FIC: Yearning [Blackadder Goes Forth]
Title: Yearning
Fandom: Blackadder
Characters: George Colthurst St. Barleigh, Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett
Prompt: #034. Not Enough
Word Count: 1,832
Rating: R for implied masturbation, just to be safe.
Summary: George comes to the realization that what he has with the General isn't enough.
Author's Notes: Wow! My first bit of smut -- sort of -- for George/Melchett! Yay!
***
He knew it was going to happen. The long looks between them, brown eyes looking into blue and vice versa, the way they moved closer to each other when Melchett was escorting him to his room... you'd have to be a complete thicky not to know what was going to happen.
It had started with a long night, and Melchett had been polite enough to offer a walk outside in the air, out under the stars. The night sky was like a brilliant dark blue, like velvet across the sky. George wondered if he'd be able to recreate it in a painting, but to be honest, he wasn't entirely sure.
They'd spoken in low voices, this time about the war and Anthony's worry about the men's morale, how the orders might come in any day now for the Big Push. In the cover of darkness, Melchett looked younger, his eyes more worried than George had ever seen them. His voice was solemn, and unlike the boisterous general during the day, the night seemed to have revealed a man who realized the exact situation, and was bally well worried.
George had been supportive, of course -- this was his general, after all, and he reasoned that if the higher-ups could try their dashed best to help raise the spirits of the men, it was only fair to do likewise. He'd probably leaned in a little closer than necessary, and slipping in that mudpuddle hadn't helped much and scratching the palm of his right hand. Either way, he'd managed to cheer up Old Walrus-Face a little, which never hurt anybody.
Melchett had escorted him inside, helping him wipe off the mud despite George's assurances that he was fine, it was just a little mud, some soap and water should wash it right out, it was no worry.
It was then that Melchett had noticed his hand. Actually, it was then that he'd noticed what exactly it was that had been stinging, come to think of it. Turning his hand over, George could see he'd given himself a jolly good gash across the palm when he'd caught himself, and while he had imagined at some point returning home with a brand new war wound to show to the grandchildren when he was old and withered, he hadn't imagined it would be something quite like this.
Melchett blinked. "Chipmunk, you're hurt. Are you all right?" He frowned.
Frowning down at the gash, rather a bit annoyed that he'd managed to get blood on his new dress without realizing it, he waved his other hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Anthony. Looks like a jolly good gash, that."
"Here, let me take you to my room," Melchett said quickly, taking George's shoulder gently but firmly and leading the way, as if George didn't know the way himself.
George looked up at that, alarm bells ringing in his head, even if he wasn't quite sure why. "No, Anthony, really, I can take care of this--"
"Nonsense," Melchett declared firmly, still leading the way. "You were hurt because of something I suggested. The least I can do is help you bandage it before it gets infected."
And it was then that George found himself sitting on a sofa in Melchett's sitting room while Melchett went to get some water a some clean rags. It was also then that George realized that Melchett was acting more like a woman than he was about this. It was dashed odd, to be sure, but then again, he was the one with the cut palm.
Anthony returned a minute or so later, bearing a bowl of water and some white rags that looked like they'd been used for something else. Setting the bowl down on a nearby table, Anthony dipped one of the cleaner rags into the water and wrung it out efficiently.
"Anthony," George began, letting Melchett take his hand and wipe away the blood and mud on his fingers and around the cut. "You really don't have to..."
Melchett raised an eyebrow at him. "Allow me. Please."
George couldn't readily think of anything to say to that, actually. Instead, he nodded a bit clumsily.
He turned his attention back to George's hand. "I'm sorry, Chipmunk, but I'm afraid this is going to sting a little."
"Anth -- ow!" George jumped a little at the hot water dabbing at the cut, and when Melchett wiped firmly, he hissed and squirmed where he sat, gritting his teeth but not taking his hand back.
After a minute of careful cleaning, Melchett was drying the palm of his hand, wrapping the cut and tying it off. "I'm sorry, my dear, but it needed to be cleaned."
George nodded, still feeling a bit miffed. "I could've done it myself. I've patched up my share of cuts and scrapes."
Brown eyes rose to meet blue. "Perhaps, I wanted to."
"Thank you." Those eyes looked like Swiss chocolate, dark and inviting. "For going to the trouble, that is," he added lamely.
"It was no trouble," Anthony rumbled, and it wasn't until then that George realized just how close they were sitting. Or the way that Anthony's hand was tentatively moving to touch his waist. "No trouble at all..."
Anthony was leaning toward him, and Good Lord, this was really happening.
"Anthony," It slipped out, hanging in the air between them like a breath.
Anthony shushed him gently, leaning forward just a little more, and then...
Lips.
Softer than he'd expected, but still lips, and very much in evidence. Lips touched his for a moment, and then slowly pressed for more. Heads tilted, and George's eyes slipped shut.
When a tongue licked at his bottom lip, George gasped a little, not expecting it, and then the tongue was inside, and hurrah and huzzah, this was dashed wonderful!
He heard someone moan, and soon, tongues were tangling together, all of the passion from those longing looks and the discreet touches suddenly all pouring out into the kiss, George's hands cupping Anthony's cheeks, one of them drifting into the short dark hair as he worried at Anthony's bottom lip for a moment.
Anthony soon took over the kiss, forceful, passionate, confident. Even if he'd been waiting all his life to meet the perfect woman, he'd certainly learned his stuff from somewhere, and there was a hand at George's waist now, sliding around and urging him closer.
It was when George almost reached up and ripped off his wig that he realized he wasn't himself, that this wasn't some innocent snog, but that this was Serious Business. If they got undressed, George would most definitely get court-martialed, and that wasn't a jolly good thought.
George reached down, trying to put distance between the two of them, but his hand landed on Anthony's rather strong muscular thigh -- didn't the General once mention going horseback riding at some point? -- and Anthony moaned into the kiss, pulling back abruptly and ducking his head to nibble at George's neck, licking and sucking it.
"Oh, God..." George groaned, his eyes slipping shut despite his best efforts. Anthony's reply was to growl back, his hands reaching down to wrap around George's waist.
He must have moved forward at some point because George felt his hand travel up the thigh and make contact with--
George's eyes shot open. "Wait..." he hissed quickly. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore how much he just wanted to lie back and let Anthony do what he wanted with him. When he felt his panties get uncomfortably tighter around his Johnson, he bit out, "Wait."
It was probably the urgency in his voice that got Anthony away from where he'd been nibbling on George's neck. Brown eyes looked at him in something like a daze. "Georgina?"
George stared at him before remembering his hand. "We..." He licked his lips where Anthony had been kissing them a minute before. "We mustn't."
A frown slowly began to take shape on Anthony's face, turning his eyebrows down. "Mustn't?"
George took a shaky breath. "I... I'm not--"
"--That kind of woman." Melchett cut in. "I know that, darling, but Chipmunk, we... we were going to be married." He reached up a hand and gently cupped George's cheek. "Surely, that means something?"
George blinked, his ready objection flying out of his head, his eyes locked on Anthony's. "We... I still can't marry you, Anthony."
Melchett took a breath, swallowing once. "I... see."
George felt as though he'd just kicked a puppy. "Anthony, no." He couldn't help leaning forward, kissing Anthony's lips lightly. "It's not your fault. You've done nothing wrong."
"Then why can't we marry?" Anthony murmured. "I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy..."
George felt his eyes start to sting. Blinking quickly, he shook his head. "It's me... I can't."
"Are you engaged to someone?" Melchett asked suddenly.
George blinked, genuinely surprised. "What? No, of course not!"
"Are you grieving a lost love?" he demanded next.
George shook his head. "Anthony, I... I have a secret that I can't tell anyone." He ducked his head, looking at Anthony's chest miserably.
A crooked finger tipped his chin up gently. "Not even me?"
George shook his head mutely.
Anthony looked at him for a long moment before sighing.
He bally well had to say something. Just because he was a bit miz, it didn't mean that the general had to be left like this. "Anthony..."
Anthony shook his head and let him go before standing. "Would you allow me the honor of escorting you back to your room?"
George blinked, staring at him for a minute before standing as well. "Yes... please."
The walk back to George's room was quiet, Melchett looking forward down the corridor, all very rigidly polite. He politely refused George's invitation to come inside, his burning eyes at odd with the polite words. His hand had reached for George before he refused, and George found himself wondering if General Melchett had never been in the habit of ever refusing himself anything before.
When he closed the door, he lit a candle and maneuvered around the room, casting away the soiled dress after discovering a large hole that his meager sewing skills bally well wouldn't have been able to fix, and enough blood to be noticeable, if not all that gory.
He went into the washroom and scrubbed the make-up off, falling into bed as naked as the day he was born, his Johnson having lost interest somewhere between the dress and the make-up. Leaning over and blowing out the candle, he stared up at the dark ceiling and reached for himself.
It didn't take long, what with that dashed excellent snog and his own imaginings of what could have happened next if Melchett had known the truth. A few strokes and pulls, and wetness was covering his hand, even as he imagined that it was someone else's.
And it bloody well wasn't enough.
END
Fandom: Blackadder
Characters: George Colthurst St. Barleigh, Anthony Cecil Hogmanay Melchett
Prompt: #034. Not Enough
Word Count: 1,832
Rating: R for implied masturbation, just to be safe.
Summary: George comes to the realization that what he has with the General isn't enough.
Author's Notes: Wow! My first bit of smut -- sort of -- for George/Melchett! Yay!
***
He knew it was going to happen. The long looks between them, brown eyes looking into blue and vice versa, the way they moved closer to each other when Melchett was escorting him to his room... you'd have to be a complete thicky not to know what was going to happen.
It had started with a long night, and Melchett had been polite enough to offer a walk outside in the air, out under the stars. The night sky was like a brilliant dark blue, like velvet across the sky. George wondered if he'd be able to recreate it in a painting, but to be honest, he wasn't entirely sure.
They'd spoken in low voices, this time about the war and Anthony's worry about the men's morale, how the orders might come in any day now for the Big Push. In the cover of darkness, Melchett looked younger, his eyes more worried than George had ever seen them. His voice was solemn, and unlike the boisterous general during the day, the night seemed to have revealed a man who realized the exact situation, and was bally well worried.
George had been supportive, of course -- this was his general, after all, and he reasoned that if the higher-ups could try their dashed best to help raise the spirits of the men, it was only fair to do likewise. He'd probably leaned in a little closer than necessary, and slipping in that mudpuddle hadn't helped much and scratching the palm of his right hand. Either way, he'd managed to cheer up Old Walrus-Face a little, which never hurt anybody.
Melchett had escorted him inside, helping him wipe off the mud despite George's assurances that he was fine, it was just a little mud, some soap and water should wash it right out, it was no worry.
It was then that Melchett had noticed his hand. Actually, it was then that he'd noticed what exactly it was that had been stinging, come to think of it. Turning his hand over, George could see he'd given himself a jolly good gash across the palm when he'd caught himself, and while he had imagined at some point returning home with a brand new war wound to show to the grandchildren when he was old and withered, he hadn't imagined it would be something quite like this.
Melchett blinked. "Chipmunk, you're hurt. Are you all right?" He frowned.
Frowning down at the gash, rather a bit annoyed that he'd managed to get blood on his new dress without realizing it, he waved his other hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Anthony. Looks like a jolly good gash, that."
"Here, let me take you to my room," Melchett said quickly, taking George's shoulder gently but firmly and leading the way, as if George didn't know the way himself.
George looked up at that, alarm bells ringing in his head, even if he wasn't quite sure why. "No, Anthony, really, I can take care of this--"
"Nonsense," Melchett declared firmly, still leading the way. "You were hurt because of something I suggested. The least I can do is help you bandage it before it gets infected."
And it was then that George found himself sitting on a sofa in Melchett's sitting room while Melchett went to get some water a some clean rags. It was also then that George realized that Melchett was acting more like a woman than he was about this. It was dashed odd, to be sure, but then again, he was the one with the cut palm.
Anthony returned a minute or so later, bearing a bowl of water and some white rags that looked like they'd been used for something else. Setting the bowl down on a nearby table, Anthony dipped one of the cleaner rags into the water and wrung it out efficiently.
"Anthony," George began, letting Melchett take his hand and wipe away the blood and mud on his fingers and around the cut. "You really don't have to..."
Melchett raised an eyebrow at him. "Allow me. Please."
George couldn't readily think of anything to say to that, actually. Instead, he nodded a bit clumsily.
He turned his attention back to George's hand. "I'm sorry, Chipmunk, but I'm afraid this is going to sting a little."
"Anth -- ow!" George jumped a little at the hot water dabbing at the cut, and when Melchett wiped firmly, he hissed and squirmed where he sat, gritting his teeth but not taking his hand back.
After a minute of careful cleaning, Melchett was drying the palm of his hand, wrapping the cut and tying it off. "I'm sorry, my dear, but it needed to be cleaned."
George nodded, still feeling a bit miffed. "I could've done it myself. I've patched up my share of cuts and scrapes."
Brown eyes rose to meet blue. "Perhaps, I wanted to."
"Thank you." Those eyes looked like Swiss chocolate, dark and inviting. "For going to the trouble, that is," he added lamely.
"It was no trouble," Anthony rumbled, and it wasn't until then that George realized just how close they were sitting. Or the way that Anthony's hand was tentatively moving to touch his waist. "No trouble at all..."
Anthony was leaning toward him, and Good Lord, this was really happening.
"Anthony," It slipped out, hanging in the air between them like a breath.
Anthony shushed him gently, leaning forward just a little more, and then...
Lips.
Softer than he'd expected, but still lips, and very much in evidence. Lips touched his for a moment, and then slowly pressed for more. Heads tilted, and George's eyes slipped shut.
When a tongue licked at his bottom lip, George gasped a little, not expecting it, and then the tongue was inside, and hurrah and huzzah, this was dashed wonderful!
He heard someone moan, and soon, tongues were tangling together, all of the passion from those longing looks and the discreet touches suddenly all pouring out into the kiss, George's hands cupping Anthony's cheeks, one of them drifting into the short dark hair as he worried at Anthony's bottom lip for a moment.
Anthony soon took over the kiss, forceful, passionate, confident. Even if he'd been waiting all his life to meet the perfect woman, he'd certainly learned his stuff from somewhere, and there was a hand at George's waist now, sliding around and urging him closer.
It was when George almost reached up and ripped off his wig that he realized he wasn't himself, that this wasn't some innocent snog, but that this was Serious Business. If they got undressed, George would most definitely get court-martialed, and that wasn't a jolly good thought.
George reached down, trying to put distance between the two of them, but his hand landed on Anthony's rather strong muscular thigh -- didn't the General once mention going horseback riding at some point? -- and Anthony moaned into the kiss, pulling back abruptly and ducking his head to nibble at George's neck, licking and sucking it.
"Oh, God..." George groaned, his eyes slipping shut despite his best efforts. Anthony's reply was to growl back, his hands reaching down to wrap around George's waist.
He must have moved forward at some point because George felt his hand travel up the thigh and make contact with--
George's eyes shot open. "Wait..." he hissed quickly. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore how much he just wanted to lie back and let Anthony do what he wanted with him. When he felt his panties get uncomfortably tighter around his Johnson, he bit out, "Wait."
It was probably the urgency in his voice that got Anthony away from where he'd been nibbling on George's neck. Brown eyes looked at him in something like a daze. "Georgina?"
George stared at him before remembering his hand. "We..." He licked his lips where Anthony had been kissing them a minute before. "We mustn't."
A frown slowly began to take shape on Anthony's face, turning his eyebrows down. "Mustn't?"
George took a shaky breath. "I... I'm not--"
"--That kind of woman." Melchett cut in. "I know that, darling, but Chipmunk, we... we were going to be married." He reached up a hand and gently cupped George's cheek. "Surely, that means something?"
George blinked, his ready objection flying out of his head, his eyes locked on Anthony's. "We... I still can't marry you, Anthony."
Melchett took a breath, swallowing once. "I... see."
George felt as though he'd just kicked a puppy. "Anthony, no." He couldn't help leaning forward, kissing Anthony's lips lightly. "It's not your fault. You've done nothing wrong."
"Then why can't we marry?" Anthony murmured. "I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy..."
George felt his eyes start to sting. Blinking quickly, he shook his head. "It's me... I can't."
"Are you engaged to someone?" Melchett asked suddenly.
George blinked, genuinely surprised. "What? No, of course not!"
"Are you grieving a lost love?" he demanded next.
George shook his head. "Anthony, I... I have a secret that I can't tell anyone." He ducked his head, looking at Anthony's chest miserably.
A crooked finger tipped his chin up gently. "Not even me?"
George shook his head mutely.
Anthony looked at him for a long moment before sighing.
He bally well had to say something. Just because he was a bit miz, it didn't mean that the general had to be left like this. "Anthony..."
Anthony shook his head and let him go before standing. "Would you allow me the honor of escorting you back to your room?"
George blinked, staring at him for a minute before standing as well. "Yes... please."
The walk back to George's room was quiet, Melchett looking forward down the corridor, all very rigidly polite. He politely refused George's invitation to come inside, his burning eyes at odd with the polite words. His hand had reached for George before he refused, and George found himself wondering if General Melchett had never been in the habit of ever refusing himself anything before.
When he closed the door, he lit a candle and maneuvered around the room, casting away the soiled dress after discovering a large hole that his meager sewing skills bally well wouldn't have been able to fix, and enough blood to be noticeable, if not all that gory.
He went into the washroom and scrubbed the make-up off, falling into bed as naked as the day he was born, his Johnson having lost interest somewhere between the dress and the make-up. Leaning over and blowing out the candle, he stared up at the dark ceiling and reached for himself.
It didn't take long, what with that dashed excellent snog and his own imaginings of what could have happened next if Melchett had known the truth. A few strokes and pulls, and wetness was covering his hand, even as he imagined that it was someone else's.
And it bloody well wasn't enough.
END