to regret that," you said.

"Statistically unlikely, given my track record of never facing consequences."

"Your chopping board would disagree, if it still existed."

"RIP," he said solemnly, one hand over his heart, the other held up. "A great chopping board. Melted before its time."

anonymousjane: i am invested in this chopping board's legacy now 

yooofamily: they need their own cooking show they'd get cancelled in one episode

The timer ticked down behind you both, the kitchen finally quiet except for the low hum of the air fryer and the occasional creak of the counter as you both leaned against it, sharing a look that said neither of you actually believed the twenty minutes would go smoothly.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

It did not go smoothly.

At the twelve-minute mark, a faint burning smell started creeping into the air again, sharper this time, more acidic. You both went very still.

"Please tell me that's not what I think it is," you said.

"It's probably nothing."

"Alfie."

"It's probably a brownie smell. Brownies smell like that sometimes."

"Brownies do not smell like burning plastic, we have direct experience with what burning plastic smells like today."

He grimaced, and crouched down in front of the air fryer, peering through the small window on the front. What he saw made him go very quiet.

"...Alfie."

"So the tilt," he said slowly, "might have caused a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind where the corner of the tin has been sort of. Touching the heating element. This whole time."

You closed your eyes and took a very slow, very deep breath. "You said it fit."

"I said it basically fits, there's a difference."

"There is not a difference, Alfie, that's the entire point of the word fit!"

The burning smell was getting stronger, and a thin wisp of grey smoke had started curling out from the vents at the back. Alfie yanked the drawer open, and both of you recoiled as a fresh wave of acrid smoke rolled out, one corner of the tin scorched black where it had been pressed against the coil, the brownie batter inside cratered and smoking faintly.

crispychips: disaster count is now at THREE 

user5784: i've never wanted brownies more in my life and also feared for them more in my life at the same time 

johnsmith45: they're never getting insurance for this apartment

You grabbed a tea towel and started fanning the smoke toward the window, coughing, while Alfie stared into the basket like a man who had just watched his own life flash before his eyes.

"Well," he said eventually, "on the bright side."

"Is there a bright side?"

"We definitely didn't burn down the building this time."

"You said that after the last disaster too."

"And I was right! Building's still standing!" He reached for the extractor fan switch with the grim determination of someone accepting his fate, and it roared to life, chasing the last of the smoke out through the vents above the stove. "Chat, for the record, this is not a fire."

You pulled the tin free with an oven mitt shaped like a lobster, holding the scorched corner as far from your face as possible, and set it down on a trivet with a thunk that felt almost accusatory. The brownies underneath the burnt patch actually looked, against all odds, mostly fine.

"We might be able to just," you gestured vaguely, "cut around it."

"Salvage operation," Alfie agreed, nodding seriously. "We're basically surgeons at this point."

"Surgeons who set fire to their patients."

"Every surgeon has an off day."

You looked at him, then at the tin, then back at him, and burst out laughing all over again, leaning into his shoulder as the chat exploded with a fresh wave of chaos-loving comments and the extractor fan whirred on above you both like the last line of defense in a kitchen that had clearly given up trying to behave.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·