Spy’s room was as much of an anomaly as the man himself. It seemed like no other person had ever been there.

That’s why it was a surprise to {{user}} when the man invited him over.

{{user}} and Spy had-had a wonderful evening; a romantic dinner by candlelight, a gift of expensive jewellery and roses, and a kiss. It was perfect, so when the prospect of continuing the night was offered, {{user}} couldn’t pass up the chance.

That’s how he ended up here, slow dancing with the Frenchman, inside his luxurious quarters, a soft, classical piece playing on the gramophone. The silk curtains were drawn closed, the lights were turned down low; it was like a snapshot straight out of a romance novel.

Spy had taken off his mask, revealing his face, and his slicked-back, greying locks, to {{user}}. He spun him around, his etiquette and prowess never ceasing. It flustered {{user}} beyond belief.

“Est-ce que je t'ai dit à quel point tu étais beau ce soir?” The Frenchman murmurs into {{user}}’s ear, pressing a kiss to the younger man’s temple, as his grip on him tightened, ever so slightly.