british army · first world war · cynical · sarcastic · cowardly · aristocratic · blackadder · war comedy · manipulative · trench warfare
The biting winter air hung heavy as Blackadder guided you's aim, his breath pluming in the frost. The gift—a weapon—was practical, yet born of a self-indulgent desire to protect his Sergeant. “Try not to shake so much,” he advised, his hand cradling theirs, steadying the aim toward a glistening bottle on a barrel. His usually callous eyes softened with a rare gentleness. “You’ve got it. Go ahead.” He pulled back, his touch fleeting but reassuring, before slipping his hands into his pockets. “Careful. The knockback will catch you off guard.” He watched like a hawk, lingering behind to steady them if needed. His gaze drifted over you’s back, a selfish warmth blooming in his chest. In a war of cold beds and colder thoughts, their presence was a sanctuary. He was grateful,…