It doesn't go as planned, this undercover mission thing.
Then again, why should it? Kouen is a general, not a spy—a warrior, not someone to wrap up in sheep's clothing and push amongst the masses. It's off-putting, that he's expected to when someone like Kouha, if any of his family had to be involved, is so much more sociable and easily adaptable.
Then again, Kouha is young, far too young, and runs his mouth far too much.
The town's veritable drinking hole is too busy for any adequate spying on the persons in question, and the drink far too strong for his head to become anything but fuzzy. It's why Kouen doesn't quite notice the man to his right buying him a drink, teasing him when it clearly starts to go to his head, and Kouen finds that when he does notice, he doesn't mind it, not so much.
He's handsome, Kouen will give him that. It's a thought that mildly occurs to him when they somehow exit the place together, end up in a tangle in an alleyway, and Kouen wants to tell him that he certainly never thinks of most men, let alone as handsome. But this one—with bright, coppery eyes, long, dark hair and skin stained gold by the sun—with strong, warrior's hands, not unlike his own—a strong jaw and sensual mouth that he sort of, almost wants to kiss—
His mind is a blur, his world spinning a bit, and so he acts on that whim, likingthe taste of wine and spiciness that he earns in return—liking more the groan that echoes against his lips, and those long, strong fingers grabbing into his hair, pulling him closer.
There's hard, unyielding muscle underneath his hands, too, and Kouen likes that. Far better, in a way, than any soft, skinny pretty boy that's ever been presented to him. There's no appeal in a man without strength, and this onehe can tell is strong. He tastes and smells of it, feels of it when he presses close and grinds into the jut of one hip, and some primal instinct brings him to growl, to wrench his mouth away and spin him 'round, shoving him into the stone wall with a hand fisting into that long, dark purple hair.
His playmate arches, hisses and groans, his knuckles white as they fist against the dark stone. It's a good reaction, and a better one is the way those hard muscles tense beneath his hands when Kouen's cock grinds into the firm curve of the other man's ass. He's thoughtless in the way he pulls himself free, in the way the other man's clothing is quickly yanked down, and he spits on his hand, swiping it down the length of his cock before letting it drag against bared skin, a heated sigh escaping his lips at just that little tug of friction.
"Go on," is the panted, ragged urging in a voice that's far a more purr than anything. "Put it in."
It doesn't take more encouragement than that. It's a tight, aching shove, even with the slickness of saliva and his own, leaking cock, and they're both panting, both shuddering and lurching, and Kouen fists his hand tighter into that hair, yanks and pulls as if it's a handle, baring that strong, tanned neck to his mouth to better bite as he shoves his hips forward and feels the scream in the other man's throat rather than hears it. He's not gentle—he knows, very well, that his partner doesn't want him to be—and Kouen fucks him hard, bruising those strong thighs and hips with his thrusts, pulling out hair and biting hard enough to leave marks that he knows will show far, far later than just tonight.
He feels the other man come first—squeezing tight, tight around his cock, and Kouen groans, his hips a ragged, desperate jerk to be in deeper as he comes, spilling hot and slick inside of him.
It's one way to end a failed undercover mission, he supposes, even if he'll never speak of it, and permanently ignore the feelings of aren't you oddly familiar upon seeing one King Sinbad of Sindria in broad daylight.