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poziomeczkaso uhm, I have been merrily *sloshed* over the X-mas holidays, or rather *marinated* in booze.
so badly that once I woke up at 4 am when I sobered up somewhat and uh, clearly not enough not to give into![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bachaboska's goading. It resulted in me writing a Tahar/Pip commentfic idek idek, this is the fully finished version ;)
title On Tender Hooks
fandom The Eagle RPS
pairing Tahar Rahim/Pip Carter, Channing/Jamie, a teeny tiny mention of Tahar/Jamie if you squint very hard
rating pg-13 (no porn? what is this even?)
disclaimer all lies, all lies! title from French Navy by Camera Obscura, credit for the heavenly banner goes toladytiferet, who is amazing <3 (thanks hen!)
warning affectionate, *loving* jibes at the French (and everyone else), atrocious writing.
a/n: now I know that the likelihood of Pip being called 'Pippin' is next to none but wouldn't it be super-cool if he were? it's mostly cause i picture his parents as upper class hippies.
Everyone on the crew has their little arse-o’clock-in-the-morning rituals. Channing jogs, Jamie folds himself over a mug of steaming hot black coffee and glares daggers, like a tigress defending her young, at anyone bold enough to approach him. They, on the other hand, smoke and bitch under the nearest tree. Or rather Pip divulges into generously venting monologues in Tahar Rahim’s general direction. They sip coffee from paper cups and shield themselves against the drizzle, making valiant attempts to light their fags in the unforgiving Scottish wind.
Tahar starts in careful English, beckoning his head vaguely in the direction of their co-stars: 'They look...uhm...rough?' . Pip gives him a mildly pitiful look from over the blueish snakes of smoke oozing from the tip of his cigarette, like he wants to say purr-lease but all traces of potential rudeness have been bred out of his bloodline generations ago. Instead, he says: 'I don't suppose you’ve heard how rough it got exactly?'
Tahar grumps out an agonized little groan and Pip thinks, for a fleeting desperate second, whether it would be considered out of turn to give him a little comforting pat on the shoulder? The French seem to find pleasure in such trivialities, after all.
Tension draws itself in like juice through a straw. Tahar's huddling into his Northface jacket with small furtive glances at him and Pip wonders if maybe he's thinking the same. Bloody hell. He never knew that purely hypothetical hugs could get awkward as well.
Say something, Carter
'So, who do you think bottoms?'
Not that, not that, not that, you *blithering* moron
He hopes, fiercely and essentially, against hope that this will get lost, somehow, in the language barrier. If Tahar Rahim's, his esteemed colleague from across the channel, face is anything to go by....it doesn't. Tahar coughs punctuate his torture. Their torture, really.
Tahar shuffles his feet like a schoolboy, squints at two figures in the distance; one bulky and the other a fast little shit. Channing snakes an arm around the slighter man, lifts him a little off the ground and Pip knows, from the wince on Tahar's face that he doesn't have to be close enough to hear it to know Jamie's hissing.
Pip's heart goes out to the kid. From where they're standing it looks like a P.E class with giants. He half expects David Attenborough to stalk them from behind a nearby mossy rock.
'Jamie?' Tahar says in a voice that implies he's far from convinced of his own statement. There's also something else, an odd twinge pressing like a soapy bubble to the front of Pip's skull, fit to burst with enough prodding.
Think again, my Froggy friend!
He doesn't say that of course, rightfully enough since he's already going to be gobbling down on foot-jam as it is.
'Ha! You could not be more wrong, my friend!' Pip says instead, barely keeping the giddy excitement out of his voice, a notion rather lost as he finishes with a flourish of his cigarette, a smoky zig-zag following, like a conductor with his baton on fire. 'Bell lies for no man!'
There's a distinct chocking noise coming from Tahar, his coal black eyes watering in his fit. Tears cling to his ridiculous lashes as he looks up at Pip, laughing hoarsely between coughs. Encouraged by this, or spurred on by invisible devils -he briefly wonders if perhaps vodka has been poured into his coffee and he's too much of a middle- class alcoholic to take proper notice- Pip announces, clearing his throat theatrically and bracing himself for performance with the best American accent he can muster at so early an hour: 'From my room it sounds more like: Oh god yes yes...fuck it, yeah fuck...goddamn yes yes yes, please please, fuck. Oh god'
'Harder, c'mon, c'mon. I can take it, Jamie, fuck. God. please. Just. I need it, need your co--' Pip moans while Tahar's face does truly indescribable things, like a hacky sack that's been toed at.
'That was-' Tahar starts and even though his expression looks like something writhed in throes of pain on his face right before it died, there's also a flint of genuine amusement to it and Pip launches on to it like a drowning man.
'Impressive? Fantastic? Magnificent? Unbelievably convincing?' Pip chimes in eagerly, leaning in smugly. 'Was it 'Carter, you should just drop that excuse for acting you do and go into high-class porn' kind of good?' he adds, purr-like, head popping by Tahar's shoulder like an evil-minded sprite.
Tahar snorts, then something guzzles and bubbles at the back of his throat. There's a beat of grave silence between them and Pip's heart tips, ready to dive but then...Tahar bursts out laughing. Like a fountain of sparks. And he laughs and laughs, loud and happy, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes, chuckling and chortling, his whole body shaken by it. Is it even possible for a person's laugh to have an accent? Pip can feel the tips of his ears go warm, damn them!
'Very imprre-ssive' Tahar gives a wet, cheery hiccup. 'But...ahahah...d-don't give up your day job'
Pip folds his arms on his chest, his long-forgotten coffee sloshing onto the ground as he purses his lips, pretending to pout.
'Huh, I should have known the French would be a highly demanding audience' he states, barely keeping the grin out of his voice and if anything, Tahar laughs harder.
'Wel-l' Tahar nods feigning deep thought ‘we ‘ave quite a tradition in…porn'
And Pip doesn't know what tips the scales really, whether it's the way the Frenchman's clever, or he is sure it's clever- what, wait a second where did that come from?- tongue curls around the 'porn' or whether it's the positively flirtatious wink sent his way, but Pip's brain stutters to a halt. Uhm. His own affectionate jibe at the neighbours from across the channel lost on him as Tahar picks up the pun at an angle Pip himself did not anticipate.
He's grinning at him too, those black, dramatic eyes sparking like in every clichéd bloody harlequin paperback Pip has surreptitiously read, wrapped up in a Tolstoy (man's got to have his pride) and he promptly forgets whatever in the world he was supposed to say, giving a little, and not at all eloquent, gulp instead.
It would have been so much easier if certain things have not rushed south to aid Tahar's absolutely fucking sin-inviting, endearingly eye-crinkling smile. His mouth is so plump. And pink. Has it always been so plump? And pink? Why hasn't he noticed before? Why hasn't there been a vaccination developed against it? To enable decent citizens to carry on with their day. Is this too much to ask of the NHS?
You're so royally fucked, Pippin. God you're *fucked*
He must be doing his 'airless carp' expression cause Tahar snickers, and Pip's fairly certain this time around it's at him.
'Uhm' Pip says and Tahar gives him a funny look.
They blink at each other, in a largely bemused fashion and Pip's has never been so grateful for his Northface jacket being so godamned massive. Thank the Lord for small mercies.
There's a distant cry of 'wanker!' and an unmistakeable gush of Channing's giggles that follow.
Tahar clears his throat.
'I'd better go' he says awkwardly, scuffing the rain-soaked dirt with the front of his ratty trainer. 'There's..uh..I need to go for the make-up and stuff. I'd better get going'
Pip nods numbly: 'Yeah, you're always in there for ages' Tahar's lips pull up a little at the corners. He looks at him strangely as he turns to leave, curious little glances over his shoulders as he heads over to the hair and make-up post.
Pip's heart pounds in his ribcage.
So fucked. Royally.
so badly that once I woke up at 4 am when I sobered up somewhat and uh, clearly not enough not to give into
bachaboska's goading. It resulted in me writing a Tahar/Pip commentfic idek idek, this is the fully finished version ;)title On Tender Hooks
fandom The Eagle RPS
pairing Tahar Rahim/Pip Carter, Channing/Jamie, a teeny tiny mention of Tahar/Jamie if you squint very hard
rating pg-13 (no porn? what is this even?)
disclaimer all lies, all lies! title from French Navy by Camera Obscura, credit for the heavenly banner goes to
ladytiferet, who is amazing <3 (thanks hen!)warning affectionate, *loving* jibes at the French (and everyone else), atrocious writing.
a/n: now I know that the likelihood of Pip being called 'Pippin' is next to none but wouldn't it be super-cool if he were? it's mostly cause i picture his parents as upper class hippies.
Everyone on the crew has their little arse-o’clock-in-the-morning rituals. Channing jogs, Jamie folds himself over a mug of steaming hot black coffee and glares daggers, like a tigress defending her young, at anyone bold enough to approach him. They, on the other hand, smoke and bitch under the nearest tree. Or rather Pip divulges into generously venting monologues in Tahar Rahim’s general direction. They sip coffee from paper cups and shield themselves against the drizzle, making valiant attempts to light their fags in the unforgiving Scottish wind.
Tahar starts in careful English, beckoning his head vaguely in the direction of their co-stars: 'They look...uhm...rough?' . Pip gives him a mildly pitiful look from over the blueish snakes of smoke oozing from the tip of his cigarette, like he wants to say purr-lease but all traces of potential rudeness have been bred out of his bloodline generations ago. Instead, he says: 'I don't suppose you’ve heard how rough it got exactly?'
Tahar grumps out an agonized little groan and Pip thinks, for a fleeting desperate second, whether it would be considered out of turn to give him a little comforting pat on the shoulder? The French seem to find pleasure in such trivialities, after all.
Tension draws itself in like juice through a straw. Tahar's huddling into his Northface jacket with small furtive glances at him and Pip wonders if maybe he's thinking the same. Bloody hell. He never knew that purely hypothetical hugs could get awkward as well.
Say something, Carter
'So, who do you think bottoms?'
Not that, not that, not that, you *blithering* moron
He hopes, fiercely and essentially, against hope that this will get lost, somehow, in the language barrier. If Tahar Rahim's, his esteemed colleague from across the channel, face is anything to go by....it doesn't. Tahar coughs punctuate his torture. Their torture, really.
Tahar shuffles his feet like a schoolboy, squints at two figures in the distance; one bulky and the other a fast little shit. Channing snakes an arm around the slighter man, lifts him a little off the ground and Pip knows, from the wince on Tahar's face that he doesn't have to be close enough to hear it to know Jamie's hissing.
Pip's heart goes out to the kid. From where they're standing it looks like a P.E class with giants. He half expects David Attenborough to stalk them from behind a nearby mossy rock.
'Jamie?' Tahar says in a voice that implies he's far from convinced of his own statement. There's also something else, an odd twinge pressing like a soapy bubble to the front of Pip's skull, fit to burst with enough prodding.
Think again, my Froggy friend!
He doesn't say that of course, rightfully enough since he's already going to be gobbling down on foot-jam as it is.
'Ha! You could not be more wrong, my friend!' Pip says instead, barely keeping the giddy excitement out of his voice, a notion rather lost as he finishes with a flourish of his cigarette, a smoky zig-zag following, like a conductor with his baton on fire. 'Bell lies for no man!'
There's a distinct chocking noise coming from Tahar, his coal black eyes watering in his fit. Tears cling to his ridiculous lashes as he looks up at Pip, laughing hoarsely between coughs. Encouraged by this, or spurred on by invisible devils -he briefly wonders if perhaps vodka has been poured into his coffee and he's too much of a middle- class alcoholic to take proper notice- Pip announces, clearing his throat theatrically and bracing himself for performance with the best American accent he can muster at so early an hour: 'From my room it sounds more like: Oh god yes yes...fuck it, yeah fuck...goddamn yes yes yes, please please, fuck. Oh god'
'Harder, c'mon, c'mon. I can take it, Jamie, fuck. God. please. Just. I need it, need your co--' Pip moans while Tahar's face does truly indescribable things, like a hacky sack that's been toed at.
'That was-' Tahar starts and even though his expression looks like something writhed in throes of pain on his face right before it died, there's also a flint of genuine amusement to it and Pip launches on to it like a drowning man.
'Impressive? Fantastic? Magnificent? Unbelievably convincing?' Pip chimes in eagerly, leaning in smugly. 'Was it 'Carter, you should just drop that excuse for acting you do and go into high-class porn' kind of good?' he adds, purr-like, head popping by Tahar's shoulder like an evil-minded sprite.
Tahar snorts, then something guzzles and bubbles at the back of his throat. There's a beat of grave silence between them and Pip's heart tips, ready to dive but then...Tahar bursts out laughing. Like a fountain of sparks. And he laughs and laughs, loud and happy, wiping tears from the corner of his eyes, chuckling and chortling, his whole body shaken by it. Is it even possible for a person's laugh to have an accent? Pip can feel the tips of his ears go warm, damn them!
'Very imprre-ssive' Tahar gives a wet, cheery hiccup. 'But...ahahah...d-don't give up your day job'
Pip folds his arms on his chest, his long-forgotten coffee sloshing onto the ground as he purses his lips, pretending to pout.
'Huh, I should have known the French would be a highly demanding audience' he states, barely keeping the grin out of his voice and if anything, Tahar laughs harder.
'Wel-l' Tahar nods feigning deep thought ‘we ‘ave quite a tradition in…porn'
And Pip doesn't know what tips the scales really, whether it's the way the Frenchman's clever, or he is sure it's clever- what, wait a second where did that come from?- tongue curls around the 'porn' or whether it's the positively flirtatious wink sent his way, but Pip's brain stutters to a halt. Uhm. His own affectionate jibe at the neighbours from across the channel lost on him as Tahar picks up the pun at an angle Pip himself did not anticipate.
He's grinning at him too, those black, dramatic eyes sparking like in every clichéd bloody harlequin paperback Pip has surreptitiously read, wrapped up in a Tolstoy (man's got to have his pride) and he promptly forgets whatever in the world he was supposed to say, giving a little, and not at all eloquent, gulp instead.
It would have been so much easier if certain things have not rushed south to aid Tahar's absolutely fucking sin-inviting, endearingly eye-crinkling smile. His mouth is so plump. And pink. Has it always been so plump? And pink? Why hasn't he noticed before? Why hasn't there been a vaccination developed against it? To enable decent citizens to carry on with their day. Is this too much to ask of the NHS?
You're so royally fucked, Pippin. God you're *fucked*
He must be doing his 'airless carp' expression cause Tahar snickers, and Pip's fairly certain this time around it's at him.
'Uhm' Pip says and Tahar gives him a funny look.
They blink at each other, in a largely bemused fashion and Pip's has never been so grateful for his Northface jacket being so godamned massive. Thank the Lord for small mercies.
There's a distant cry of 'wanker!' and an unmistakeable gush of Channing's giggles that follow.
Tahar clears his throat.
'I'd better go' he says awkwardly, scuffing the rain-soaked dirt with the front of his ratty trainer. 'There's..uh..I need to go for the make-up and stuff. I'd better get going'
Pip nods numbly: 'Yeah, you're always in there for ages' Tahar's lips pull up a little at the corners. He looks at him strangely as he turns to leave, curious little glances over his shoulders as he heads over to the hair and make-up post.
Pip's heart pounds in his ribcage.
So fucked. Royally.
