Steve had to admit that he had some reservations about how the New Century handled the social balance between alphas and omegas.

A party was never quite a proper party in Tevinter until there was at least one assassination attempt, and the novelty in the attempt at Magister Caius’ party lay not quite in its actual occurrence but in the ambition of its assassin. At the height of Caius’ decidedly juvenile lyrium-laced drinking game, during the start of dinner, Magister Fabiana made a sudden gesture close to the Divine, all the while leaning closer, as if to say something private. Divine Leontius’s hand snapped up, viper-quick, grabbing Fabiana’s hand high on the wrist. She rose from her seat, fright and outrage both in her eyes, fire stealing hot up from her trapped wrist before it was abruptly… gone. Shock froze Fabiana’s snarl in her throat, even as, with a gentle, almost intimate economy, Leontius pulled Fabiana towards him and shoved a dagger up through her ribcage.

Varric only got as far as “And this is the-“ before Hawke purred, “Why, hello there, stranger.” Disappointingly, the drop dead gorgeous vision of male perfection behind the staid old desk in the partly ruined stone chamber stared at Hawke in pure confusion. Tousled tawny gold hair over a vision of a face: strong jaw, yet something indefinably boyish, full cocksucker lips, broad shoulders, trim hips… “It’s good to see you again, Viscount,” the stranger blinked as Hawke finished his blatantly curious once-over. “‘Again’? Surely I’ll have remembered you from somewhere before, handsome.” “Er,” said the wet dream, and behind Hawke, Varric let out a deep sigh.

Dorian had scarcely read through the first chapter when a shuffle of footsteps stopped outside his nook. He glanced up, a little warily, then set the book down on his lap in surprise: it was General Cullen, of all people, still in his military uniform, the khaki pressed to razor edges, the collar blood red against his throat, the gold star of his rank bright and high over his sleeves. “General,” Dorian greeted Cullen, when Cullen seemed to hesitate. Hells, but the man was ridiculously handsome, more so than Dorian had expected: it wasn’t just the uniform, at that - there was something deliciously attractive about a gorgeous man who was utterly unaware that he was gorgeous. “Something the matter?”

“Hey. Hey. I have an awesome idea,” Sera said suddenly, having rolled slowly onto her back until her head and part of her shoulders were hanging off the edge of the couch. “We could… we could totally set Dorian up. With one of our, our other friends. He’ll cry less, we’ll drink less, everything will be great.” “… Sounds doable,” Evelyn burped. “But who?” “Urm.” Sera frowned. “What about Thom?” “Naaah. He’s too much of a sad puppy. He’ll make it worse.” “Bull?” “Think he’s banging some waitresses right now. At least two. At the same time without either of them knowing. It’s like some serious spy shit.”

Blackwall shrugged, all creaking armour and leather. “I may not like you or what you are very much at all, but you are brave and you have a good heart: that much is undeniable. It’s more than what most people have. So.” “… And here I thought we were going to launch into some terrible spiel about how we were all in this together,” Dorian said, after a startled pause. The day was turning out to be full of surprises. “That sort of thing only happens in Varric’s books.” “Oh, you read! I’m shocked.”

“You’ve done your best,” Cullen interrupted absently, and Dorian’s eyebrows arched in surprise. Cullen stared back evenly, hiding his own instinctive amusement. Mother Giselle glanced at them both, then shuffled away, back to the wounded, leaving them alone at the fire. Finally, however, to Cullen’s surprise, Dorian’s wry, faint smile curled into something warmer. “I’m never going to get used to that.” “To what?” “Being interrupted,” Dorian said dryly. “Here in the South.” “Because you’re a mage, and I’m an omega?” Cullen asked, a little testily.

The game was finally starting to move into Dorian's favour when the meaty thudding sounds of something heavy hitting flesh drifted across the courtyard. Commander Cullen looked up sharply, with something in the keen, alert tilt of his jaw reminding Dorian incongruously of the well-bred coursers that his mother had so loved, then Cullen glanced back at their game. "Qunari mating habits," Dorian suggested, just to watch Cullen flush and scowl. "Hardly. It's something about conquering fear. Inquisitor Adaar explained it to me. He was quite serious about it too. Very, ah, cultural.”

“This isn’t going to work,” Diego said, once everyone had stopped moaning on the grass and/or throwing up.

“Who are you?” Graves demanded hoarsely. “I’m Newt. Scamander. Err. Pleased to meet you. I mean, I would’ve been pleased to meet you, under normal circumstances.” “Scamander.” Graves frowned to himself. For someone who was supposedly in a bad rut, he seemed perfectly in control. “Your accent, it’s British. Any relation to Theseus Scamander? Head of the DMLE?” “I’m his younger brother.” “Are you an Auror?” “No. I’m a magizoologist.” Graves exhaled, exasperated. “A what? Is this a rescue or are you a hostage?” “Sort of neither,” Newt admitted.