Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens

Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens *nsfw- explicit content*

*nsfw- explicit content. Don't blame me if you continue*
Light was pain.
It seared Alistair's pupils the moment he cracked open his eyelids, scouring, purifying, burning like white fire through his head. He closed his eyes again quickly, willing the blazing agony from behind his eyeballs as he tried to recall where he was. Thoughts moved at the sluggish pace thoughts do when one wakes from a deep slumber.
Deep as death.
Alistair almost cried out as someone suddenly pulled the stopper on his bottled memories, and they came pouring out like water from a burst dam.
Endless waves of darkspawn. A Hurlock Alpha, dead. Fighting in a ring, back to back. A sword, falling. Then...
Darkness.
Alistair moved instinctively to press the heels of his hand to his still closed eyes in an attempt to alleviate some of the confusion the jumbled memories brought. When he tried, however, a sensation he imagined later must have been something like having an arm torn clean from your shoulder, exploded through his torso. This time, he did cry out. His head swum, and for a brief moment he fell into unconsciousness. Pain coursed through him in waves, dull throbbing and sharp agony in turn, and this pain brought not confusion but clarity.
A sword, jagged- darkspawn- falling towards Tarja, his own body in the way, the blade passing through plate metal, down, through flesh, through bone. Jubilation, followed an instant later by screaming agony. Blood- his blood- coating the blade. A voice- his? No, Tarja's- calling out, shouting his name...
Alistair was drenched in sweat, from physical or mental pain he did not know. His back arched, and when it did he screamed. Skin tore, and the pain was such that he was amazed his stomach did not simply fall out. His torso felt warm, wet, and a fresh gush of blood covered him as the delicate scar reopened.
The door banged against the wall, and someone rushed through it. They knelt beside the bed, but through the red haze of agony before his eyes, the man could not tell who it was. When relief came, it was sudden to the point of shock. The pain vanished like someone dumping a pale of water into a fireplace, and he was left shaking, staring blankly at the ceiling, breath coming in shallow, irregular bursts.
"Alistair?"
The voice was small and worried, but it still surprised the Warden. Slowly, as any quick movement brought with it a stab of pain, he turned his head to the side. A flood of relief washed over him as he saw Tarja's anxious face peering at him, and in that moment the pain was worth it. She looked unharmed, weary and concerned, but unscathed, and for that he would have taken a darkspawn blade a dozen times more. He managed a weak smile, before finally mustering the courage to glance down at his chest.
The entire of his torso was a mess of blood, too fresh even to have congealed, and it was slowly seeping into the white(ish) sheets of the bed upon which he lay, staining them a dirty crimson. He realised, for the first time, that he was naked, but didn't have the sense to feel embarrassed.
"Alistair," Tarja said again. Her voice was still soft, but more urgent than before. "How do you feel?"
"Like someone should be putting an apple in my mouth and serving me in a banquet," The man replied, grimacing. "But I seem to have most of my limbs, and my charming good looks, so better than I could have been. Which I imagine I have you to thank for."
The mage nodded, seemingly satisfied by the response, but the worry was still obvious on her strained expression.
"Did... Did we win?"
It was an open question. The number of dead, of wounded, assets and supplies lost, how the battle had actually played out; it was hard to see it so clean cut as to 'win' or 'lose'. Tarja was silent for a long while, gazing down at her hands, and the slowly dissipating green sparks of magic there, fluttering like tiny fireflies, flitting off and fading to nothing in just seconds.
"We... retook the catapults." She said finally. "None fired. The walls of Val Royeaux remain intact."
"Good. Maybe all those deaths weren't for nothing after all." Alistair murmured, with a soft smile. He paused. "Where are the others? Maybe we can share a drink. You know, celebratory, or..." He tailed off as Tarja looked up. With a touch of horror, he saw that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears. As he watched, unsure what to say, a single teardrop slipped down her cheek to fall from her chin into her lap.
"Alistair..." She said, in a voice barely more than a whisper, almost inaudible over badly concealed chokes of grief. "Jenner... didn't come back."
It took Alistair a moment to realise what she meant. He hadn't even considered the fact that they might not all get out alive. They had all seemed so strong.
"And Bec? Vas?"
"Bec almost went mad. He went wild and killed everything that came close, and when it was over... He wouldn't come back with us. He said he was going to the Deep Roads to... to..." She didn't have to finish the sentence. "Vas carried you back here. Over her shoulder. I don't know how she did it. She... They tore her arm off. Her left arm. Right up at the shoulder. And, her jaw. It's crushed. She won't talk again..." The young woman didn't continue. She looked as though any more words might push her over the edge, and she dropped her face once more, refusing to meet Alistair's gaze. Alistair, ignoring the white hot pain that movement caused, reached out and gently touched her cheek. She jumped as though afraid, but placed her hand over his when he didn't move it.
"Where are we?" The warrior asked after several moments, uncomfortable with the painful silence.
"The Twin Dragons. In Val Royeaux." Tarja replied, seeming to regain some sort of composure. Alistair blinked at her imploringly. "It's... a brothel." She muttered, apparently embarrassed by the fact.
"Dragons. Prostitute... Dragons."
The mage managed a tight smile at his consistently ill-timed humour. "Orlais let us borrow some buildings just inside Val Royeaux. To... care for our wounded." A touch of sadness brushed her expression once again. The darkspawn were thorough, if nothing else. When Blighted blood mixed with a person's own, there was little that could be done for them. There would be more corpses than wounded. A pang of guilt overtook Alistair as he realised that he hadn't even acknowledged that Tarja had been the one who had allowed him to be one of the few.
Looking down once more at his ruined chest, the ex-templar frowned, unused to the sight of so much of his own blood. He had been inured in combat before- an embarrassingly high number of times, in fact (including at least three times during every fight for which he had accompanied Lyna)- but he had never been incapacitated quite so severely as this.
"Tarja, I... I... Thank you for not letting me die. I've seen so many people go. So many people just leave this world without making so much as a mark. Lyna died to save all of Thedas, she'll be known in history books and in legends for centuries. But... In a few hundred years, who'll remember the name Duncan? If it wasn't for Duncan, neither me nor Lyna would have been Wardens, but no one will remember him," Alistair could feel angry tears in his eyes as he spoke. He made no effort to hold them back. "He'll just fade from existence like all those people at Ostagar. All the people who died protecting Val Royeaux-"
"He won't." Tarja stated firmly. The conviction in her voice made the male pause. Because all the people who knew him will remember him. So the people who's lives he touched will tell their own stories of him. Duncan will have his own tales. But this is tale now. Wouldn't you rather it be about those of us still alive, rather than those who have already gone to the Maker?"
Alistair didn't reply. He didn't have to. He simply stared at this woman, this woman who had twice given him back his life, who had chosen him over the thousands of others, and wondered what wonderful mistake the Maker had made to allow such a perfect person to be. Gentle hands reached over to wipe away his tears, but he could already feel fresh ones brewing- though now he couldn't tell whether they were tears of grief or of joy.
Tarja slipped quietly onto the bed, moving moving her leg over his body so that she was straddling him. Alistair's face immediately went beetroot red. This sort of proximity would have been embarrassing on a normal day; laying on a bed with a noticeable lack of clothes made it significantly more so. For several moments, they just... Were. Tarja seemed content to simply kneel there over him, her chocolate brown eyes an entrancing mixture of passion and tenderness. Then the young man tried to speak, to say something- he didn't know what, anything to alleviate the tension he felt- and she moved to stop him, locking her lips firmly with his own. The kiss tasted sweet, but it was by no means gentle. Alistair flushed all the more deeply add he felt the woman's tongue press against his lower lip in an attempt to gain entrance. Not knowing what else to do, he opened his mouth a little, and Tarja intertwined her tongue sensually with his. The warrior's hands had been limp upon the bed, but now he found that they began to move of their own accord, first running up her slim sides, then fumbling with clumsy fingers at the ties of her clothes. Part of him wanted to stop right there, to go back to that uncertain but comfortable relationship they had maintained for barely a week, but the other part- most notably his lower parts- certainly disagreed.
Alistair, with nowhere to go, could not have broken the kiss if he'd wanted to, so it was Tarja who pulled back first, breathless- if only for a second, to pull her top over her head and carelessly dispose of it. The Ferelden hadn't even seen her remove her boots and woollen breeches, but he could feel her bare legs against his. The mage sat back and, standing on no sort of ceremony, you're off the remainder of her clothes, leaving her naked. Alistair felt as though he should say something but, lacking the words to do so, he reached out and cupped a breast in his hand. Tarja frowned, seemingly unsure how to respond to the action, but it almost instantly turned to a gasp of shocked pleasure as the young man pressed his nail gently into her nipple, causing it to stiffen. A low moan escaped her lips as he to rolled the hardened bud between his fingers.
By the time Tarja swatted his hands away and let her body flop heavily onto the bed beside him, weak from the intensive pleasure, Alistair was no longer sure who was in control of the situation. Ignoring the stab of pain it brought, he rolled himself over, sitting up a little way, the better to place himself between the mage's legs. She looked down at him sharply, brown eyes wide as he spread her thighs slightly, regarding her nether regions almost lustfully. She opened her mouth, perhaps to object, perhaps to request a break, but all that emerged was a long groan as the man pressed his mouth to her. He kissed her, lapping tenderly at the wet pinkness between her legs, and it was just moments before he heard her cry out again. Her back arched, hands clutching desperately at the white sheets, her body shuddering with relief.
"A-Alistair..." She murmured, staring up at him incredulously, breath coming in heavy, trembling gasps. Following her release, her body was too weak to evade his advances, and as he moved to be on level with her, positioning himself for the inevitable final phase, her only reaction was a faint whimper of protest. Even that died away to nothing in just moments, and she succumbed fully to the promise of pleasure. Alistair did not know where he found the confidence to begin, but begin he did, sliding into the woman slowly and tauntingly. He felt a shiver pass through her prone form, and her nails dug very slightly into the skin of his back. As he began to thrust, each almost unnoticeably faster and harder than the last, he wrapped strong arms about her slender body and pulled her gently against him. Her skin was damp with sweat, breath hot and ragged against his neck. She held him as he held her, albeit with nails that now jabbed deep into his flesh.Tarja made a noise somewhere in between a groan and a scream, and went limp in his arms. Alistair felt a warmth flow from within her, and realised she had hit her orgasm again.
"Stop... Alistair... I need a minute..." The mage begged, but he could not. He could feel a pressure building within himself, and to stop now would require a mental strength he simply did not have. Tarja's eyes opened wide as she realised what he was doing, and she gave a shocked gasp as he began to thrust even harder. Alistair felt ever muscle in his body clench with ecstasy as he spilt his seed, before he and the mage he had come to love collapsed onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and bedclothes.
"I-Idiot..." Tarja muttered weakly, nestling her head into his shoulder. If she said more, Alistair didn't hear it, for in just moments he had fallen once more into the dark comfort of sleep.
---------------------------------------------------
"Did you have to describe that part in such detail?"
Tarja's face now wore an expression of sheer outrage, but throughout the tale, Alistair had been able to enjoy it cycling through a variety of colours, from white right the way up to an almost glowing shade of crimson.
"I was told to recount it exactly how it happened." The warrior retorted with a cheeky grin. His fiance made a noise of agitated exasperation, and stalked off in a huff.
The scribe who had been tasked with recording the events now two years passed, a young Warden by the name of Harvey, was regarding his superior with what may have been anything from admiration to horror. His quill was hovering over a suspiciously empty page, several black puddles forming under its inked tip.
"Please tell me you wrote all that down."
"Um... Sorry, Sir, I was listening too hard. It was an... interesting story."
Alistair sighed, and glanced out of the window. The sky had long since darkened, and beyond the glass nothing was visible of the blasted hills of the Anderfels.
"Go get some sleep then. We'll try again tomorrow."
The scribe packed away his parchment and ink quickly, leaving the Warden stood alone with the books in the room, smiling at old memories.