ALL FOR YOU.
꣑ৎrequest: hello wifey, could u please do something with alfie buttle, he’s like head over heels for her but he doesn’t want to admit it. like total denial but then he just rambled about his feelings to like chip or george (anyone) and the reader overhears?? idk if that made sense lol. please and thank yew x
from my lovely wife @chlomdtvv!!
tws - slight slow burn, tension, overwhelmed feelings, fluff, emotional vulnerability, slight sexual scene (making out / kissing)
꣑ৎa/n: i have never wrote for ab im so sorry if this is lowkey dookie
It started like any other night at Chip’s flat. The low hum of background chatter threading through the room, the soft fizz and drinks of opened cans punctuating the air, the pale flicker of the tv casting a lazy glow as some football match played on, but no one was really watching. The familiar musk of worn sofas mixed with the stale scent of sweat and beer. The room was warm; not just temperature wise, but warm with the kind of easy comfort that only comes from months of routine, from too many nights spent exactly like this, from the easy bond of people who knew each others rhythms without needing to speak.
Alfie was louder than usual though. The usual grumbles and complaints were now sharper, more pointed, more on edge. His voice cut through the murmur, dragging attention even from the distracted.
“She’s not my type,” he blurted suddenly, the words rushing out clumsy and jagged, a little defensive as if he’d been caught mid-thought and was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. He shoved a crisp into his mouth and bit down harder than needed, the loud crunch sounding almost aggressive ─── like it was supposed to bolster the truth of his statement, to prove it real by sheer force.
George’s brow lifted slowly, one arch heavy with knowing amusement. His eyes locked on Alfie, calm but sharp. “You literally just brought her up. Again.”
Alfie’s scowl dropped like a shutter, teh sudden guilt flickering behind his eyes betraying how little he’d realized how obvious he’d been. His mouth tightened, and his hands moved restlessly, flicking a loose thread on his jumper, tapping on his knee, anything to fill the sudden silence he’d created.
“Yeah, well, ‘cause she said the stupidest thing earlier,” Alfie shot back quickly, his voice sharper now, defensive and rushed, like he was desperate to steer the conversation away from himself. His hands waved, emphasizing his point, but also jittery. Like he was trying to shove down the feelings bubbling under the surface. “Said crisps aren’t a proper dinner. Like, fuckin’ hell, what d’you think a pub meal is?!”
Chip snorted quietly behind his bottle, shaking his head with a smirk, eyes flicking between Alfie and George. “You’re obsessed. You know that, right?”
“Obsessed?” Alfie let out a laugh that was too loud, a little forced, and shoved off the back of the sofa, standing up suddenly as if height might lend him more authority or at least distract from the heat rising to his face. He ran a hand through his hair, then looked away for a moment, voice softer but still trying to sound casual. “Nah. I just think she’s─── I dunno. She’s alright. Funny sometimes. Bit annoying. Cute, maybe. I dunno. Not like I’ve noticed or anything.” His words stumbled over themselves, a fragile attempt at denial that only made it clearer how much he had noticed. More than once.
His voice cracks slightly on the word “cute,” but he quickly covers it with a cough, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck as if the word had slipped out too honestly, too close to the surface.
“You talk about her every time we hang out,” George says flatly, eyes never leaving his phone. The casual way he states it somehow makes the truth sting sharper. “You even brought her up last stream when someone asked your favourite food.”
Alfie fidgets. A quick shrug, shifting back into his seat, then scratching at the label on the bottle in his hand as if the motion could distract him from what was being said. “Yeah, and?” he mumbles, voice barely above the room’s background noise. “She likes pasta, innit? S’why it came to mind.”
“You bought her pasta after she said that,” George points out, still doomscrolling, unfazed.
A tight, almost defensive smile quirks at Alfie’s lips. “I like to provide, George.”
The words come sharp, heavy with forced bravado, but his hand twitches just a fraction around the bottle ─── a tiny flicker of nerves betraying the act.
“Alfie,” Chip says slowly, dragging out the name like he’s reading Alfie’s thoughts before he’s even spoken them aloud. He leans back against the couch, calm amusement playing on his lips, quiet certainty in his eyes. “You’re in love with her.”
“Piss off,” Alfie mutters, jaw tightening as the words fall low and clipped. His gaze darts away, anywhere but theirs, swallowing hard as if the accusation has lodged itself deep in his throat.
But something shifts, subtle and uneasy. The spark of defensiveness flickers out, replaced by something far more fragile. His shoulders stiffen, and hes up again, pacing, slow, aimless steps across the room, like movement might drown out the noise churning in his chest. He shakes his head quickly, restless, like trying to shake loose the thoughts, to unchain the truth that’s settling heavy inside him.
“Nah,” he says again, but this time his voice is quieter; softer, almost worn out. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in the way the word falls, like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “I’m not. She’s just... her, you know?”
His voice catches on something lodged too deep inside him, a hitch that betrays the tightness in his chest. The words stumble out unevenly, weighted with more meaning than he wants to admit.
“She’s─── she’s in my life all the time.” He swallows hard, eyes flickering away for a second, like the truth is too bright to face directly. “She talks shit, always does, makes me laugh more than anyone else. And she steals my hoodies, even when she doesn’t ask, just raids my stuff like it’s hers.” His mouth quirks into a half-smile, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like it’s both endearing and infuriating at once. “And somehow she looks good in them. Like, actually good. Which is the worst part ─── because it’s annoyin’ as fuck.” His voice is betraying his words, though.
His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they want to grab onto something solid. His breath catches in his throat, words starting to trip over themselves as if they can’t keep pace with what’s rushing out.
“..she’s got this habit of, like───” He breaks off, cheeks flushing, eyes downcast. The room feels smaller all of a sudden, like the weight of what he’s saying is pressing down on him. “───of playin’ with my hair when I’m knackered, and I always pretend I hate it, but I don’t. Not really.” His voice softens, vulnerable in a way that doesn’t suit his usual loud bravado.
He pauses again, like he might stop, like maybe this is too much. But the words keep spilling, uncontrolled now, raw and unfiltered.
“...and it’s not like I care, but I carry her heels when she gets pissed, ‘cause no one else’ll do it proper. Like, she gets too drunk and just leaves them lying around and I’m the one who ends up lugging the stupid things home. And yeah, maybe I mention her on stream sometimes, but that’s ‘cause───fuckin’ hell, I dunno───‘cause she’s there. In my head. All the time.”
His voice trails off, breath uneven, and for a long moment the only sound is the quiet shuffle of his feet as he stops pacing, the faint scrape of his shoes against the floor.
George and Chip sit still, watching him with expressions that balance between quiet amusement and something softer, something like understanding, or sympathy. The room feels heavier now, like the easy, familiar buzz of earlier has slipped away and left behind a fragile silence. It’s raw, exposed. Like they’re all holding their breath around the weight of the words Alfie didn’t mean to say, but needed to.
“I’m not in love,” Alfie insists, the words spilling out too fast, too forced, as if he’s desperately trying to push them past the lump lodged in his throat. His voice cracks slightly, uneven and rough around the edges, betraying how far from truth they really are, not even to himself. The denial feels fragile, a thin mask stretched tight over something he barely wants to admit. “I just care if she’s safe. And happy. And if anyone gives her shit, I’ll break their nose. Y'know?”
George doesn’t even blink. His gaze stays locked on his phone screen, fingers idly scrolling. His voice is flat, laced with dry sarcasm that cuts right through Alfie’s defences. “Sure,” he deadpans, not bothering to look up. “Totally normal mate behaviour.”
Alfie’s jaw flexes tightly, a quick, sharp movement that’s almost a tic. His knee starts bouncing uncontrollably, tapping rhythmically against the floor in nervous impatience. There’s a heat rising inside him now ─── thick, burning, coiled tight beneath his ribs like a restless animal clawing to get out. It twists in his chest, making his breath catch and falter. His fingers clench briefly on the edge of the couch, gripping as if to ground himself.
“And I buy her stuff,” he continues, voice gaining volume and urgency with every word, “because she never asks for anything, right? She just gets all shy and awkward about it, like I won’t drop a fuckin’ fortune on her if she just looked at something and said she liked it───”
Suddenly he cuts himself off, breath hitching sharply in his throat. Hhis heart pounds hard, hammering like it’s trying to escape from behind his sternum, echoing painfully in his ears. His eyes flicker away from George and Chip, darting around the room as if searching for somewhere safe to hide from his own confession.
“..fuck,” he mutters, voice low and thick with exasperation, “I sound like a simp.”
Chip can’t hold back the smile anymore. It’s warm, teasing but gentle, the kind of grin that’s meant to ease the tension, not mock. “You sound like a man deeply in denial,” he says, voice soft but knowing.
Alfie slumps back onto the couch with a defeated thud, the impact rattling the cushions beneath him. His palms come up quickly to drag down over his face, fingertips pressing hard against his forehead as if trying to wipe away the raw honesty he’s just spilled. For a moment, his hands stay there, hiding the tangled mess he’s unravelled into, the vulnerability he didn’t expect to feel or show.
“I’m so fucked,” he groans, voice muffled behind his hands, thick with frustration and dread. The words tumble out in a ragged sigh. “This is your fault. Both of you.”
“Mate,” George replies smoothly without missing a beat, eyes still glued to his phone, “this is entirely on you.”
From behind the slightly-ajar door, a quiet breath slips out. Barely more than a whisper.
Because what Alfie doesn’t know, what he hasn’t even noticed, is that you’re standing there, just outside in the hallway.
You came with a bag of snacks for the group, the familiar rustle of plastic in your hand as you made your way down the corridor. Then you heard your name, soft but unmistakable, carried through the wall. Curiosity stopped you cold.
You hadn’t expected this.
Your fingers grip the bag of crisps a little too tightly, the plastic crinkling softly under your frozen hand, forgotten now. Your mind scrambles to catch up, heart hammering wildly in your ears with a sharp, uneven beat. The air feels suddenly thick, heavy against your chest ─── like gravity itself pressing in, loaded with everything you weren’t meant to overhear.
He’s rambling. Unfiltered. Vulnerable in a way he never lets himself be when you’re actually there. You can still catch the disbelief in his voice, the tremor of quiet panic beneath the surface, and that sharp crack when he says “fuck,” as if the word escaped before he could stop it.
You blink, staring at the thin gap of the door. One step closer and they’d see you. Hear the telltale creak of the floor beneath your feet, the subtle shift of your presence. One step back and this moment slips away, gone forever.
Fuck it.
The door creaks softly as you push it open just a fraction, the worn hinges betraying your gentle intrusion.
Alfie’s head snaps up so fast it’s like he’s been caught in the headlights, wide eyes flickering between shock and panic. The colour drains from his face in an instant, as if every thought, every word he’d just spilled, has vanished from his mind like smoke in the air.
You blink, voice soft and steady, “hey.”
He stays silent. Completely still, frozen in place except for a faint twitch at the corner of his jaw, like he’s holding his breath and wishing, somehow, the universe could rewind itself ten minutes, erase this moment entirely.
George can’t quite hide his grin; his lips twitch with barely contained amusement. Chip stands up abruptly, shaking his head with a wry smirk. “Right, I’m grabbing a drink. Alfie, mate, enjoy the consequences of your actions.”
They both slip away, disappearing like the traitors they are, leaving behind the unmistakable aura of men who know they’ve just witnessed something devastatingly real and unfiltered.
Now it’s just you. And Alfie. And the silence that settles thick between you ─── so heavy it almost feels suffocating, dense with the aftershock of everything said, everything that can’t be taken back.
“...You heard that?” Alfie finally asks, voice tight and raw, like forcing the words out is a kind of ache.
You nod slowly, the weight of the moment grounding you. “Most of it.”
He sinks deeper into the couch, shoulders slumping forward, as if the cushions might swallow him whole and hide him away. “Brilliant. Kill me now.”
You set the crisps down carefully on the table, hands deliberate and steady despite the tension humming between you.
“You could’ve just said something, y’know.”
He looks at you. Truly looks at you. For the first time in a way that strips away everything he usually uses as a barrier. No lazy smirk curling his lips, no sarcastic glint hiding his feelings. Instead, his eyes are wide and vulnerable, flickering with a raw, unsteady emotion that makes him look almost younger than you know him to be. It’s like hes standing suddenly bare in the center of a spotlight, exposed and uncertain, unsure how to carry himself without the usual bravado shielding him.
“..'Didn’t wanna ruin it,” he mutters, voice low and fragile, barely loud enough to break the silence between you.
You take a slow, steady step forward, feeling the pulse pounding fiercely in your chest. Each beat like a drum echoing against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that makes your breath hitch. Your gaze locks on his, drawing you closer with a magnetic pull that’s impossible to resist.
“Ruin what?” you ask softly, your voice gentle but certain, folding around him like a quiet promise.
His hand lifts vaguely between you, fingers twitching as his eyes dart up briefly to meet yours before flitting away, like the air itself has thickened too much for sustained eye contact. “Us,” he says, voice tight with a mix of hope and fear. “I like how we are. I like takin’ the piss outta you and you threatening to slap me. I like you in my life.”
You stop just a breath away from him, close enough to see the subtle warmth blooming up his neck, the faint flush that colors his skin, delicate and alive beneath the low light. The heat in the room seems to shift, gathering in the space between you.
“Alf. You idiot.” Your words are quiet but firm, dripping with affection and a touch of teasing. “You’re in love with me.”
His head falls back against the couch cushion with a soft groan, as if the weight of your words settles heavily on his shoulders all at once. “Don’t say it like that, girl, I’m barely hangin’ on───”
Without hesitation, you reach out, your fingers trembling just slightly as they weave through the thick strands of his hair. The touch is slow and deliberate, feather-light at first, like you’re trying to memorize the texture of him, the way his scalp yields beneath your palm.
He freezes instantly ─── breath catching sharp and sudden in his throat, body tensing so tightly it’s as if every muscle is holding its breath alongside him. His skin prickles where your fingers thread through the roots, soft strands slipping between your digits, and for a moment the room shrinks until it’s just the two of you suspended in that fragile bubble of heat and unspoken longing.
His eyes flutter closed briefly, lashes resting against his cheeks as if the simple touch grounds him and unravels something inside all at once. The faintest sigh escapes him, a breath of surrender and surprise mingled together.
You don’t pull away. Instead, your hand lingers, fingers gently curling, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just behind his ears. The slow rhythm of your touch is a silent confession, an unspoken ‘I’m here’ that fills the space left raw by words.
He remains still, taut but no longer stiff, the tension in his body softening just enough to hint at the vulnerability he’s been hiding. And in that moment, everything feels suspended; fragile, electric, and utterly real.
“You like this, don’t you?” you murmur, your voice low and teasing, fingers sliding slowly through the soft strands of his hair. The touch is deliberate ─── slow, warm strokes that leave a trail of heat beneath your skin and send subtle shivers through him. Your fingers curl lightly, knuckles brushing gently against his scalp as you playfully tug just enough to draw a breath.
His breath catches, ragged and uneven. “Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, voice rough around the edges, a mixture of frustration and something utterly undone beneath your touch. His jaw clenches like he’s trying to hold himself together, but it’s a losing battle. “That’s below the belt.”
A smirk quirks at the corner of your lips. Small but victorious, like you’ve just caught him off guard and scored a secret win. Your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement, watching him unravel.
“You’re the worst at hiding things,” you say softly, your gaze locking with his. The weight of those words lingers, warm and intimate. “You know that?”
His eyes meet yours fully, wide and open, glimmering with a softness that makes your chest tighten. There’s no pretense here, no shields. Just him, honest and unguarded. “Yeah,” he admits, voice low and steady. “But you’re still here.”
Your heart stutters, a thrill shooting through your veins. “I am.”
For a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. Breath mingling, the faintest scent of his shampoo curling around you, the steady beat of his pulse under your fingers.
Then, breaking the silence, his voice drops even softer, hesitant but hopeful. “..You wanna, like.. come over? After this thing is over?”
You raise an eyebrow, playful and sharp, testing the waters, your voice teasing but gentle. “Go and do what, Alf?”
His cheeks flare crimson, the flush spreading from the tips of his ears down to the base of his neck, warm and unmistakable. The way his gaze flickers away before snapping back to yours makes your pulse race. “Just.. I dunno,” he stammers, fumbling for words. “Talk. Or don’t talk. Sit around and pretend I’m not a total melt. No big deal, we’ve hung out a lot of times, ya’know, gir───”
Without warning, you close the gap between you, leaning in slowly at first, breath mingling with his. Your lips brush against his, soft and tentative, testing, asking.
Then your mouth presses more firmly, hunger surfacing in the way your lips part, inviting, demanding. Your fingers tighten gently in his hair, warm and steady, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, to him.
His body stiffens at first, breaht hitching sharply, eyes fluttering closed as he surrenders. His hands reach up, trembling slightly, fingers curling around your arms like he’s afraid to lose you, afraid this moment might slip away.
The kiss deepens, slow and consuming. You can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands, the quickening of his heartbeat echoing in your own ears. His lips are warm, soft, and urgent, moving with a nervous desperation that makes your own heart ache.
If he’s going to keep choking on the words, stumbling, fumbling, unable to say what’s clearly there, then you’ll say it for him. With your mouth.
You lean in, slow and deliberate, the soft warmth of your breath brushing his skin before your lips press lightly against his once again. The world narrows until there’s nothing but the quiet press of your mouth against his, the subtle, electric hum of contact sparking through your nerves. Your lips move just enough to speak without words, to promise without saying anything aloud.
You feel it. The exact moment he melts fully.
It’s like the invisible weight he’s carried for months, that heaviness in his shoulders and tightness in his chest, simply slides off and crashes down, leaving him suddenly light and unguarded. His body softens beneath you, muscles uncoiling like a spring finally released. There’s no resistance, no fight, just a quiet surrender, a letting go he didn’t know he needed.
His hand finds your hip with urgent certainty, fingers gripping like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality. You can feel the subtle pulse of his heartbeat beneath his palm, quick and uneven, as if he’s still not quite sure this is real, like any second he’ll wake up on that couch, mid-ramble to Chip, still pretending you’re just “alright” and “funny sometimes.”
Your breath catches when you finally pull back, eyes locking with his wide, stunned ones. He’s breathless, as if the air itself was stolen from his lungs, and his lashes flutter slowly in a dazed, rebooting kind of way. His lips are bitten raw, swollen slightly from the kiss, parted just enough that you can almost see the words struggling to find their way out.
“Fuck me, girl,” he breathes, voice ragged and hoarse, trembling with something close to awe. “You can’t just do that.”
You grin. Slow, smug, absolutely certain. “Why not?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, eyes dark and heavy with want. “’Cause now I’m gonna want you to do it again.”
Your smirk deepens, the satisfaction blooming warm and fierce in your chest. “Good.”
He blinks at you, disbelief and something softer swirling in his gaze. Like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re not a dream he stumbled into by accident. “So we’re doing this?”
“We are very much doing this.”
And then, that grin ─── the one that’s boyish and crooked and full of everything he can’t say out loud ─── blooms wide and unstoppable. You’ve seen it a hundred times, but never like this. Never like it’s meant just for you.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
And then, without hesitation, he kisses you back.
The kiss crashes over you both like a wave, fierce and desperate, slow and searing. His lips move against yours with an urgency that sets your skin ablaze, hands tangling in your hair, fingers pressing into the curve of your back as if to anchor himself to you. Your own hands find his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the rough stubble that’s barely there, the softness behind his ears.
Every sense sharpens. The faint taste of him on your tongue, the warmth of his body pressed close, the steady thump of his heartbeat pounding in sync with your own. The room disappears until there’s only you and him, caught in the raw, messy, beauty of this moment.
