Cullen sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. Blue eyes slipping closed in spite of his efforts to stay awake. The hours spent at work had taken their toll. He had grown weary, and was losing focus. Perhaps if he just took a moment or two to rest his eyes... It would do no harm, he told himself. If anything, it would probably help.

The evening was drawing on at a positively glacial pace, and he was beginning to regret the decision to lock himself in the basement archives with a promise to remain until his work was completed. The planning was tedious, though necessary. If not terribly boring. But, if the next foray through the Wastes was going to be successful, he would need to route a better - safer - path for his troops to take through the desert than the one they'd been provided last time.

Last time, Scout Harding's "shortcut" cost his soldiers four days and half a dozen broken bones when an old bridge collapsed, unceremoniously dropping a group of his men into the ravine below. An old bridge Harding had absolutely assured him was not actually old, and could easily hold the weight of more than two dozen heavily armoured men and women. When confronted about this miscommunication, all she offered in apology was a shrug, a lopsided smile, and a rather unhelpful, "Oops?"

This time he resolved to plan the route himself. Assure there would not be another "oops".

Slowly, but surely, he was making progress. Though as terribly droll as the task was, it had been a long slog even to get to this point. Thankfully, with most of the route finished now, he estimated there only remained another hour or two of work before he would be free of his self-made promise, and retire to his quarters. It was late, though not terribly so, and boredom had pushed him to the brink of exhaustion far sooner than he would otherwise succumb.

A distant chorus of laughter drew him from his thoughts. Upstairs, the party was starting to get a bit rowdy, and he was thankful for the peace and solitude offered by the basement archives. He'd never been much for soirees – too much emphasis on etiquette and conversation for his taste – and so had graciously managed to slip out of his invitation with the excuse of completing the research currently in front of him. It's not like his presence was terribly missed, he reasoned, when the excuse had been met by a mix of angry and disappointed glares by his fellow advisors – and one slightly jealous Inquisitor.

The banquet had gone on for hours now, and showed no signs of winding down. Rolls of bright – and likely drunken – laughter floated down the stairs from time to time. The sound of someone's raucous and eager story telling. By this point in the evening, the tales usually began to lean on the side of bawdy, with increasingly strained credibility. Though the guests were entertained nonetheless. Even Cullen could admit to seeing the fun of being a part of the audience at that point, regardless, he had no interest in partaking. It was a farce, as far as he was concerned. Yet another show of power, wealth and false modesty to impress upon yet another group of ass-kissing nobles that Josephine had insisted on presenting.

The Ambassador was quick to defend her party planning, explaining that such gatherings were a necessary part of gaining and maintaining power. Building connections, maintaining political ties, and all that ladder-climbing nonsense. Though every time she brought up the subject in the war room, and the Inquisitor's demeanor notably slumped, Cullen had to bite his tongue to hold back laughter. It seemed the Herald enjoyed them just as much as he did. At this point, he imagined Josie was likely the only member of the Inquisition who legitimately did enjoy them. She certainly planned enough of them. Even Dorian only used them as an excuse to get drunk on better wine. For the members of the inner circle, these parties had become little more than an elaborate betting game, with the goal of trapping someone in increasingly ridiculous conversations with self-absorbed nobles. But even that lost its appeal after a few hours, and everyone resolved to emptying the wine cellar instead. And once that started to happen, they all began to wander, and finding a quiet place to avoid them was near impossible.

Thankfully, the archives were always left unoccupied and served as an excellent hiding place. Even if someone went looking, they were unlikely to ever find him. No one ever came down here but Cullen himself. The books and maps stored on the dusty shelves were all too old, too obscure, or too damaged for anyone to care enough to organize or use. Most people did not even know the room existed at all; other than the occasional visit by a curious member of the cleaning staff, he'd never seen another living soul come through. The perfect secret hideaway.

Knowing this, it came as a bit of a shock when he heard the sound of rapid footsteps padding down the stairs toward the door. There came a muffled thud as someone's hand pushed against the heavy wood, a pause, and then another – more aggressive – attempt to open it.

"It's locked!" came a startled whisper from beyond the door.

Cullen narrowed his eyes. Is that the Inquisitor…? His question answered almost immediately when a familiar, second, voice replied to the first.

"The cleaning staff always carry a spare key, and they do come by to dust from time to time. They must have locked it earlier." Solas sounded far more irritated than the situation called for. Normally, Cullen would have unlocked the door and bid them welcome, but this evening he had no desire to be disturbed, and so decided to ignore the intrusion and return to his work. Whatever the Inquisitor and Solas needed from the archives in the middle of a banquet could easily wait for tomorrow.

Besides, he got here first, and this was his hideaway.

So instead, he smoothed the map of the Hissing Wastes out on the table in front of him, and pulled his feathered cloak tighter around his shoulders to block the chill. They would leave in a moment.

"Argh!" came the Inquisitor's frustrated growl. She kicked the door with the sharp heel of her shoe – awkward heels that Josephine had insisted she wear and she fought against to the bitter end. The sound echoed through the empty room. Cullen allowed himself a quiet chuckle at that – she sounded a little drunk. Perhaps, more than a little. He had only seen her drunk a handful of times, but each one had been a treat. Part of him wondered if it might be worth joining the party for the last few hours simply to see it again. Often, she was more flirtatious after she'd had something to drink; more at ease with casual, physical affection, and her tongue considerably looser. Something he enjoyed far more than he would readily admit.

The last time he had seen her drunk was at the last banquet they'd held, a few months prior. She spent quite a bit of time with him that night, full of easy smiles and terrible jokes. It was a memory he revisited more often than was entirely appropriate. They sat at a table at the far end of the hall, drinking far too much Antivan wine and complaining about the terrible attitudes of the Orlesians they were hosting. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and told him that his feathered cloak tickled her nose. Made a joke about Leiliana's birds nesting in it. Later, and after another bottle of wine had been shared between them, she reached up and touched his face – something she had never done before – delicately running a fingertip over the scar on his lip as she asked him about its origin. It was an intimate sort of touch, one she likely would not have given if she'd not had so much to drink. The thought of it still made him shiver; idly bringing his own fingers to his lips to retrace the path hers had taken. He knew he'd blushed furiously, but she graciously did not tease him about his fluster while he told her how he'd received the mark. When the story was finished, she gave him a crooked little smile that made his stomach flip. And before he knew it, he was eyeing the pink circles on the apples of her cheeks, and her swollen lips. Wet, and stained red from wine.

Leiliana approached them then, stealing Ellana's attention away for a few moments, and somehow he found his eyes trailing along a dangerous path. From the delicate tip of her pointed ear, down the column of her neck where her fingers played, to the line of her bared shoulder, and the swell of her breasts spilling over the bodice of her gown. Perhaps it was the drink he'd imbibed that lent him the boldness to linger there for the space of a few breaths, watching as her chest rose and fell. Flushed a soft red from alcohol. Or, maybe, something else?

When the Spymaster bid the Inquisitor farewell, she flashed Cullen a look that left him feeling thoroughly chastised. Flustered and blushing yet again by the time Ellana turned her attention back to him.

He shook his head, banishing the memory. Inappropriate, to say the least. One should not indulge in such thoughts about their leader. Though, he thought with some amusement, that had not exactly stopped him before.

A voice pulled him from his reverie.

"So disappointed?" Solas remarked then, laughing brightly.

That gave him pause. It was a bit absurd to hear the sound: the elf was not exactly the most mirthful person, and Cullen had only heard him chuckle a handful of times in the year he'd known the man. And he'd never heard him take such a teasing and familiar tone with the Inquisitor. It was a bit… confusing. Admittedly, it made him curious enough to eavesdrop. His confusion only deepened to hear her answer with an unmistakeably coquettish, "I have been able to think of little else all night." Followed by Solas' barely audible reply of, "Myself as well." His voice taking on a low, throaty quality that Cullen had never even thought him capable of.

Was he flirting with her? Honestly… flirting?

The Commander shifted in his seat, finding himself rather uncomfortable with the unexpected pang of jealousy that hit him, then. He'd never even thought Solas attracted to her. Or to anyone, come to think of it. She was beautiful, brilliant and unique – he would have to be be blind not to notice – and perhaps he'd heard the elf pay her a compliment once or twice, but…

He was teasing her, Cullen decided. Mirroring her own flirtation, her casual use of what was obviously double-entendre by offering one of his own. As strange as that would be, coming from him, it seemed a much more plausible explanation than the alternative. They were friends, after all.

Still, the envy sat heavy in Cullen's gut when he heard her take amusement in the apostate's teasing. Especially when he added a cryptic, "Perhaps we should do something about those errant thoughts," that was immediately followed by her rather girlish giggle.

Was that… a joke? Was he actually carrying her flirtation into a suggestive joke?

…Could he be drunk as well?

The idea seemed rather outrageous, and yet all evidence pointed to that conclusion. It was rare he had heard the elf be anything less than painfully reserved, practically opposed to humour. Particularly of the suggestive variety.

Maybe the banquet might actually be worth the trouble of his attendance if he could not only experience more of Ellana's drunken flirtation, but also a glimpse into Solas' sense of humour. What a rare treat that would be. It was likely more interesting than staring at this blighted map until he went cross-eyed, anyway. Perhaps he'd worked enough for one evening.

He was getting ready to abandon his task and follow them back up the stairs when he heard a rustle of silken skirts, a soft thud, a grunt from the Inquisitor as though she had fallen over, and an immediate hush.

What on—?

Cullen looked to the large, crooked, gap at the bottom of the door where a section of the wood had broken off, and just beyond it saw the two sets of feet – one wrapped and one heeled – now clearly facing each other and very, very close. Far too close for friends to stand.

In quick succession, a number of things happened: a soft moan, a muffled gasp, a quick shift of both their feet closer to the wall next to the door, and the clatter of one of Ellana's heels as it slipped off and she slid a pointed toe up the back of Solas' leg.

She giggled.

Maker's breath, are they…?

He didn't even know they were interested in one another, let alone intimate enough to be sharing stolen kisses in a stairwell. A heavy knot settled deep in his stomach as the full weight of realization hit him. Of course they were together. He'd seen the signs of their flirtation over the last few months, he'd just chosen to ignore it in favour of the fantasy.

The long visits to the rotunda when Solas was working, where she had spent so many afternoons reading on the couch and twirling her hair between her fingers. The times he'd seen them stand just a little too close to each other while talking, much closer than the apostate generally allowed. Casual little touches to his body that he welcomed, when he would normally recoil; he never seemed to like being touched. That alone should have tipped him off. Solas smiled more often in the last few months than he had in the entire year previous, but almost exclusively in her presence. Once, Cullen thought he saw Solas approach the Inquisitor and touch his fingers to the small of her back, that little dip above her rear – just for a moment – before returning his hands behind his back. At the time, he'd brushed it off as an accident. Then, there was the time he came upon them speaking in the empty courtyard and, when she noticed his approach, Ellana took a sudden, almost panicked, step back from Solas. Her cheeks brightly flushed. Even Solas looked unsettled for a fraction of a second.

At the time, he had dismissed it as nothing. Thinking that he had simply startled them both. But now, when he added all the little moments up together, it clearly pointed to an illicit affair. He shook his head, a soft huff of bitter laughter on his lips. She was flirtatious and affectionate with all of her friends, he'd been a fool to think her shy smiles and gentle touches were reserved for him.

Another giggle, and a sigh, broke through his thoughts. Solas made a quiet noise, more a heavy breath than anything else, then said something in Elvish that was muffled by a kiss. Their feet were practically entangled now. The sounds of their fevered embrace and the shush of her silken skirts moving about as he touched her were obvious even through the door. The large gap at the bottom from the missing wood and uneven floor didn't exactly lend itself to soundproofing. In addition, it was so quiet in this part of the castle that even the smallest noise seemed to echo.

Every kiss rang in his ears.

Making it all the more terribly uncomfortable to be seated at a dusty table, trapped in this room with another man just outside the door, thoroughly enjoying the kisses he'd thought about far too many times. For a moment too long, he found himself imagining what it would be like to have her. What would it feel like if those flirtations had been just for him? The shy smile, breathy sigh, that dainty foot sliding its way up the back of his calf in an empty hallway… A soft gasp when he kissed her neck.

He shook his head firmly. Enough of that. With great effort, he tore his eyes away from the pairs of feet under the door and tried to refocus on his work. They would be gone soon enough, and then this would be nothing but an awkward, uncomfortable memory he would never share with another living soul.

Ever.

Though, he could not help but wonder how long their affair had been going on under the nose of their companions. He imagined it had been some time, simply by the length of their embrace. And by the quiet, needy, moan she gave just then – it was not the type of sound one makes during the first, apprehensive overtures of new lovers. He wondered if anyone else knew of their relationship, or if his accidental proximity meant he was the first to find out. If anything, they had been exceptionally discrete.

"Someone will miss me," she said. Her voice rasped in a way that made Cullen wish he was anywhere else. He could almost see the kisses Solas placed along her neck that made her punctuate each word with a little hitched breath.

"Not yet," replied Solas roughly. A soft gasp. A pause. "Sael, ma garas ar'sul."

Cullen didn't know a lick of Elvish, but given the tone of Solas' delivery, he was reasonably certain he hadn't said, "Let's get back to the banquet". And if he'd any doubt of the man's intentions, that was erased by the keening moan that followed immediately after whatever he'd said to her. A quick glance at the door showed that their feet had edged even closer together, if that was even possible. Solas shifted his weight toward her, causing the one foot she had on the ground to tremble slightly. Rocking up onto her toes. She gasped, the sound immediately muffled by another kiss.

"Maker's breath," muttered Cullen as quietly as he could manage. He shifted in his seat, turning his back to the door as if his position relative to it would somehow block the act. He could say something – startle them – but at this point his own embarrassment at being accidental witness to their tryst was far worse than the risk of embarrassing them. Somehow.

He smoothed his hands over his map again, forcing himself to focus on it. They would leave soon, he was sure of it. They had to. There was a banquet going on literally steps away. It was just the momentary dalliance of a couple merry with drink and a bit too eager for the night to end. A moment aside for an embrace and wandering hands. Though it was obvious there was more between them… clearly, they had laid together, and for some time, given how readily the man was eliciting those sounds from her throat. Right outside the door. Just feet from where Cullen sat. Is she always like this? Solas had probably heard those sounds a hundred times; knew all the ways to coax them from her. They came easily enough now. Just beyond the door. Right there in the hall.

A question passed through his mind of what she'd sound like when—

Maker! Why are you thinking about that? Don't think about that.

But it was becoming more and more difficult not to. Another obscene noise came from beyond the door, followed by a firm shush from Solas. "Ea'durlahn," he said. Rasped, really. In a low and rather forceful tone Cullen had never heard from the elf and hoped never to hear again. "We are not in the archives, and I have set no wards."

The knot in his stomach twisted a little tighter as he replayed the conversation they'd had when first approaching the door. From it, he drew a series of uncomfortable conclusions.

This was not the first time they had done this.

They had expected the door to be unlocked.

They had been sneaking away to have sex in the archives.

They had been sneaking away to have sex in the archives for a while.

His eyes scanned the room. Other than the shelves, it contained little more than the table he was seated at and two chairs. It occurred to him that they were the only objects in the room devoid of a thick coating of dust.

He thought, accidentally, of Ellana's body splayed out on the table before him. Her hair pooled around her head, legs wrapped around his waist and arms encircling his neck. Body flushed and slick with sweat. Making the same mewling, needy cries he could hear from her now. So unbelievably close to him. And Maker could he ever hear her. Every tight breath, every rising moan, quiet plea, and—

Is it warm? It was very warm. He never remembered the archives being quite this warm. They were usually freezing.

Cullen shrugged out of his coat and carefully hung it on the back of his chair. His leg was beginning to bounce against the floor now. Hands pulling roughly at his face as he tried, and failed, to keep his attention on the map.

They're just kissing, he told himself. Lied to himself. Just very passionately. Drunkenly. They are likely both very drunk. After all, he could recall his own youthful indiscretions; sneaking off to steal kisses in a hallway. Sneaking his hand up a shirt. All lovers do it. The banquet goes on, they will return soon enough, and then he can go back to pretending this never happened.

But then…

"Ah!" Her voice, high and strained, called out. "Gods, Solas, don't st—ah!"

Andraste help me.

The gap under the door showed him Solas' bare feet firmly planted on the floor, but only one of hers alongside them. On pointed toe. And trembling. Her breaths coming hard and heavy.

He could no longer pretend he didn't know what was happening. And now he was going to have to sit through the rest of it. He couldn't exactly try to stop them now and then attempt to explain why he didn't do so before. Cullen covered his face with both hands, swallowed hard, and tried not to think about how tight his breeches had become.

Another moan, higher this time. Almost a whine. More panting. And then a soft light was seeping under the door, and it caught his attention. When it surged brighter, Ellana swore sharply in Elvish. That, at least, was a word he recognized.

Is that… magic? What on—?

He laughed softly as understanding dawned. Of course, he was a mage; there must be an endless supply of wonderful tricks a mage could use for pleasure. As if an ex-templar could ever compare.

A string of broken Elvish followed the blast of light. With his feeble grasp of the language, Cullen was unsure if it was a failed attempt at a complete sentence or a series of broken words. Whatever it was, she followed it up with a loud, "Gods and creators" and a strangled cry of her lover's name.

At the sound of her repeated gulping, gasps for breath, Cullen frantically reached for his notes and used them to fan himself. It's never been this hot in the archives, he decided, and was unlikely ever to be again.

The sounds of her climax seemed to go on for an impossibly – uncomfortably – long time. Interspersed with soft, urgent Elvish from Solas that he'd never hope to translate. Commands, praises, or something of its ilk. He was reasonably certain he could deduce their meaning based on the rasp of his voice. The cries kept coming, and eventually he started to wonder if she was that vocal, or if he was simply that inexperienced. Maybe both.

Slowly, gradually, she quieted. The two of them shifting into the soft, muted noises of lingering kisses and sated groans. The light under the door subsided. A pause, and her other foot finally found the floor again. She giggled quietly, flirtatiously, prompting an approving hum from Solas. Then, "Shall I return the favour?" she asked slyly.

Oh, Maker, no. Please do not return the favour. I do not want to hear you return the favour. For the love of all that is good and holy, please do not let me see your knees on the floor.

But gratefully, "No, vhenan, I would much rather wait for a proper bed to have you," he answered. Darkly, Cullen thought the refusal was frankly miraculous. A lesser man would not have thought twice before accepting such an offer.

Another giggle. "That has never stopped you before. As I recall it was not three nights ago that—"

"That was extenuating circumstances," interrupted Solas. Another kiss. "And no one is in the kitchens at that hour."

Maker's breath, I do not need to know these things.

"Perhaps—" a quiet pause, the sounds of another long kiss, and a moan. "—a half hour? Your quarters? Can you escape?"

She laughed, the sound loud and bright, but with a tinge of roughness that hinted at what had transpired between them. "Give me ten minutes. I will find a way."

"Ma nuvenin," Solas replied.

They stayed another moment or two at the foot of the stairs, exchanging kisses and soft sighs, before gradually making their way back up into the rotunda. Once he heard the slam of the door to the main hall as it closed behind them, when he was absolutely sure they were both gone, Cullen let out the breath he had been holding.

"Andraste's flaming tits!" he yelled, borrowing the blasphemous curse from Varric. The situation seemed to warrant it. He dropped his head into his palms, laughing in spite of himself. This whole thing was absurd. Terribly, humiliatingly, absurd. After tonight, he promised himself he would never again escape to the archives for solitude.

They can have them!

Fifteen minutes later, after assuring he'd given them the extra five minute buffer, Cullen finally left the archives. He slipped unseen into the main hall, easily disappearing amongst the crowd of rowdy partygoers. The soiree still just as loud and bustling as it had been when he'd passed it by some hours earlier. Packed to the brim with masks, gowns and nobles drunk on expensive wine.

A quick scan of the room told him the couple had successfully managed to slip away, which meant he had at least ten minutes (maybe longer? He tried not to think about it) to try to get to his room without running into them. After that, he didn't think he could look either of them in the eye. At least, not for a few days.

Or, maybe ever again.

A sudden touch to his arm made him jump. He whirled to find Cassandra next to him. "Oh, Cullen!" she exclaimed, and smiled. "You're here! I had not expected to see you. I thought you had something to attend to?"

He tried not to look as awkward as he felt, forcing a smile as he replied, "Yes, well, I-I believe I would be better served taking it to my quarters instead. The work."

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, clearly put off by his blustering, but ultimately deciding to let it lie. She glanced around the room. "Have you seen the Herald? I have need of her, but it seems she's disappeared."

He flushed. Coughed. Rubbed at the back of his neck, and averted his eyes. "Ah, yes—I mean, no! I-I believe she went to her quarters. She needed to get somethi—to receive some—retrieve! To retrieve an item. Something." Cassandra arched a brow, but said nothing in reply. Regarding him with no small amount of suspicion. He cleared his throat, uttering a quiet 'Maker', under his breath. "If you'll excuse me," he mumbled, and then quickly extricated himself from the conversation.

Leaving the Seeker standing in the middle of the hall, blinking in confusion, watching as he made his way from the room with all the grace of a terrified nug.

Notes: If you enjoy my horrible trash, give me another prompt .com TRANSLATIONS:
Sael, ma garas ar'sul = Before that, you'll come for me
Ea'durlahn = Be quiet
Ma nuvenin = as you wish