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mintjamsblog · 10 months

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Phone call

Tommy/Alfie (+Cyril) drabble

It's gone 2 am when his phone rings, late enough that he knows nothing good'll come of answering. Private number the screen says. He hesitates, and swipes right with one hand pressed over his eyes.

There's silence at the other end, heavy and deliberate. He shouldn't have bloody well picked-up, but since when did shouldn't matter? Teeth clenched, he listens whilst a familiar weight settles itself in his stomach. Slowly he reaches over to mute the black and white war film he's been watching. He's long since lost the plot, having dozed on and off through most of it. Easy enough to guess the ending, they're all the bloody same — victory mixed with grief mixed with a dose of moral high ground. He leans back on the leather sofa to wait.

Beside him, Cyril opens his eyes and raises his chin a little. Alfie shakes his head in response — I know, mate, I fuckin' know. Cyril slumps back down on his paws. It's late, and Alfie's tired, and he ought to hang up right now. Never fucking does though, does he?

He tucks the phone into his shoulder and laces his hands together, stretching his arms out in front of him until the knuckles crack loudly.

Over his shoulder, in the kitchen, a little red clock on the oven indicates ten past. He watches the seconds blink, counts them in his head as if he suspects the digital display is trying to cheat him. It isn't. Time ticks by just as slowly as it always bloody does.

"Right then," he says when the minutes have clicked over to eleven. "Time you went out, Cyril."

He puts his phone onto speaker and sets it on the coffee table. There's movement at the other end of the line, a shuffling sound and breaths. Still there then.

Cyril's reluctant to move from his spot; it's cold outside and he has no desire to leave the warmth of the sofa. Alfie grabs hold of his collar and hauls him over the edge. Cyril moves like a sack of potatoes, waiting until the last bloody second to plant his feet on the rug. One of these days he'll forget to bother and land like a seal on his belly, looking pretty fucking embarrassed.

"Oi," Alfie curses mildly. "Mind me fucking feet!"

There's another noise from the coffee table. Footsteps, perhaps, the rhythm scuffed and uneven. Alfie takes Cyril to the back door and shoves him into the garden. "That's it, go sniff out some rats. Do yer fuckin' business."

He slides the door closed and peers out, watching Cyril plod towards the shed. As he steps back he catches sight of himself in the door — it's dark inside and out, and so the television flickers both behind him and in front of him, reflected in the black glass. He looks like a ghostly figure trapped between two realms — hair stuck out at all angles, fingers entwined at the back of his head. He really should hang up. Put an end to this fucking charade.

He will. When Cyril comes in.

There's a deep cough and a slurred word from the coffee table. Alfie doesn't turn, he watches the phone screen flicker in the glass, as if seeing it in reverse somehow means he ain't complicit.

"M'sorry," the phone-voice says, and Alfie closes his eyes, holds his hands briefly over his ears.

"Tommy" —he turns back towards the room— "go the fuck to bed, alright?"

The line goes quiet once more, save for the distinctive slosh of liquid against glass. "I know you don't wanna hear it."

Oh how much Alfie wishes that were true. He squats in front of the little screen, rests his head in his hands. How many nights has he spent searching for an explanation he could stomach? Bargaining with unknown gods for Tommy to deliver anything close to a palatable excuse? He listens to Tommy swallow. His heart feels like a butterfly being squashed by a giant fist.

"S'true. I'm so fucking sorry. If I could just ... if I could go back, Alfie—"

Alfie stands too suddenly. Strides away, black spots speckling his vision. He wrenches open the back door. "Cyril!" he bellows into the night. "Get your arse back in here." His skin feels hot in the gush of cool air. His pulse unaccountably fast. He slams the door and locks it, ushering Cyril towards the stairs. "Bed!" he barks at the dog. Cyril makes his way out to the hall, obedient in the way he only is when he likes the order.

The phone remains silent as Alfie checks the kitchen window, locks the front door, turns off the TV. He glares at the coffee table, willing Tommy to speak. Or not to speak. He doesn't fucking know. He picks the phone up, thumb hovering over the power button. It's a simple enough fucking thing: switch it off, go to bed.

"Don't go." Tommy's voice is a whisper, so quiet it makes Alfie jump.

"Go to sleep, Tommy," he sighs and takes the phone upstairs. Cyril has already settled down at the foot of his bed, in the dark.

"Can't," comes Tommy's voice, thick and tired and undercut with that little thread of defiance that Alfie's too weary to deal with.

"Well some of us have to, mate." He puts the phone on his bedside without turning on the lamp — the shroud of darkness makes all of this somehow more deniable. He pulls off his clothes and shuffles beneath the duvet, the silence hammering at his ears.

"Good night." He means to sound final, but his voice is too soft, too quiet.

"Leave your phone on."

"Tommy. This has got to stop."

"Please."

"Why do you only ring me when you're out of your fucking tree?" He doesn't expect an answer. Doesn't get one neither.

"Please. Alfie."

"Fuck's sake. Five minutes, alright?" He turns over, closes his eyes.

Next thing he knows, it's light and there's a sick feeling in his stomach. He reaches out for his phone; the screen is black, the battery dead. He tucks it under his chin.

At the bottom of the bed Cyril huffs and rolls over, but refuses to take his usual spot on the other pillow. He peers up at Alfie with a disapproving look.

"I know, mate." Alfie sighs. "I fuckin' know, alright?"

Or read it on A03

#tommy/alfie #tommy x alfie #tofie #tomfie #sholomons #why has these fandom still not agreed on a name for this pairing?#my fic

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whatsmyline-pb · 2 months

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Snippet: A Tofie Tennis AU

Ok it’s been like… two years since a I dreamed up a tennis AU where Tommy and Alfie meet on the ATP circuit, Tommy the new hot shot star and Alfie returning from early retirement years after a brutal injury. Romance and angst obviously ensue. I’ve the entire thing written in my mind which means, naturally, the only part I have actually written is the closing scene.

I’ve finally decided, screw it, I’ll give away the sappy ending and if I ever do fully write it so be it— you all will know how it ends but the angst-with-a-happy-ending tag would’ve spoiled it anyways. So here we are, hope you enjoy these two lovesick idiots at the US Open Championships!

Fourth match point and Tommy’s not sure how he’s not yet passed out. He’s barely breathed since the first and now three deuces and advantages later his heart is wild in his chest, thumping so strong he could choke on it. Fuck, if the watching isn’t worse than being down there himself, nerves rattling and mind racing but at least in control.

Alfie bounces the ball. Once, twice. Three times. Then it’s sailing upwards and Alfie’s reaching, the taut lines of his body stretched and on full display, and then he’s collapsing in, racket snapping down and…

It’s a perfect serve, right up the middle, curving spectacularly after the bounce. Alfie lands with a wince and this has to be it, there’s no chance of return. But Federer stretches impossibly out, just barely meets it with his racket to make the return. The ball clips the tip of the net: for a moment it is sure to drop over. But it doesn’t. It spins back and—

“Game, set, championship, Solomons.”

The crowd is on its feet, Tommy too, his heart in his throat, eyes stinging. A deafening roar fills the stadium.

Alfie falls to his elbows and knees, head cradled in his arms, face pressed against the hard court. His body heaves with deep, long shudders.

Sarah’s wrapped around Tommy, jumping and sobbing, crying out, “he did it he did it he did it!”

Tommy holds her with one arm but he pays her no heed beyond that. His only focus is Alfie, still bent on the court. Still gasping for air and trembling. Tommy knows it well. The relief of a win. The flood of emotion that comes after so much determination, so much exhaustion; fighting through pain, both mental and physical. A battle that Alfie’s been waging for years. Tommy wishes he were there, beside him, holding him close.

Alfie sits back on his knees, tips his head to the sky and smiles through his tears. He plants his racket to the court to push himself up and falters, sinking back down, pain lancing across his face. A slight gasp from the crowd and Tommy’s lurching forward but then Federer is hopping the net, his own eyes heavy with tears, and he’s at Alfie’s side, grip under his arm, pulling him to stand.

The crowd goes even more wild.

An embrace of hands to shoulders, unheard words exchanged— for a moment Tommy’s desperately envious. It should be him at Alfie’s side, supporting his weight, sharing private whispers. But then Alfie pulls away, searches the crowd, and finds him. Their gazes lock.

Tommy's world narrows. The roar of Arthur Ashe Stadium dulls to a buzz. Alfie’s eyes are wet and red-rimmed but bright. Laced with agony but also triumph and joy and warmth.

Tommy jerks his head—get the fuck over here— and Alfie’s smile broadens. He disengages from Federer, limps his way off the court. It’s fucking slow motion, Alfie making his way toward them. He stumbles into the stands, makes his way up to their box under a flurry of hands and congratulatory thumps on the back. He winces with every step.

But then he’s there, just feet away.

Sarah gets to him first. She throws her arms around him and Alfie returns her embrace. He’s looking at Tommy over her shoulder, though, eyes never leaving his, lips stretched wide.

“You came,” he says.

Tommy shrugs. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Alfie slips out of Sarah’s arms. Starts toward Tommy but then hesitates.

Well, fuck that. Tommy's heart is too full and his arms too empty. He nods again and Alfie flings himself at him, arms gripping ‘round his waist, pulling him close and up off his feet. Tommy laughs. Tears wet his neck where Alfie sinks his face in. Tommy threads his fingers into sweat-soaked hair.

“You did so fucking good, Alfie.” Alfie’s shaking around him. “Fucking proud of you.” A huff and Alfie’s pulling back, only just so, and there's nothing between them but smiles and shared breaths.

“I did it,” Alfie says, dazed and blinking. “And you’re here.”

And yeah, fuck it. Tommy doesn’t give a shit anymore. How could he with Alfie looking at him like that and the euphoria coursing through him like the win were his own? With days spent apart that felt like months?

He leans forward and presses his lips to Alfie’s. Just a peck really. Prolonged, sure, but close-lipped and chaste. Yet it’s somehow just as fulfilling as that first time he sank down over Alfie’s hard length, so full and free.

Tommy’s only reminded of the crowd when he pulls away and the roar around him surges back in, more deafening than he’s ever heard it. Hoots and hollers that dwarf the chant of Alfie’s name. He lets go reluctantly and smiles; gives Alfie a shove. It’s his day.

“Go on, then. You’ve a trophy to claim.”

Alfie winks at him. It’s sexy as fuck. Then— in true, cringe-worthy Alfie-fashion— says:

“Pretty sure I already did.”

Not for the first time, Tommy really hates how much he loves him.

#tomfie #tommy/alfie #fanfiction #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #snippet #tennis au #tofie

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ren5 · 2 years

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No kiss today👄

#peaky blinders #tofie #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #tommy x alfie #tommy/alfie #some daily life

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merry-andrews · 2 years

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I don't know why I made them? But here we are :)

#sholomons #tofie #tommy/alfie #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #i'm not good at it i know. gxydhxhc I have photoshop on my laptop but I'm too lazy for it?#so i made them on my phone :)#you're welcome!#i need them gcgdydh #....#what else should i tag it?#umm.. modern family pics..? um #my silly post #i guess #peaky blinders #the second caption for it will be 'how tom and alfie raised their kids' hxyeuxhx

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blazingstar29 · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 Masterlist - Peaky Blinders

Hey hi hello i thought i'd make a master list of whumptober fics categorised by fandom :)

Top Gun Movies

Peaky Blinders

A Little Out of the Ordinary - Alfie goes back to Birmingham to find Tommy wandering the streets delirious.

Hair's Breadth from Death - “I hate this fucking life.” Tommy lets out a guttural cry into his knees. “I hate this fucking life.”

Emergency Blanket - Tommy can't find the backup blanket and he's at his wits ends. Unfortunately, so is Charlie.

Rogues Gallery - Tommy tries to hang up a photo and gets a nail slicing his hand open for his trouble.

From All Harm - Tommy had said yes in the heat of the moment, but now he is greatly second guessing it. Because now he can’t look away.

#fanfiction #ao3 #peaky blinders #sholomons #tommy/alfie #alfie solomons #tommy shelby #whumptober

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ninja-potato-shelby-solomons · 1 year

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#dirty minds worldwide

#tom hardy #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #peaky blinders fanfiction #eddie brock #tofie #tommy x alfie #tommy/alfie #tommyalfie #alfie solomons x tommy shelby #tommy shelby x alfie solomons #symbrock #symbrock fanfiction #tom hardy fanfiction #fanfiction smut #destiel fanfic

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merryandrewsart · 2 years

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For dear @bakedapplesauce whose stories keep saving my life, thank youu❤❤❤❤

#tommy/alfie #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #sholomons #tomfie #tofie #?#peaky blinders #merry andrews art #i thought about gifting you something nice but also from one of your stories too #that cute moment when Alfie touches the back of Tom's neck #and tucks his thumb under his ear #is just soo soo so so soft❤#thank you for writing beautiful stories❤❤❤

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gabbia · 2 years

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#peaky blinders #tommy/alfie #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #tofie #tommy x alfie

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scorpiussage · 2 years

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Peaky Blinders as text posts part 2/?

Part 1

#Peaky Blinders #alfie solomons #polly gray #Tommy Shelby #tommy/alfie #meme #funny

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mintjamsblog · 1 year

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I've been revisiting your stargazing posts on here and wanted to know if you'd give us some insight into something you posted in response to a previous ask about Tommy breaking the news to Alfie. You mentioned the "almighty showdown"--what did that look like? And likewise, the moment they both realize that Tommy's not actually going to do anything about it (despite saying otherwise)? <3

Thank you for this ask! Trigger warnings a plenty - it's Tommy/Alfie! (ABO, mpreg, unhealthy attitudes to pretty much everything, mentions of rough sex, violence and possible termination)

It was a Thursday afternoon in late May when Alfie decided to hell with this shit. He’d been uncomfortable all morning, like a knuckle was lodged against his ribs, and every time he sat back for a moment it dug a little bit deeper. (Had nothing to do with his breakfast neither, he won’t have a word said against the cafe on Greenland Street.) He summoned Ishamel with a loud yell, threw his pen across the slew of papers and demanded to be driven, immediately, back to my fuck ugly rural abode. His chair hit the floor with a crash as he stood to leave. He didn’t bother to pick it up, only glanced at the disarray on his desk and roared at Ollie to, “clean up that fucking mess.”

Being at least 24 hours earlier than scheduled, he weren't surprised, upon his return, to find Tommy’s study empty. He was probably still in his Digbeth office. Or out at some overpriced dinner attempting to prize something valuable or useful from people who were, most likely, neither. Could be visiting Pol, that was another option. Though given the cryptic call she’d made to the bakery earlier, that didn’t seem terribly likely.

It weren't that Polly’s questions had prompted Alfie’s early departure, they'd merely preceded it — a small but important distinction given he made it a point of principle not to pry into Shelby business.

This meticulous lack of prying had given him the distinct impression there was trouble in paradise. Or Small Heath. Or wherever the fuck it was they all lived these days in their gaudy rural mansions. Alfie neither knew nor cared (except when they turned up on his doorstep to drink too much and yell at each other). Though both mercifully and suspiciously, they hadn't done so in weeks.

He looked out of the large windows at the final moments of dusk, the dark pink remnants of daylight hugging a horizon of green. He liked to catch the sun’s final blink, the bright flash before the day disappeared beneath the unbroken line of fields. Not that he ever admitted that to Tommy. To Tommy, his presence in Warwickshire was an inconvenient, and frequently lamented, personal sacrifice.

He wandered back out to the hallway to drop his hat and coat on the stand, dismissing the maid who offered to assist him (as if he hadn't been perfectly capable of removing his own hat and coat, all by his very lonesome, since the age of three and a half). She must be new – most of 'em knew better.

A warm glow from the parlour drew him across the hall. He was poised to call that new maid back and enquire as to why the fire was lit in an un-fucking-used room, when he stuck his head round the door and spotted a dark head resting on the back of the sofa. Took a moment to clock it was Tommy, and a moment longer to be sure he was sound asleep, tie tugged loose at his throat, shirt tails untucked from his trousers.

As it happened the maid appeared again, hesitating when she spotted the boss. Bosses. S’pose Alfie counted as one of ‘em now. He waved her in and she crept about, closing the curtains and lighting more lamps before scurrying out like a scared mouse.

Tommy didn’t stir; his hands lay either side of him, palms towards the ceiling. Alfie might’ve been beguiled if this weren’t the third time he'd caught Tommy napping since Easter. Or retreating to bed after dinner. And not with a glint in his eye neither, but with some weary half-baked excuse about tax inspections and early starts. Not that he didn’t look tired; the flame shadows dancing over his face, accentuated every hollow. Alfie stared at the clock on the mantle: nearly half past eight.

He'd had his suspicions for weeks — like midges hovering nearby, vaguely irritating but eminently ignorable if you swiped at 'em once or twice. Now he'd walked into a cloud of the bastards — too many to bat away.

The smell in the room weren’t helping — that awful cologne Tommy'd taken to wearing. Claimed Ada had sent it from Boston, all the rage with the Yanks. Too sweet, Alfie’d told him. Same as their fucking gin. And yet Tommy’d continued to douse himself in it, day and fucking night.

There was some other stench besides, above the woodsmoke and the aftershave. Stale and sort of creamy... a lot like the pubs by the docks. He scanned the room, tensing when he spotted the barely touched pint of stout.

He took his hands out of his pockets, rubbed them the length of his face, smeared a day’s worth of grime into his beard. The carriage clock on the mantle chimed the half-hour.

It’s not like Alfie was usually one for avoiding difficult topics. Preferred to attack with his horns — head down, plough on, look up when it’s done. Which begged the question, didn’t it, why he’d let this go on so long. Incredulity, mostly. Cowardice, perhaps. All washed down with a healthy slug of good old-fashioned fear. Couldn’t even say it in his head, could he? The word sat on his tongue like a pill he couldn’t swallow. Filled his mouth with bitterness.

"When the fuck were you gonna tell me?" His voice came out a good deal louder than it had any need to be. He was only standing three feet away, between the sofa and the door.

Tommy opened his eyes. Didn't bother to lift his head off the back of the sofa.

"Evening Alfie."

"Thought you weren't back till tomorrow."

"Only just." Alfie glared at the clock again.

"I asked you a fucking question."

Tommy's eyebrows dipped, formed an expression that were meant, presumably, to convey confusion. As if Alfie were some fucking underling too green or too intimidated to read defiance into the accompanying pout.

"Nothing to bloody tell."

Alfie spoke with deliberate slowness. Balled his fists at his sides. "How long do you plan on taking me for a complete fucking imbecile?"

"Not taking you for anything, Alfie." Tommy pulled his shoulders forwards, the movement just shy of a shrug.

"No?" Alfie cocked his head. He picked up a marble ashtray from the table beside the sofa. "Still off your smokes I see." He tipped the single stubbed-out cigarette onto the carpet, paltry quantity of ash and all.

Tommy sighed and rubbed his eyes, dug two fingers into each socket and left them there for several seconds, as if he were some hard-pressed housewife who was gonna have to clean that up.

Alfie reached for the glass. "Why the fuck're you drinking stout?" Alfie reached for the glass and held it aloft before pouring it onto the carpet in a long, slow stream that made a rather satisfying noise as it splattered Tommy's shoes.

Tommy looked up at him, eyebrows raised, muscles twitching in his jaw.

Alfie dropped the empty glass and let it bounce on the carpet. "How many fucking weeks?"

"You want me to drink and smoke more?" Tommy plucked his cigarette case from the coffee table and placed one between his lips. "Fourteen," he said, reaching into his pocket for a lighter. "Fifteen, maybe. Thereabouts."

The floor swayed beneath Alfie's feet. How'd it taken him so fucking long to put two and two together—

"Fifteen?" The maths simply didn't add up.

"It doesn't matter," Tommy said, staring at the table.

"Course not. Only a baby innit? Why would it fucking matter?"

Alfie looked over at the fireplace, at the paintings of horses and dogs, the pair of Tiffany lamps, and had the strangest sensation he'd been tipped into some weird dream. Except that in dreams you know where's where and who's who because dream-world rules apply. No-one needs to look familiar for you to be sure who they are; a house you’ve never seen before can stand in for your childhood home. Alfie looked at this room he knew and didn't recognise it. Looked at Tommy, elbows on knees, and couldn't accept him as the man he was bonded to. His dream-rules had been inverted. Nothing made fucking sense.

"February. You was closing that Caterham deal. Stress, you said. I remember.”

Tommy flicked the wheel of his lighter and stared at the little flame. "Stress can mess with me heat—"

"March. You was in Scotland. Edinburgh or Aberdeen—"

"It was business. I had no choice."

“That’s bollocks and you fucking know it.”

Tommy snapped the lighter shut. "Male omegas aren't likely to carry. I thought it'd" —he made a flailing gesture with the unlit cigarette— "deal with its fucking self."

"Right." Alfie nodded. "How very adult of you. You know the fucking risks."

Tommy got to his feet, flames dancing in his eyes. "Yes, I know the risks. And I will fucking deal with it!"

Alfie’s chest felt tight — his heart a claustrophobic thing, banging to get out. "You're fifteen fucking weeks, Tommy, no one’s gonna touch you.” He almost wished that were true, even as his mind conjured unhelpful images of meat hooks and blood-spattered aprons. Not that the alternative looked much better… his mind couldnt conjure that. “What do we fucking do?"

"We aren't fucking pregnant!" Tommy hissed the words, a wary glance towards the door where, no doubt, the maids were gathered.

Alfie's hands began to shake with the sort of rage that usually ended with blood up the fucking walls. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath — in through his nose, out through his mouth. Count to twenty-five. "You've made that very fucking clear."

"I’m going to bed." Tommy nodded towards the door.

“Nah, I ain't finished.” Alfie widened his stance. “What the fuck happened three weeks ago?”

Tommy sighed, attempted a glare. “You’re in my way.”

"February. Stress, you said." Alfie held his thumb in the air. "March,” —he uncurled his forefinger— “you was in Aberdeen. You said." He added his middle finger, watching as Tommy paled. “So that leaves us with Apri. What the fucking fuck was April?”

A crimson tide crept up Tommy’s throat.

"You fucking faked a heat."

A small part of Alfie was hoping for denial. Any less painful explanation, but Tommy went deathly still, thumb and forefinger paused over his eyes. Was he seeing the same things Alfie was? Replaying them in his mind? They’d been brutal with each other. And Tommy had begged for more.

"My desire was real,” he said, when he finally dropped his hand.

“You let me fucking choke you…” Alfie’s stomach contracted violently. To the left of the door was a dining chair propped against the wall; he slumped into it and hung his head in his hands.

The things they’d done. Used. The marks he’d left on Tommy...

“You weren’t even in heat.” Alfie’s legs were trembling. His nose dripped onto the floor.

“I asked for all of it.”

“Why?” Alfie looked up at him. “You had a baby inside you.”

He’d gone all taut, Tommy. Hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff. “Doesn’t change what I want.”

Alfie shook his head. “D’you honestly think I’d have done any of that if I’d—”

“No! I don't fucking know—”

“Please, Alfie, harder, Alfie…” He hated the sound of his imitation, hated the spite in his voice. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. The images crashed into his field of vision — desperate, pornographic: Tommy’s mouth slack and bleeding, eyes rolled back in his head… taking and fucking taking it. “All them whores you’ve fucked. Guess you must’ve been taking notes. Make it look good for the punters, eh? Keep’em good and riled.”

Tommy was breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if he’d run a lap of the grounds. His mouth twitched like he was about to defend himself, but Alfie didn’t want to hear it. He exploded out of his chair, finger poised in accusation.

“What were you fucking hoping? That I’d fuck it out of you?”

He looked down at Tommy’s waist, tried to imagine a life in there, beneath all them bloody clothes.

“Would it matter if you had?”

The words forced a pained sound out of Alfie, like he'd taken a kick to the guts. “Guess not,” he managed to say, before he turned and left the room.

#tommy/alfie #my fic #stargazing #answered asks #asks #have I answered the entire ask?#no I have not #is there more to come?#hopefully #thanks for poking my muse #muse

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