❝ 𝘳.𝘦.𝘮. ❞ [ Pedro Pascal characters x reader ]

undercover | fluff

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.