There's only one way to settle this: a dance-off!

John took a deep breath. He wasn't striking out with this unbelievably bubbly girl- his Star-Lord act had gotten her all riled up. What if he pushed it further?

"That's nice, sweet cheeks," John said. "I'm Peter Quill. People call me Star-Lord. I totally tried to stop them, but, you know, save the galaxy a few times and you can't really expect to not be a massive interstellar celebrity."

Wow, John thought as the Tracer cosplayer giggled. That was the single nerdiest yet gutsiest thing I've said. Ever. But If role-playing was what the girl in skintight pants wanted, well, he would just have to deliver.

"And I'm Doomfist," said Doomfist. He wasn't even trying.

"I know who you are." Tracer stuck out her tongue. "You're the one who ripped off my chronal accelerator. You didn't even buy me dinner first!"

John leaned next to Tracer and put on his disappointed face. "Rude. Girl like this, you gotta treat her right. Dinner, maybe a little wine that still has the cork in it. Then you pull out the Walkman."

"Oh, really?" Tracer smirked. "You think I want to see your Walkman?"

There was no denying it: this girl was flirting with him. John didn't have the first idea how flirt, but fortunately, he didn't have to. He just had to keep doing what had worked so far: act like the biggest nerd alive. He pulled out his replica Walkman with tiny speakers for just such an occasion and pressed the button to summon the Jackson Five.

"Not like that," John rolled his eyes. "You've got a dirty mind, Maverick. No, the Walkman is for this."

John threw back his head and danced like he'd never danced before. His head bobbed with the music. His arms kept the beat. And with every few steps, he thrust his hips. As he did, Tracer's eyes, hidden beneath her goggles but not hidden enough, kept flicking downwards.

"Not bad," Tracer said once he'd finished. "But I've got some moves, too!"

She didn't know the Charleston, but damn if that girl didn't know how to work it. She rocked her hips back and forth, slowly at first but building to a steady, sensuous rhythm from head to toe. As the song finished, she bent over, ran her hands up long, lithe legs and cupped her harness with a wicked grin.

"Would you call that more distracting than the one in your movie, or less?"

"More," John gulped. He surreptitiously shifted his Walkman over his crotch. "Definitely more."

Tracer spun in place and giggled- flashing that firm, fit ass of hers. "Name's Terri. Pleasure t'meetcha!"

"John. Trust me- pleasure's all mine."