🌷FROM https://archiveofourown.org/works/17877974/chapters/42355385#main
Secret agent au & daddy kink
Words:10304
-----------------------------------
Bitter. Everything is so... bitter. From the blackcurrant drink in his hand, to the nauseatingly brilliant glow of the all-too-extravagant chandeliers, to the flowing waves of gowns, to the immaculate dress suits. He's just so bitter .
There's a crackling in his ears, "Agent Lester, that better be your first drink," a voice reprimands. Phil barely restrains his scoff.
"Gimme a break," He mutters into the glimmering drink. His mask glitters beneath countless vibrant lights when he takes a sip. He would usually get some fruity cocktail, but these business parties are always dreary, and he has to fit in to remain inconspicuous.
Cobalt blue eyes flit around the golden-lit room. There are couples dancing gracefully on the embellished marble floors, fluidly weaving through the soft chimes floating through the air. Clusters of people clutch crisp amber drinks and sparkling flutes of champagne in jeweled hands as they murmur on grand staircases, covered by velvety-red layers of satin.
Maybe not so dreary; although, it won't be easy to find a culprit in this crowd. Masquerade balls are particularly tricky, with all the damned masks hiding anyone and everyone's true identities. He was barely able to recognize himself when he wore his own royal blue mask, lined with silver studs. Phil sighs and drinks another sip. Blue... it matches your eyes , Louise had told him before pressing it into his hands.
Speaking of Louise, "Someone's approaching from behind, Lester. Tall - probably 's tall as you - black mask, black suit -"
"Here for the food too, I see," An articulate, unfamiliar voice has Phil's head turning. He catches a glance: tall, like Louise had said, and wearing all black. His eyes are big and brown behind his jet black mask, and his suit perfectly fits him; it's like he was made for it. It outlines the curves of his shoulders, and his arms - his suit isn't skin tight, but tight enough so that the it outlines the curve of his bicep when he moves - down to the prim waist, to the long, long legs, and his thighs dizzyingly fill up his -
"My eyes are up here, sir," the man purrs, a dimple poking into his cheek as he smirks. Phil's face floods with mortifying heat. And maybe another kind of heat because of that voice, and he certainly does not want to analyze the tug of heat he felt when he heard the word "sir" roll from the man's mouth.
"Uh-" Phil rips his gaze away from the gorgeous man in front of him, despite the warning bells ringing in his head, "Yuh - yes. Parties were never really my thing..." he clears his throat. There's a nonverbal agreement to ignore how Phil was just blatantly checking out the man before him. They can forget about that, right?
At Phil's comment though, the man's eyes widen slightly, and Phil guesses his eyebrow is raising behind his inky mask. A mask that fits delicately against the curve of his cheek, irritatingly obscuring his identity. He can still see the dimples when he smiles though, "What's a young man like you doing here, anyway?" mystery man muses as he reaches for a warm roll of bread. His hands are large - they could probably encase the whole roll if he wanted to.
"I could ask you the same," Phil mumbles around the lip of his glass, avoiding the man's burning gaze, as well as his own increasingly concerning thoughts. Evading questions has always come naturally to him; it's probably why he's part of this damned mission in the first place. "Besides," He continues, glancing back towards the man, "you're definitely younger than me."
The man chuckles, "You really think so?" Those doe eyes are piercing into his own. Even though Phil is wearing a mask, he still feels oddly exposed. Before he can analyze the feeling, the eyes are shifting down, roving over Phil's body, which has Phil's stomach violently jumping to his throat. He barely hears the man's words over the rushing in his ears, "You can't be older than... 30."
