prompt: (Y/n) and Jack go undercover at a fancy party

warning: some sexual implications

word count: 1784

pronouns: (Y/n) wears a dress and stuff, but the pronouns aren't necessarily she/her

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second-person point of view. . .

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It went against your fundamental, deep-seated training to allow yourself to mingle with highly dangerous individuals in nothing but a soft, thin, black evening gown. It was too vulnerable. The dress revealed your right shoulder and the entirety of your right arm, as well as the majority of your right leg. Your fingers, with perfectly colored nails, fiddled with the asymmetric neckline of the dress. You pulled the strap of the single long sleeve higher up on the skin that connect your shoulder to your neck.

The black dress exposed too much skin for such a dangerous mission and the portions of your body that were covered were protected by a simple, form-fitting fabric. The heels that kept the bottom of the dress from touching the floor were not for tactical purposes, in fact, they hindered your movement significantly.

The clothing was impractical, yet vital for the mission you were mere moments from beginning. Undercover work was fickle and fragile. It required every area of your lie to be thought through thoroughly and that included your appearance. You must maintain an image of innocent unsuspicion, so that meant wearing silly clothes.

Swallowing the discomfort, you reached for the thigh holster laying on the desk and strapped it to your leg above the opening of the dress' long slit. You placed your gun in the holster's slot and an extra magazine of ammunition next to the firearm. The glasses came next, thin-rimmed and formal, modified for this specific mission.

There was a sudden and loud pound on the door. You knew that meant only one thing: your time of preparation was over. You glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time only to find yourself still unsatisfied with the picture in front of you. Could they not have crafted you a kevlar dress? Again, the door was struck.

"Let's go!" Jack called, his voice loud but smooth as ever.

"Don't break your hand, I'm coming!" You shouted back to him.

With a huff, you pulled yourself together and left the changing room, slamming the door shut behind you. Your high-heels clicked against the shiny tiled floor of the headquarters as you crossed the floor.

"How long until the party starts?" You asked, already exhausted of the whole affair.

"We'll get there on time," he stated briefly, contrary to his usual cadence.

He was right, you, unfortunately, arrived just as the festivities were beginning. With a few white lies, you and Jack weaved your way into the crowd of stuffy, rich, and predominantly white individuals. The group moved like a sea with a steady living current, the tide stirring both the gliding feet on the dance floor and the relatively still bystanders enjoying drinks and faux laughter. You and Jack found yourselves suffering through the ladder.

"You're gonna kill me if you keep saying things like that!" You lied through your teeth after you forced yourself to laugh at a woman's honestly unfunny comment.

The muscles in your face ached from compelling smiles for at least two hours. You were curious if Jack was feeling the same fatigue, or if he enjoyed enchanting these strangers with his effortless ability to chat about nothing and his inherent southern charm. You had always preferred missions that consisted of fighting rather than talking, they were much easier and often, faster.

Stinging alcohol poured down your throat slowly, though you were careful to keep your consumption to a minimum. You had to keep your mind focused on the task at hand. There was a man with a tattoo on his neck in the shape of a rose. You had to find him, get him alone, and kill him. Simple on paper, but in a room full of high suitcoat collars it was growing tedious. Not to mention, the target had armed security on every corner and there was a high likelihood some of the guests were carrying too.

"Oh, I love this song," the woman jerked on her husband's arm. "Let's dance!" They disappeared into the crowd, leaving you and Jack to find someone else to check off the list. You swallowed the last of your glass of champagne and placed it on the nearest table, your frown instantly returning.

"Everyone keeps moving, it's impossible to remember who we've already talked to," you muttered with eyes attentively scanning the filled room.

"You'd remember if you were actually listening," Jack pointed out, his attention mimicking a similar pattern as yours. "We've cleared just 'bout everyone on this side of the dance floor."

"We have to clear everyone," you reminded him sternly, knowing you had no name to work off of let alone a photograph of the man you were looking for--it was just the tattoo.

Jack was not fond of the tone you used. It was hard and sharp--stressed. If he could hear the stress leaking into your voice, someone might see it and you would draw unwanted awareness to yourselves. You needed a break, or perhaps a small distraction. Jack gently took your hand and tugged on your arm, leading you away from the tables and chairs and to the swarm of dancers.

"What are you doing?" Your voice was again acute, more scolding than confused.

"We're one of the only couples who haven't danced yet," Jack rationalized pleasantly. "Just keepin' up appearances."

"No one would've noticed," you rolled your eyes but did not resist him guiding you into the twisting mass of people. "And we're not a couple."

"Let me pretend, will ya?" He wondered, his eyes drifting to land on yours. "I reckon this is the closest I'll ever get to you bein' mine."

Again, your eyes rolled at his poor flirting. A strong hand placed itself on your waist, while its brother cradled one of your own hands at the height of your chin. Hesitantly, you placed your free hand on his chest, near the spot that turned into his shoulder. You felt a little silly, given that you had no formal ballroom dance training, but Jack led with a pace that was easy to keep up with.

The sweet melodies that filled the air were quite literally music to your ears. You had never been so close to Agent Whiskey before. Sure, you were close friends, but nothing like this had ever even entered your mind. The lingering scent of his cologne found your nose. He smelled just as you had expected: earthy, warm, and expensive.

Maybe under different circumstances, getting to dance with Jack would have been... nice. Alas, you were a thoroughly trained agent, which meant no matter how much you wished to enjoy the intimacy, your mission would not leave your mind.

"This is a distraction," you told him, your volume low and content expression swiftly vanishing. "Our target could leave any minute, we're wasting time."

"Relax, darlin'... I got my eye on the door," he promised and his gaze kept his word as you seamlessly swayed through the ocean of people.

That word made your heart pound harder than he had on the door of the changing room hours ago. There was a possibility that anyone so handsome calling you such an affectionate pet name would have caused you to stumble, but you were almost certain your heart skipped because of his voice. His rich, honey-like accent, more specifically. You were a sucker for his stupid cowboy act.

The rhythm of the song was simple and the movements of everyone around him were easy to predict. Just as promised, Jack's eyes stayed trained on the front door as often as they could. As you spun through the turning tides, you looked at everyone around you for that rose tattoo. For a moment, you wondered if your intel had been wrong.

Jack felt your hand drift thoughtlessly up his chest to sit on his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable resting place. It slowly ran over his suitcoat to land on the collar at the crook of his neck. You were lost in your analysis of the others surrounding you, Jack could tell that much by the way your fingers absently played with the thick fabric.

He was tempted to tear his eyes away from the door so he could look at you instead and see that dialed-in look he thought was so cute. He had always thought you were cute, but in light of recent events, he was trying to find a word that suited you better. Because the way that dress hugged every curve on your body, highlighted every asset and put on display skin you usually concealed was something far less chaste than cute.

He did not exactly take joy in viewing his co-worker and friend in such a manner, but the moment he laid eyes on your all dolled up something had clicked in his brain. Something very unprofessional and not very platonic. Jack wanted to look at you, to drink in every little detail you had to offer, like the subtle flex of the muscles running down your leg or the flutter of your eyelashes with every blink.

His mind, shamefully, could not help but wander for a fleeting second. The cloth of your dress was soft to the touch, how would the rest of your body feel under his curious palms? Would you like it if he touched you? What would you look like with both legs on show the way one was now? How would those legs look thrown over his shoulders?

So good, no doubt. Your fingers were on his skin now, softly pressing on the back of his neck as they toyed with the little hairs at the base of his skull. How would it feel to have those fingers drag through his hair? Maybe you would pull, just a little as he kissed your ruby-red lips? Or elsewhere for that matter?

His body betrayed him and his eyes flickered down to stare at you. There was not one precise English word that could encapsulate all your beauty, inside and out. The color of your eyes, the texture of your hair, the mold of your skin--it all melted together wonderfully to create a picture he could stare at for hours. How bewitching that picture before him was; mesmerizing; borderline hypnotic. It was distracting.

"There's the target," your voice held a quiet urgency and you gripped Jack a little harder. 

Helplessly, you watched the man with a rose tattoo on his neck casually waltzed out of the building. Even if you had broken out into a sprint the moment you registered the markings on his skin, you would not have been able to reach him. Anger flickered through your expression.

"You said you were watching the door!" You scolded Jack, who was frantically trying to break out of his daze and catch up with you.

"Sorry," Jack almost tripped over his words with a rich chuckle. "I, uh... got a bit distracted."