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“Varric, when I agreed to this bet I didn’t think you were going to try to make me into a murderer,” Jayla is leaning back in her seat, voice deadpan as she looks down the table at the dwarf. He has the audacity to laugh at her, though the rest of her fellows merely look intrigued. Another night of Wicked Grace, and this time the bets were dares. Each round was a new one, and the last two standing during the round were winner and loser.
An interesting concept to add to the game Jayla must admit, but as the loser, she wasn’t feeling so great about her challenge. Perform her most scandalous dance routine. She regrets having told that damned man of her profession before becoming Inquisitor. This was going to do more than raise eyebrows if she couldn’t wiggle her way out of it.
“You scared, Boss?” Bull is leaning on the table, eye very interested. Varric just looks smug, arms crossed, smirk on his face. The black woman only raises a brow. Scared? Hell, no she wasn’t scared. Not to dance, of the reaction – well that was a different story.
“Not at all. I know this dance like I know my dream space. What I’m worried about is scandalizing our lovely group of card players here.” Her eyes travel around the table, lingering on Dorian, Cassandra, Cole, and Cullen. She trusted everyone one else would simply blush and cough when she was through, but those four might actually become uncomfortable.
“I won’t. You’re very pretty, Jay, and I’ve already seen what you’ll do. So there are only three.” Cole, bless that man, he spoke more eloquently now that he’d chosen which way to go. Spirit or not, he was perhaps her favorite friend. “Don’t tell them that, they’ll be jealous.” His lips tilt at the edges, and she laughs.
“Come on, your Inquisitorialness, you lost, this is my winnings here.” Varric has no idea. And Jayla mentally says fuck it. He wasn’t - he’ll get it. She shrugs her shoulders and pushes her chair back.
“Remember you asked for this, clear the table. Be damn glad the tavern is clear tonight, or I would own your ass for this.” She methodically removes her belts and anything hard to get off. It would only make this awkward, and she wanted to make an impression. This was a matter of her pride now. To hell with her companions’ dignity when she was through.
When the table is cleared of cards and drinks, Jayla climbs onto the table. With a thought, the music swells around them, directly from her memory. It had been the one song that had made her feel like this dance wasn’t too much. In seconds, her hips sway, hands sliding up along her curves until they tangle over her head in the air. For the first few seconds she is stiff, unsure of this whole endeavor. Thedas - her Inner Circle - they weren't going to know what to do with this.
No one saw her dance this way anymore. These movements didn’t match with the times, nor the mores of her companions. But, it doesn’t matter tonight. This is a show. The dancer sinks into the music, lets her mind go blank and simply moves.
----
Cole knew the rest of them only figured out the gravity of the situation when Jayla was on her knees in the middle of the table and the first flash of skin was shown. It made everyone sit up straight, and he watched without looking them, but he felt it. Felt when the tenor of their attention changed.
The Inquisitor moves fluidly, and he knows it’s because she’s gone back. Back to before, back when this was every other weekend, back to when she’d happily danced for money. It was innocent, even as it seduced. He could tell. Her temperature remained steady, heart beat its normal thrum beneath her skin, yet those around him were speeding up, heating up as her shirt was tugged over her head, flung into the darkness. He hears the way breath is collectively caught as she crawls, those dark eyes of hers lidded in invitation.
The way her back arches and her chest dips close to the table, still covered by the bindings. She’s beautiful to Cole, like a living painting in the firelight. Warmth reflecting off her dark skin, so smooth, so alluring in its lack of scars. For him, there is only the art of her, there is nothing sexual as she rolls to her back, arching up off the table, arms moving in a mockery of what they might if someone were over her. He doesn’t care as more clothing is shed. His eyes simply memorizes the way her muscles shift and tense, the play of light on her.
He can see the weeks of practice that went into this, the frustration when steps were forgotten before it had all been memorized. Cole appreciates the minor acrobatics she employs as she flips herself upright with a smooth set of movements that have the Iron Bull tilting his head in appreciation. He applauds the carefully strung together notes of choreography that went into the song she plays with each movement of her body. The way her hips roll, how she splays her knees and legs. Even the way she flutters her lashes as her eyes close, the way her head tosses at appropriate moments. It is all a song of lust, and need. One that has emotion behind it – but it’s not true. The emotion conveyed isn’t the same as what flows through her. Pride radiates from her, satisfaction when there is swearing. It’s in the curve of her smile, the way she zeroes in on her prey as she moves forward.
He would be the best candidate to dance like this with, for. His eyes won’t wander on her form with desire. His breath won’t speed up and puff against her skin when she’s near enough to taste. His mind won’t go wild with fantasy as her body settles on his and she dances.
But Jayla isn’t comfortable, and she won’t let anyone else be either. Cole, he knows, that she would never try to do what she does to Solas to him. Solas was an easy target for her in this hunt. She got what she wanted and moved on barely blinking. Dorian, his eyes are wide as saucers when she’s on her knees before him, when she parts his legs and practically slithers from the floor. Dorian who does not enjoy the female form but is captivated by the way Jayla moves.
Cole wonders if Dorian understands it isn’t attraction, it is simply fascination, shock that rest just under his skin. It feels very similar but it’s not the same. Cole is at least pleased to feel there is no disgust or self-loathing in Dorian. Not like what Cullen feels and Jayla only brushes the Commanders cheek with her hand on her way past Josie and Leliana. Cassandra is all fascination and wonder, surprisingly. Wonder if she could look like that, move like that, if she could make the temperature in a room shift several degrees without any sort of magically attached talent. Fascination at the way the Inquisitor’s body is built. Comparing - contrasting it to her own.
When the music dies, Jayla is back on the table, breath even, but skin shining, laid in a pose of someone about to sleep. There is no sound beyond the crackle of the fire in the background. Not for a good long time. Cole is proud of her, she is proud of her. They bask in their feelings, pressing thoughts back and forth.
“Goddamn, Jayla, remind me to never challenge you to anything again. I thought Hawke was bad. Hawke has nothing on you.”
“You do parties, Boss? Because if you do – I’m throwing one every time we’re back off a mission. Damn.”
She laughs in response, form bouncing with the sound, and to Cole, that is the most beautiful thing on this side of the veil.