Dust. A few scattered cobwebs. The cone of light thinning out as the storage chamber's door falls shut.
Then it's darkness and the promise of solitude for a blessed half hour.
Except…
Evelyn startles, suddenly alert.
Except for the warmth radiating from right behind her. The warmth of a human body.
A tall, muscular, male body. Fear surges through her. She tries to turn around, face whoever is there. But the room is too narrow, the space too crammed now even for her to manoeuvre.
But who…?
"Inquisitor," an all-too familiar baritone sounds from behind, laced with uncertainty as she's sure her own voice is.
"Commander," she tries to ignore the shiver running down her side where his breath stroked her ear, "What brings you here?"
Cullen stammers in that infuriatingly alluring way. She feels him reaching but failing to rub the back of his neck. "There were the dance rehearsals for the ball," he manages at last. "I-I guess I bailed. Or tried to, at least," a quiet chuckle before something occurs to him.
"Why are you here, though?"
She's just about to answer when her blood freezes with a fresh bout of panic as they hear the metallic clank of the door's latch being closed.
From outside.
Evelyn nods in grim agreement to Cullen's hushed curse. They're trapped in here, in complete darkness, barely a hand's width between them, for Maker knows how long.
Hapless silence ensues before he speaks again. "So now that we're stuck here for a while," another embarrassed laugh, "why did you come here, if you don't mind my asking?"
She huffs to herself. Not only is she locked up in here- with nobody but the man she's been shamefully pining for, naturally. She'll also have to give up one of her last precious secrets she's kept as The Herald for the sake of idle conversation.
A deep breath precedes the answer she gives the door in front of her while her commander (Does he always smell that nice?) listens.
"I come here once or twice a week to be on my own. Usually I read." As if to emphasize her point her fingers tighten around the book in her left hand.
She's not sure whether it's due to the proximity but she can feel Cullen's smile, the sympathy and understanding in it. Yet confusion rings in his voice when he asks, "But how do you read in here?"
"There's a candle on the shelf behind you," she explains, trying to add that he needn't bother-
Too late.
Cullen turns towards the shelf, or tries to. A sound somewhere between a surprised yelp and a throaty moan escapes her when he bumps further into her, bringing his pelvis flush against her backside. He's not wearing armour.
Heat creeps up her skin and her heart hammers so hard, so loud that she wonders whether he can hear it.
Then he turns back, manages to bring some degree of distance between them. This time he does manage to reach his neck for a scratch.
As his arm lifts, musk and soap invade her senses. Despite herself Evelyn inhales and…
… that wasn't her sighing?
An awkward cough. "So… what are you reading, then?"
Evelyn would laugh if the situation wasn't so sad. "It's not terribly interesting," she lies, hoping that will satisfy his curiosity. It doesn't.
She gives a pained whimper when Cullen takes the book from her in what's no doubt meant to be jest. Somehow he manages to hold it at an angle and catch the gleam of light coming in through the scattered gaps in the wooden wall.
Curiosity lies in his voice when he reads out the title. "Swords and Shields…" And incredulous amusement. "… Volume Seven?"
Evelyn would laugh out loud if the situation wasn't as desperate. "Give it back, please," she says, her voice weak with resignation. Her face must equal a tomato at this point, and she briefly wonders when, if she's ever been as mortified.
Cullen senses her embarrassment and hands it back. Of course, just like everything else that's gone wrong today, their hands miss each other in the dark, and the book drops to the floor. She sighs, shaking her head as she bends to pick it up.
A grave mistake.
She ends up with her bottom right in his crotch. His hard crotch. Evelyn stops in her tracks, her heart pounding faster by the second. Cullen's groan must be as involuntary as the throb of arousal between her legs.
A deep breath in, then out.
Something about the utter absurdity of their predicament, the sheer hilarity of this situation, makes Evelyn forget all worries about consequences, decorum, decency. For once she decides to act against better judgement, to allow herself a little indulgence.
Supporting herself against the front wall, she slowly rises to stand up straight. She hears the little plop of Cullen's lips as his mouth falls open when she pushes back, pressing into him, his heat, his hardness.
Then everything happens quickly.
Fingers intertwine as hips grind into one another and gasps fill the small space. Each press of Cullen's length against her sends a flash of lust through her, one she hasn't felt in far too long.
Soon surprisingly soft lips find the expanse of her neck, covering it in tiny, wonderful kisses.
Evelyn hums when wide palms slide up her sides; hisses as they settle on her breasts; moans, loud and lustful, when eager fingers tug at taut nipples through rough fabric.
Mistake. Again.
The almost-lovers freeze abruptly when hurried footsteps sound from outside, along with a concerned voice.
"Inquisitor?"
Arousal and giddy excitement give way to the resourceful professionalism that's saved her so many times since the day her life changed.
"Yes?" The word has barely left her lips when she leans back to whisper curt instructions to her still-shocked commander.
"I will make sure this door stays unlocked. Wait a few moments then leave."
A squeeze of her hand. His lips in her hair. "Yes," he breathes. Evelyn's heart starts racing once more. In this moment she wants nothing more than to say something, anything.
But the door creaks open and she slips out, closing it before any incoming light gives him away.
Once outside, she blinks, trying to readjust to the daylight while waving off the servant girl's profuse apologies.
As she turns to leave, her eyes wander towards the narrow wooden door. Her head tilts in a split second's consideration of what could have been.
Then she's off, back to her duties without a fleeting moment for herself to reflect upon what happened inside that dark chamber. Discussions, plans, strategies taking over again, demanding all of her like she'll never get entirely used to.
The commander attends war council later that afternoon. And Maker, does he scratch his neck often.