Written for Dragon Age Kinkmeme prompt: "F!Hawke makes LI come in his pants. Intentional? Oblivious Hawke? Sweet? Playful? Awkward? Desperate dry hump-o-rama? It's all good. Friendmance, please. LIs: Fenris, Anders, Cullen or Nathaniel."

NOTES: Story assumes Cullen and Marian Hawke became secretive, committed lovers sometime after Hawke was declared Champion of Kirkwall. This story occurs right after that ass-biter of a battle with the High Dragon in the Bone Pit during Act III.

—

If anyone dared to ask Cullen what was happening back in the stern of their boat, he was ready to lay blame on the choppy waves slamming them. He would blame the rough water for the grimace he wore, for the strangled moan that growled in the back of his throat. He would claim a sudden bout of seasickness. And, as for why he held the Champion of Kirkwall firmly against him (as she leaned into his chest, his arm around her waist, her buttocks pressed into his groin), he would blame that on the rough sea too.

The reason he planned to give was irrefutable: it was his duty to protect, which was why he made certain that the Champion (not Marian, not his friend, not his lover and companion) returned to Kirkwall without suffering further injury while the waves tossed their boat. Should any harm come to the Champion when traveling with his men, it would cause a debacle that the Templar Order did not need. That was why he clutched her (tightly, holding her close, their bodies molded together, both of them pressed into a nook in the boat's stern). When they found her, she had already been wounded in her left leg and suffered from a mild concussion. Her body was weak and the waters were rough. Thus, duty called for him to see to her safety, at least until the waves calmed or they docked in Kirkwall's harbor. She was the Champion after all. Nothing about his actions required questioning.

Luckily for him, no one else on board seemed to care. Everyone else was engaged with the demands of sailing or focused on remaining upright while waves broke against the hull and splashed aboard. But if anyone asked, Cullen was ready with his excuse.

Not that anyone should ask. He was the highest ranked officer on board. If he chose to stay back in the stern with the Champion, that was his right. (He choked back another moan. A wave crashed into the boat as he held Marian. Her rib cage rose and fell against his hand, the brush of her hair against his face, their intimate familiarity made real after days and nights of worry. Emotions washed over one other, fear breaking into relief, surging into desire. Her hips moved with the motion of the boat, grinding against him, exciting him. He wanted to be back in Kirkwall immediately, in her bedroom, both of them undressing the other frantically. As much as he shouldn't think those thoughts, shouldn't allow his body to respond, he did nothing to stop her backside from pressing into his stiffening cock. Oh, Maker, he would be damned for this.)

As for the reason why the Champion was in a boat returning to Kirkwall with a unit of templars, it was purely a matter of coincidence. None of this had been planned and Cullen would swear to it. True, he had not seen her in weeks (three weeks, four days, and seven hours) but was there reason why he should have? The Champion often attended to business outside of Kirkwall's city walls. (But rarely was she ever gone for so long, especially without sending word. As he held her, he stopped himself from pressing a kiss to her cheek.) Earlier in the day, Cullen led a unit of templars to handle an incident on an island along the Wounded Coast, just off shore of the Bone Pit. By pure chance, the Champion and her associates were also there. Despite the Champion sustaining injuries from a battle at the mine, she happened to be investigating the same smugglers Cullen's men were tracking. Thus, her interests and the Order's were aligned. Once the contraband had been seized, it had only made sense to offer her passage back to Kirkwall. After all, Cullen had matters to discuss with her companion, the Guard Captain, and Marian had sustained serious injuries as had one of her companions. Had the seas not be so rough, nothing out of the ordinary between him and the Champion would have occurred.

Except a situation out of the ordinary had arisen. Not the storm-tossed sea along the Wounded Coast that they sailed through, but a battle at the Bone Pit a few hours before Cullen's men had arrived. The Champion had faced a high dragon, a legend made real in flesh, bone, and fire. Hearing the tale that her companions had told him, it was a miracle any of them survived. (But thankfully, oh sweet blood and breath of Andraste, Marian was still alive.) Cullen found it hard to imagine how she crossed to the island and snuck up on smugglers, but she did and that act had used up the last of her strength. He had no option other than to support her weight against his body when she staggered onto the templar's boat. That was why they had wedged themselves into a nook in the stern of the boat, the Champion secure between his legs, her hands clutching the heavy cloth of his skirt at his knees. (He bit back another moan, wondering whether the gyrations of her buttocks against his groin were intentional.)

Normally he exhibited self control when with her in public.

(Normally he saw her privately once per week if not twice or thrice. Their long evenings together, extending into early morning hours. Yet, with the demands at the Gallows and Marian handling emergencies at the mine, they had gone far too long without the other's company. Not once in three weeks and four days had he found a chance to see her, to brush the stubborn lock of hair from her face before he hesitated, as he always did. He always let her make the next move, leaning forward to kiss. No matter how many times he asked her why she loved him, he could not make sense of why a lady like her would take him into her home, into her bed. What he had missed most during her long absence was the playful tickle of her fingers running through his hair, stopping above the nape of his neck, just before she would lean in for a kiss. He replayed that memory in his mind all of those nights he spend alone, conjuring the simplest delights of her touch. Those secular moments, still clothed, still standing by the fireplace, long before the hours when he would map the glory of her nakedness, each muscle tensing as he staked his claim, her giving over ownership of her flesh.)

He should have visited her at least once, if not twice, but he had not. Now it was very much his fault that he was clutching her tightly in the stern of the boat, his unit of men huddled up near the prow, Aveline, Sebastian, and Varric in the middle, and the last of the day's fading light doing little to cloak them. At least no one was looking back. (It was entirely his fault that his body responded to her weight pressed against him, every movement of her hips. Both of them had discarded their armor for their safety like everyone else on board while sailing the rough waters. No more than a few damp layers of cloth and leather lay between his flesh and Marian's. With one of his hands beneath her cloak, he could cup her left breast if he dared. No one else would know but he didn't.)

Not in public.

Which is why he swore to himself that it was entirely his fault that his cock had stiffened, responding to each movement of Marian's body, her hips rocking with the rise and fall of the boat, her buttocks grinding into his groin. The weight of her upper body swayed to counterbalance the rough seas, moving in concert with him. He had thought it all his fault that he displayed no self-control, until her arm reached behind him and he felt the press of her fingertips in the back of his thigh, urging him to move against her. Her shoulder blades dug into his chest as she arched her lower back. He was certain—certain without a doubt—that she had felt him grow hard and her movements were no longer innocent.

So there he was, riding out the choppy waves in the stern of the boat, his erect cock poking from the waistband of his smalls, the swollen tip rubbing against the fabric of his tunic, the length of his shaft pressed into the tunic's heavy skirt, riding the seam of Marian's leather-clad buttocks. She rocked her hips in familiar rhythm. (What in the Maker's holy name was he doing?) But he needed release far too much to stop and would be better off getting it over quickly.

His arms wrapped tightly around her chest, his face in her hair, with all his might he tried to ignore how she smelled of sulfur and burnt oil. When the rumors came to him of a high dragon and a massacre at the mines, he wanted to flee his post rather than force an impassive mask on his face. After two sleepless nights he rounded up a small team to raid a smuggling base on an island off shore from the mines. When Marian met him at the entrance of the cave, the job already done, he stood in front of his men like a pompous dolt, bestowing platitudes of the Templar's thanks. He should have pulled her lanky frame into his arms and begged her to close that cursed mine. But now he held her, desperately rubbing himself against her, willing his body closer to climax.

That was when the thought struck him: his men in the front of the boat thought that he was molesting the Champion, using his rank as Knight-Captain to take advantage of a mage whom the Order wished to control. In his mind he damned them to hell, condemning them for harboring foul ideas, darkening the orgasm that drowned in his throat.

Another wave slammed into the boat. Cullen sobbed into Marian's hair and choked back the bite of bile in his throat. Almost three years ago he swore never to feel shame when with her, that night they became lovers, silently taking each other as partners and companions. A snake coiled in his belly. He wanted to rip the serpent free as he shouted the Maker's truth to his men. This mission up the coast had served as his cover. He did not care about the smugglers they had stopped. For three sleepless nights he feared the woman he loved was dead. May the Void swallow them all. He pressed his forehead into Marian's shoulder and uncupped his hand from her breast, slipping his fingers down the curve of her waist.

"Are you feeling alright, Knight Captain?" Her fingers entwined with his.

When he looked up, she turned her head toward him, her eyes burning with mischief, reflecting the last hint of the evening's light.

He gave her a closed-lip smile, "Just… a little ill. The waves… Every time the boat drops and rocks… I… The sickness will pass."

"I've never known you to get seasick."

"Neither had I, until now." He whispered into her ear, "Please tell me that you'll have me tonight, in your home, in your bed."

"Are you alright?"

"Marian? Please?"

"Of course I will. After all, I went looking for you so you could take me home. I missed you."

As darkness fell around them, he laid his head against her shoulder, waiting to catch sight of the fiery plumes atop Kirkwall's foundry, waiting for a place where love wasn't a refugee sailing the coast of a hostile land.