Work Text:
Here's the thing: Jess basically only knows superheroes. Some of them more super than others, some more heroic than others, sure, but pretty much to a man (or woman, or non-binary-gendered alien being) they're all enviably fit, physically capable and in possession of one or more skin-tight outfits that they call uniforms. Sure, it means the view's great when people are clustered in front of one of the viewscreens in front of you facing the other way, but it does mean that you get...inured to sleek, svelte, leggy muscularity after a while. If it isn't Clint's perpetually 'don't you care that it's January?' arms or Steve's hilariously tight shorts over equally hilariously tight leggings or just the entirety of everything Natasha ever is, even the generic S.H.I.E.L.D uniforms don't gave much leeway in the general arse area.
The point is, she has the first world superhuman problem of only knowing seriously attractive people who like parading around in leather and spandex and armour that defies all the rules of materials science in how form-fitting it is. She's used to the curves and the bulges and the general tightness of everything. She's even used to Carol in a way.
Oh, she's still a loyal girlfriend and thinks she looks the best. It's the boots and the bright colours and the starburst right over her tits. More cheerful than Natasha and less overtly national than Steve and plus it's Carol. Jess still harbours guiltily fond memories of the Leotard of Yesteryear, that's how much she likes Carol in, well, anything. But they've been together long enough that they're past the stage where Jess has to threaten Tony for the digital recordings his suit makes of any briefings because she's too distracted by the way those damn red boots of Carol's give her the legs of the average baby giraffe. It's not a sign of superhero lesbian bed death, whatever Peter says, it's just that Jess is an Adult. A Mature Adult. In a Mature Adult Partnership with a woman who happens to wear skin-tight suits as her work uniform and it was either become habituated to her girlfriend being the hottest anything with Kree DNA around or living in a state of permanent arousal in her own pretty damn tight costume.
And since S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't spring for laundry expenses, that was so not an option.
So it's not that Carol isn't still as gorgeous as the first time Jess laid eyes on her in uniform. She is. Maybe even more so because Jess has a serious thing for the blonde cockatoo look. But it's about being practical and so, mostly, she's past the point of fanning herself over what Captain Marvel looks like striding around the Helicarrier as if she owns it.
The uniform's in her hands right now, actually, since Carol has this habit of just dreamily stripping off her clothes as soon as she's in their quarters and leaving them where they fall as she wanders towards the shower. Jess has just walked in to find a trail of suit and sash and serviceable underwear leading from the door to the bathroom and Carol singing an off-key version of Killer Queen as the shower hisses and spits over it all. She rolls her eyes and picks up the bundle of red and gold and blue, tossing it in the direction of their laundry basket.
"Cutting it fine, aren't you, babe?" she calls out. "Our transport down landside is in twenty minutes and Rhodey will cry if you don't see him get his Oscar."
"Medal, Jess, he's getting a medal," Carol yells back over the roar of the hot water and Jess rolls her eyes again, but fondly. Air Force geeks and their technical terminology. It's cute watching Carol - and Rhodey, actually - getting their knickers in a twist when the non-military heroes seem unbothered by the specifics of rank and whatever. But what won't be cute will be them being late when even she knows the ceremony's a bloody big deal. And if Jess put effort into looking professional in a dress with pearls and tights and everything, then Carol can not leave her casting increasingly worried looks at her watch.
While Jess is frowning at her hair in their disgustingly tiny mirror (she really needs to find the time to get her roots done again, there's a definite hint of blonde creeping in there) the shower cuts out. If she's paying attention, she can hear rustling noises as Carol towels off and gets dressed, but she's more concerned with grumbling mentally over her continued insistence on being a brunette and how much of a pain pale hair is if she ever wants to grow it out. But all credit to her girlfriend, the door slides open after a surprisingly short (though maybe not, she is military after all) wait and Jess turns to her with a hairbrush. "Here, let me help, if you rock your hot hands thing and I brush then we can--."
Here's the thing again; Jess is immune to Carol in pretty much anything tight these days.
Jess is uninterested in being late.
Jess is an adult, not a bloody hormone-ridden teenager with a libido bigger than her cup size and a crush on a superhero.
...and yet she's staring, staring blatantly, and apparently it's just a thing of Carol Danvers' to be constantly able to surprise her.
The uniform isn't even skin-tight. The skirt isn't even short. On the street, as a skirt-suit, it would be positively frumpy, all blue linen and plain pale shirt and fabric right down nearly to her knees. But on Carol - leggy Carol, tall Carol, so-Aryan-she's-basically-Steve Carol - it's neat and it's assured and she wears it with the brisk, straight-backed confidence she does everything else. It's like a police officer and a nurse rolled all into one and, oh, bloody fucking hell, there's actually a hat dangling from her damp fingers.
"...Jess?" The voice seems to come from a distance. "Jess, honey?" What is air? "Jess, I thought you said we didn't have time--."
"What's that?" Jess doesn't even have it in her to be ashamed of how her voice squeaks, she's too busy staring at the crispness of the collar and the square capability of Carol's shoulders under the fitted jacket. There are various bits of braid and ribbon on the sleeve cuffs and shiny things pinned to the breast. If Jess was in possession of her full faculties, she'd be able to link them to all those awards that her girlfriend's picked up over her career. As it is...full cognitive function? Not aboard the Helicarrier right now.
Carol looks baffled and tilts her head to one side, then mutters a curse when she realises she's dripping water down the back of herself. "You must've seen my dress blues before, Jess. Military ceremony, remember? Now seriously, I just need you to make sure I'm drying it straight, c'mere."
Jess does in fact 'c'mere'. But maybe not as Carol intends. Instead, like a woman under a spell, she just keeps on going until she's got a wondering hand dragging down the serviceable material and she's so close to surprised, sky-coloured eyes that they're almost a little bit blurred. "Tell me," she breathes, aware that her voice is ragged, "please, that there's no stuffy military rule about not having sex in your uniform because it's disrespectful or some tosh like that." Because she likes Rhodey. Carol loves Rhodey. And that means that, unfortunately, they don't have time for Jess to press Carol back up against the bulkhead and get her hand up underneath that conservative skirt and take her girlfriend to pieces while she looks like an All American Dream. But she wants to, oh hell does she want to.
Carol looks surprised. Then she looks intrigued. Then she looks downright wicked and there's something comfortably shameless about the way she so easily grabs Jess' arse and pulls her in closer. "Seriously?" she purrs. "This does it for you?"
Jess nods so vigorously her jaw clicks.
Carol laughs then, throwing her head back and baring her throat in a way that makes Jess weak at the knees and will possibly require a hasty knicker change before they rush to catch their transport. But even that particular inconvenience is made up for by the way Carol leans down and kisses her, thorough and confident, grinning against Jess' eager lips.
"When we get back," Carol growls teasingly, "remind me to show you my Medal of Honour." Because she's a bitch, she outright laughs at the way Jess goes cross-eyed with lust-addled want.
(In all honesty, though, it just makes it hotter.)