Heavily inspired by the amazing story "The Chains that Bind"

There are parts of me that don't get nervous
Not the parts that shake
You won't get what you deserve
You are what you take
Learning to cry for fun and profit
I'm not done yet
Some people get by with a little understanding
Some people get by with a whole lot more
I don't know why you gotta be so undemanding
One thing I know, I want more

- Sisters of Mercy

I.

A stroke of luck, some would say. Skill, others would argue. It was all the same to him, if he was to be completely honest. The bundle of limbs on the cold stone floor before him looked nothing like the saint-like descriptions of the great Herald, the dreaded Inquisitor that the whole of Thedas spoke of as some sort of saviour sent from the Maker himself with the blessing of the Maker's own chasind bitch prophet Andraste.

Bruised porcelain skin trailed a soft curvaceous body, now only covered by a tattered, dirty tunic reaching just below her hips. Dirty, auburn brown curls, stale with mud and blood, covered her sloping shoulders and curved back as she lay there unconscious, captured and spent. A stroke of luck, indeed.

His soldiers had chained her up in his private chambers in his stronghold, the Shrine of Dumat. What he was supposed to do with her, he had not yet decided. It was possible that the organization she led, would try to come to her aid, or perhaps not. She was the entire organization, she was the person who had pestered him for the last two years – without her, the entire organization of self-righteous shits like her commander, Cullen, would crumble before the eyes of Thedas.

Raleigh Samson, the cast out Templar, the lyrium addict and beggar, the Lowtown junky piece of shit, turned general of a independent group of Templars in the aftermath of the mage rebellion of Kirkwall's Chantry and now the Red General of Corypheus' templars, looked down on his greatest feat thus far. Iris Trevelyan. A noblewoman from a powerful marcher-family out of Ostwick; and now she lay defeated beneath his feet. She was not bad to look at, Samson thought to himself, he had noticed when she was first brought before him, snarling and spitting like a wildcat caught and restrained by heavy gauntleted hands. For such a small, soft young woman – could she even be over twenty years old? – she was fierce and determined, desperately trying to jerk herself out of his templar's steadfast grip.

He had simply looked at her, with a shark-like grin when she was held up before him, her auburn curls flowing over her dirty face and her deep blue eyes dark with rage, narrow with spite – as he gestured his guards to take her away, she had spat at him. It amused him, seeing her lush and full pink, but bloodied lips purse together to form the saliva she threw at him. She was fierce, powerful and bore all of the self-assurance one could expect from a noble-born leader of a self-righteous religious organization. It made his cock throb in his breeches, as she spat at him – and now, he could feel the heat inside him grow once again as he watched her, limp and unconscious before him. Her soft pale thighs bruised and smeared with darkened blood and mud. He had let her stew for a few days in the dungeon before she was once again brought up, this time to his chambers and chained to contain her.

As he pulled up a chair just out of her reach, she woke up in a confused start, lifting her head to look at him with dizzy eyes. Samson sat down with his legs spread wide apart, pushing forth his groin and leaning back into his chair, his predatory smile covering his lips as he inspected her on the floor.

"This is a gift I never expected", said Samson in marcher as he smiled wolfishly. The young woman before him sat up and drew her knees up against her chin, staring angrily at him, snarling as she had before, showing her teeth like a true vixen. It suited her, with her wild auburn curls. "Do you know were you are, girl?"

She did not answer him, merely kept her eyes locked upon him through narrowed eyes sparkling with rage and desperation. She hadn't expected to become a prisoner, to be caught by a troop of the Red General's templars – Samson couldn't think of anything more humiliating for the great Inquisitor and that made him smile even broader.

She was such a tiny little bitch, sitting there before him, young and tiny and blue-blooded. So much more human than himself – the taint from the red lyrium sang through his veins and had turned his steel grey eyes red, even though he had a stronger resilience to the poison than most others.

He rose from his chair and closed in on her, grabbing her by her long curls – pulling her up and crashing her into the cold stonewall behind her. He followed her with his eyes, his face so close to hers that he felt her breath flowing over his collarbone and neck. He must be at least a head taller than her, but it only strengthened his power over her, looming over her small, short but lithe body. He pressed his hip against her body to restrain her against the wall and as a quick hand was thrown as him, he caught it and bent her hand, turning her quickly, pressing her soft heart-shaped complexion against the rough cold stones of the wall. He couldn't help but to chuckle as she hissed from the pain in her loins. He breathed down her neck as he held her in a grip so firm it not only bruised her, but also drew blood.

"You're mine now", Samson hissed, keeping to their common mother tongue of marcher as he spoke to her. "You little noble whore, what have you gotten yourself into, hm?"

"Fucking bastard", she finally hissed through her teeth. It made Samson laugh, finally having enticed her to speak. He wondered how many times he would need to call her a whore, for her to give him the pleasure of hearing her speak two sentences. As he pressed himself against her, clasping her limbs so tight her joints creaked that she was shaking from the pain, his cock stiffened against her soft milky skin. He pushed his hard cock against the curve of her back and her round arse and the look she shoot him over her shoulder, horrified and frightened, made his chuckle rumble from the depth of his stomach.

"I will beat that fierceness out of you eventually, and it seems I've gotten myself to a good start", he murmured into her ear and bit her lobe and he could feel her wince and starting to struggle again under his grip. "You can fight all you want, girl, but it won't help you. Your precious commander won't come for you, you're stuck in the void with me now"

He grinded his hard cock against her and groaned in her ear before he loosened his grip on her and backhanded her so hard she fell down to the floor once more. He then stood smiling with his arms crossed over his chest, watching her for a while as she lay helplessly on the on the floor, struggling to keep some kind of composure, before he left for his bedchamber, leaving her to stew in the darkness of his study.

II.

Raleigh Samson, one of the few people it had seemed Cullen feared, Iris feared him too, but not for the same reason as Cullen. She didn't fear his menacing words or his status of being the great Red General, putting fear into the whole of southern Thedas – she feared him because she saw herself in him. He had spoken to her in their mother tongue, she hadn't heard marcher spoken for months – even though Varric also was a marcher, they were seldom alone when they spoke and therefore often kept to the common tongue. His Lowtown Kirkwall-accent was different from her own, more educated accent with a hint of the long vowels typical of Ostwick. Samson had spoken with a precise shortness and a deep pronunciation of his consonants, very typical of lower class Kirkwall.

Iris was furious, so furious she was shaking as she lay on the cold stone floor of what looked like a study of sorts. It was dark, but she could make out a large desk and a few chairs and bookshelves filled with books. She couldn't see any guards, but she could hear Samson in the room adjoining the room she was in. She sat up against the wall and tried to block out her thirst and hunger, she couldn't recall the last time she had a hot meal – or a bath. The dust and dirt, together with the dried blood cluttered all over her body and her hair made her wince as it itched like lice. Her body was sore, sore from the damage she had taken when they had caught her and she fought back. Sore from the cold stones and the damp hay she had spent the last few days on, sore from the violent grip of Samson's large calloused hands as he manhandled her. Her lip had split during her capture – and it was once again bleeding from the back of his hand.

The cold clutches around her wrists already scratched uncomfortably against her thin skin, you would have thought that during these last two years, her skin would have toughened up, become more rough, but it had not. It was still soft, even though it now contained several scars, marking her victories so far. There was a dull pain coming up from her ribs, she must have broken a few bones when the templars overpowered her, Cassandra and Vivienne. Where were they now? Had they been killed, she could not remember. She had been knocked out before she knew what happened to them. Suddenly, a sob tried to force its way up her throat, but she quickly gained control of her body and forced it back down. She would die, yes. But she always knew she was going to die, nobody knew when or where – and this seemed to be a good of a place as any, if she was to be honest with herself.

The only thing that frightened her was the mind of Corypheus' general. Raleigh Samson. Her body betrayed her when he had pushed her up against the wall, twisting her limbs until they creaked and she winced in pain, she felt his erection. He liked what he did, he enjoyed tormenting and hurting her. Of course he did. He had seen the horror in her eyes as he pressed his hard cock against her, how had he interpreted her eyes? That she was frightened of being violated, ravished? She wasn't. She had been horrified by her body's traitorous wetness in response to his body's hardness. Her own mind despised the man, but her body obviously did not and she hated herself for it. It was decrepit and degenerate. She had to struggle against both the cunning mind of Samson and her degenerate body – it was a war she simply couldn't win. And he was right, wasn't he? Cullen wouldn't magically show up like a knight in shining armour – since he was not a knight in shining armour. She had broken his heart and his person, by luring him into her bed, using him for her own pleasure, which he couldn't sate in any case – only to force him to continue feeding his own addiction. The hate she had seen in his pained eyes as she ordered him to ingest the glowingly blue substance, didn't bring the sympathy within her as he'd probably hoped for. But he was too soft for her, too kind for her determination.

Iris was awoken the next morning by the soft thud of a stale loaf of bread being thrown at her. As she looked up, she saw the tall statue of the Red General grinning down at her, while he was chewing on pieces of an apple that he carved off with a small dagger as he watched her. She frowned as their eyes met and he looked as amused as he had done the day before and he raised an eyebrow as he pushed the loaf of bread closer to her with his booted foot.

"Eat", said Samson and went over to his desk and grabbed a skin of water that he threw over to her before he sat down and finished his apple with his back turned to her.

Iris ignored his word and sat up, leaning against the wall and watched him sitting at his desk, seemingly answering messages and writing down commands for his troops. He kept working in ignorance of her during the entirety of the forenoon and Iris kept quiet, watching his tall frame as he leaned over his desk. Some time in the afternoon, she snorted to herself and she noticed how Samson froze, but did not give her the satisfaction of turning around to look at her. She decided to speak.

"I did not know Lowtown junk could write", said Iris calmly with no little venom in her voice. Of course Samson could write, he was an educated man after all, being educated by the Chantry and serving as a templar for two decades – she simply wanted to find out how she could spite him. He was only a man after all, underneath that monstrous corruption from the red lyrium.

It did not work as she had wished, Samson snorted in amusement but remained with his back turned to her. She needed to do better than that.

"But then again, the Chantry often takes upon them to educate the lowlife scum they find wandering the foul allies of Darktown, as long as they can wield a sword and enjoys raping mages"

That seemed to hit home, as Samson put his feathered pen down and leaned back in his chair, curling up his fists.

"How many mages have you forced to suck your cock? With promises of going easier on them and then fucking them until they bleed only to leave them spread and used", she continued.

He was quiet for some time, as if listening for more of her venom. She kept watching him, waiting for some verbal reaction.

"Have you asked your commander the same thing?" He finally answered in his raspy deep voice and laughed quietly. "Do you even know of the person he was before the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry?"

Iris did not answer, she knew only what Cullen had told her, which wasn't much.

"He might have told you pieces of it, but I suspect he's told you more of me, than of himself and his own role at the Gallows", now Samson turned around and got out of his chair and moved towards her. Iris pressed herself against the wall as he came closer, crouching down just across from her and reaching out, pulling a filthy lock of her hair from her face. "You're lovers, aren't you? Or at least have been"

Iris shot her eyes down to her knees, which she realized gave him all the answer he needed as he chuckled bitterly to himself before retaining the amused predatory grin on his face.

"I expected more of the woman who almost bested me, a noble marcher none the less. But I suppose it's easy for your kind to sway a man with your honey-dripping cunny, isn't it?" He paused and stroked a surprisingly gentle finger over one of her breasts, as he looked somewhat absentminded for a second or two. "When I was a beggar, on the streets of Darktown, as I fucked the few prostitutes I could afford between the dwarven dust, and I tried to pretend they were noble ladies. It didn't work. To be honest, they were just as filthy and degenerate as myself, hooked on different substances, for sure – but in as much need of coin as myself. I've always wondered what it would be like to watch one of you noble whores impaled over my dick, moaning and yelping like a bitch in heat"

Iris body betrayed her again, the traitor. Her breathing became heavier and she felt her blood rush through her, making her core swollen and wet. As she watched his large hand trail down from her breast, over her stomach, to her abdomen, she was filled with fear as she dreaded he would notice her actual reaction to his touch and words. That he would realize how easy he had won. Her instincts told her to act and before she knew what she was doing, she had thrown herself at him, trying to claw her way through his skin, tunic and breeches, biting, kicking and punching – but the chains held her back and what puzzled her further; he didn't fight her. He grinned, grinned.

"You bastard!" She screamed as she threw her fists at him as she straddled him, "How can you smile? You fucking lowlife scum, how dare you? How dare you even speak to me like that? You're a traitor to your own order of rapists and your country, you fucking cock-sucking son of a whore!"

He chuckled and grinned wolfishly at her tantrum. "And what are you? The great Inquisitor of an orlesian organization bound to the bastard Chantry, led by corrupted vipers"

At that comment, Iris flew into an even deeper rage and screamed as she finally landed a hard punch over his lips. That awoke Samson from his amused but defenceless position on the floor and he threw her off him by her hair and backhanded her over the face several times as she screamed. Iris spit at him, leaving bloody traces of her on his tunic, but his lyrium-infested red and steely grey eyes flared against her own deeply blue eyes.

He held her down by her throat and untied his leather breeches and before she knew it, he had spread her legs and forced two fingers inside her.

"Oh you little bitch", Samson chuckled in a hoarse voice and looked at her with predatory eyes as he let his fingers slide inside her, his thumb gently rubbing against her sensitive nub. "You're wet, all slick and ready"

He pulled his fingers out from her and tasted them. "Honey-dripping, indeed", he ginned with a smug expression on his face.

Iris had begun panting, he had won, the bastard – for now at least. She felt her cheeks blush and the red flush stretch down from her face to her chest as Samson hardened his grip on her throat and pulled her filthy tunic up, exposing her breasts fully to his gaze. He kneaded them firmly and then caught one of her sensitive nipples between his teeth, which made her let out an unwilling moan as she felt herself tremble. Traitorous sodding flesh. His quiet laughter and groaning only spurred her desire as he fondled her with his free hand. In one push, he forced himself into her core, his whole length and Iris couldn't help herself, she moaned deeply, filled with want and desire as he filled her up completely. He ravished her, pushing himself hard and fast into her, spitting his own blood from her punch in her face.

Her mind had given up on her body and she had become completely filled with the pleasure his fierce thrusting gave her, she didn't even comprehend the fact that she reached for his hips, making him grind against her as a lover does, helping her to reach her climax.

"You little whore", he chuckled as he grinded against her, filling her up completely, "you want me to make you come, don't you?"

He released her throat and gripped her hands in a hard grip and pushed her arms down over her head, leaning down over her and grinding against her more effectively. The full weight of his body pressed against her own and his hot breath on her neck and shoulders filled her with bolts of lightning as she neared her climax and he kept working her, intently and determined. Maker, she enjoyed it. Nobody had taken her like this before, claimed her in this way, completely overthrowing her and forcing her to give away herself. As the climax took her over, Samson fucked her harder and faster again, thrusting himself against her until he spilled his corrupted seed into her very being, her core.

As he came, she could have taken advantage, overthrown him and killed him – strangling him with the chains keeping her prisoned, but she didn't. Instead, to her own horror and surprise, she kissed him. And he kissed back, deeply and passionate. Their tongues swirled together and wrestled in a heated passion Iris never had felt before in her life. Samson didn't let go of her hands and he didn't pull out from her, until they both almost ran out of air.

When their lips parted, they stared at each other for a few seconds, before he let her go and rose to his full length above her, looking completely flushed himself as he laced up his breeches again. He looked down on the bloodstains on his tunic and smirked, looking back down on her.

"I have work to do", he said and went back to his desk, leaving her ravished and panting on the stone floor.