Trapped in Kismet [KinnPorsche] [Kinn x Porsche]

Part 1: A Chance Meeting

Every day.

Every. Single. Goddamn. Fucking. Day.

Why was he being subject to this torture? What deity had he pissed off in a past life to be dealing with this now?

There was a presence to this mysterious man that irritated the hell out of him.

It was probably the power drenched in the finest quality suits that were never repeated - neither in pattern nor style - or the essence of charm that exuded from the man's gaze that everyone at the bar was desperately clawing at each other to try and get a sample of.

The glinting of shine with every hand shift back of that glass to those plush lips; a watch hanging against the pale wrist that would probably buy Porsche's house, motorcycle and then some property around his house. And still have left over money for a shopping trip.

It was the little ring on the index finger that looked like it had some sort of insignia that held Porsche's gaze. The few times he allowed himself to peek.

Weren't rings normally worn on ring fingers? His eyes traced the line to the ring finger to note it empty.

Lacking his own jewelry or semblance of money, Porsche just had to imagine the prestige to own any of it much less wearing it. Pulling from his daydream, his own caramel eyes trailed along the line of the bar top that had filled up considerably around this man since the time he arrived. Both men and women.

It was becoming a norm. An eyesore. A bother.

Even the regular barflies that normally buzzed around Yok's bar that usually came looking for Porsche were hanging out on the dance floor waiting for a stool to empty to glue themselves to it. All to be next to THAT GUY.

They normally came for Porsche's drinks, Porsche's flirtations, and Porsche's general presence that left them coming back for more. Sometimes it even left his bar station empty for a half hour or so and himself entangled with a sequin clad woman.

Heavily drenched in perfume with wrongly shaded painted lips and sweet promises that tended to leave him emptier than when he started the encounter.

He never let on though.

Never let on that the sequins were awful and cut his hands as he hiked the fabric up, that the sugar cookie perfume they showered in swirled around his nose for days that he had to sacrifice his favorite sweets, or that their high-pitched moans made him soft immediately afterwards.

No, he always took pride in pleasuring the woman, focused on bringing her some semblance of satisfaction, pumping her full of compliments that left stars twinkling in her eyes and the promise of a repeat - it normally left Porsche praying the repeat never came.

Granted, Porsche probably should have admitted to himself a long time ago that he was bisexual after those encounters with men in college. Those days were long behind him and the men who came to the bar never looked at him.

He was not their type.

Not dainty, tiny, or pretty.

His form was sturdy, long, and lean; being a fighter all his life, Porsche knew that he was not the most obvious choice for a romantic encounter of the gay kind - by either means. Too masculine with his stronger frame, his olive skin off-putting, his almond shaped eyes too small, his height too tall, his presence too intimidating.

Then there were the softer fellows who thought he was too plain, too coarse, his means below their paygrade, etcetera.

There was always something wrong with him.

It was a depressing thought that he never fit into any mold in particular no matter how hard he wanted to.

That left little ground for Porsche to stand on and women batted him their eyelashes or flashed their legs more often, so he tended to go with that option. A little taste of being loved, being wanted was better than nothing.