Suit and Tie

1.

Warning: smut

It had finally happened -- your dream come true. Actually, it was almost too good to be true. 

You had spent four years in college studying to become a profiler, almost three years in the FBI trying to make your way to the top, and now, $120,000 and many, many sleepless nights later, it had paid off. You were due to be transferred to the BAU this Monday, and you couldn't wait.

First, though, you had to focus on the weekend: it was the FBI's annual gala, the one night a year that the higher-ups at the bureau pretended to appreciate their employees. You hadn't gone in the two previous years that you had worked there, but hell, your promotion was cause for a celebration. 

The hardest part about the gala was finding out what to wear. You didn't really have many friends, and the few you did have didn't care much about clothes. You had almost considered wearing your old prom dress, which you somehow still could squeeze into, but you eventually decided it wasn't gala worthy. Instead, you treated yourself to a shopping day, finding a long-sleeved, black, floor-length gown with a deep cut neck that hugged your curves in all the right spots. Though your promotion didn't mean a hefty pay raise, you never bought yourself anything, and you figured that the gala was the one time you were allowed to splurge.

That Sunday, the night of the gala, you took your time getting ready. Sure, you felt a little silly getting all dolled up for no one, but when you walked in without a date on your arm you wanted any and every available agent to come and sweep you off your feet. There's no harm in a dance, right?

You curled your hair, letting the loose ringlets fall down your back. As for makeup, you went simple, adding red lipstick to make your lips pop. At 7:30p.m., you looked in the mirror on the way out of your apartment. 

I'd date me, you thought, then left for the gala.

------

The Bureau had gone all out for the evening: a valet service to take your car and park it, a faux red carpet lining the entrance to the ballroom, chandeliers glittering like snowflakes and tables upon tables of food. This years' theme was "A Winter's Dance," and they had certainly managed to fit the description. It was breathtaking. 

You made your way over to the bar, where you were greeted with a glass of sparkling champagne. You held it close to you, slowly moving your way through the crowds of agents scattered around the room. You felt light on your feet, almost as if you were in a dream. You went to take another sip of your champagne, until you noticed it was empty.

I guess I drank more than I thought.

Since you were your own designated driver, you decided to slow down on the drinks and not get another one, even though you were already tipsy. You made your way over to the line of chairs against a far wall to sit down as the slow music started, almost taking off your high heels before remembering you were in public. Instead, you crossed your legs and straightened your posture, laughing to yourself -- it was like a performance. You wondered who else here might be performing.

Not even started at work and you're already profiling? Good going, Y/N.

You continued to giggle until you suddenly met the eyes of a dark haired man who was standing across the room. How long had he been staring at you? 

He broke the eye contact first, but you were still intrigued. After a few moments, and maybe against your better judgement, you decided you wanted to find him. You stood up, wobbling, but felt a hand grab your arm gently. Looking over, you saw that it was the dark haired man from before.

"You were staring at me," you said, and he laughed at the painfully obvious statement.

"I couldn't help but look." His voice was filled with lust, his brown eyes gleaming mischievously as he looked up and down your body. "Would you like to dance?"