12 Superhero Villain 18 The Bar 5 "Damnit, I haven't got time for this crap!"

I used to be someone.

The thought echoes through my mind for the umpteenth time as I smile weakly across the crowded bar at the shirtless bartender, not allowing myself to believe even for a second that his returned smirk is anything more than a ploy for tips. I understand ploys. My eyes drop to the damp, matted hair on his chest. I used to have men like him every night. Sure, by have I mean that I had them in chains or at the bottom of a pit or in a spaceship I’d commandeered, but that’s really besides the point. I raise my third beer to my lips and take a long, deep draught.

See, the thing no one tells you about super-villainy is that it sucks. I started off with a lofty goal: world domination followed by a (mostly) benevolent rule. I’d use my powers to shape the human race into a form that could sustain itself into the future and off of this doomed rock. Because it is doomed. I’ve done the math. Sooner or later, if things keep going as they are, the world is going to end. Especially if some of the guys I used to pal around with get their way. But no, my genius went unappreciated. The fact that I never killed anyone was ignored. I dared to try to elevate humanity to its potential, and for that I had my jaw broken a few times, more concussions than I can recall, several more broken bones and a cut to my face from a magic sword that left a scar on my cheek that still itches. I was only in the game for a few years, but those years left their marks. My eyes lift to the television over the bar, the silenced 11 o’clock news showing the masked face of the man who drove me to an early retirement and a job designing medical equipment to futilely attempt to bolster this country’s failing healthcare system.

He left most of those marks. Helios, Paragon City’s golden boy, with his ridiculously square jaw below the white and gold cowl. There he was again, making the news for foiling someone’s puerile plot to rob the reserve. I don’t need to see any more. The rest of my beer goes down in a few gulps as I pull out my phone and glance at the clock. I have an early meeting in the morning, and it’s time for me to stumble home before I end up sleeping it off on someone’s front stoop. Again.

I run a hand over my short-cropped beard to banish any beer remains as I push away from the scarred counter, dropping a handful of bills on top as I do. But, I can’t resist looking back at the TV of the image of Helios from earlier today, his tight costume glinting in the sun as he rises into the air with my old pal Bill hoisted under one beefy arm like a football. It looks like Bill’s leg is broken. I feel a pulse of empathy but it fades fast. Bill was hardly worth Helios’s time. He was small potatoes. It hasn’t been so long since it was me being carted off for a very brief stint in captivity, and I can still remember how the hero smelled; a heady mix of mint and sandalwood, vanilla and man. The idea of getting back into the game floats itself around my head once more.

After all, every good hero needs a better villain, and if it’s not me, it’d be someone else. Someone without my scruples.

“Have a good night, pal,” I hear the bartender shout at me over the pounding bass rhythm. I grunt a response I know he won’t hear and turn.

My nose collides with someone’s scratchy, stubbled chin and cold wetness explodes over my chest, soaking through the white shirt I was wearing in an instant. I curse and step back, looking down at myself as the pink fluid spreads over the fabric. That’s a stain that won’t come out. “Damnit!” The words are hissing out of me before I can stop them. “I haven’t got time for this crap!” If I still had my laser death ray vision goggles, I'm mad enough to reconsider my no killing rule. I look up at the tall, rather solid man who’d been holding what could have only been a strawberry daiquiri, and feel my frustration and anger melt away.

Behind the now empty glass, the man’s broad chest is barely contained in his tight t-shirt, and a curl of chest hair peeks out over the collar. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and my eyes slide up over his stubbly chin and over his perfectly square jaw. His eyes are open and bright behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses, and his brows are lowered in concern.

He’s fucking hot.

“It’s okay,” I manage, the words slurring together in a way that’s instantly embarrassing. I clear my throat, unable to tear my eyes from his.

“No, it’s not okay. Your shirt’s ruined.” The man’s reaching into his pocket, and I follow his hands. My eyes stay in the area of his hips as he opens the billfold, pulling out a few bills. He holds the wad of cash out to me. He has large hands, supported by forearms that are worthy of posting on Reddit. “This is the least I can do.”

I look up at his face. That voice. I know that voice. He smiles at me, some red rushing into his cheeks as I stare. “Please,” he says. “Take it.”

I swallow, my mouth dry. There’s no way.

He pauses, his expression turning pensive for a moment. Then, as if he’d had to screw up some courage, he smiles again, but it’s sheepish. Nervous. He leans in and speaks as he lowers the wad of cash. “Or you could let me take you to dinner. Tomorrow night?”

I feel the blood drain from my face and my eyes widen as cold rushes through my veins. There’s no doubt about it in my mind. Up close, I can smell him, his masculine musk underneath the all too familiar scents of mint, and sandalwood, and vanilla.

The man grins as he leans back. “I’ve got you now, don’t I?”

As parts of myself I thought had gone dormant rouse themselves from their slumber, I feel a matching smile stretch my lips.

My DPPProfile has a lot more about me (and here's my KinkList), but the short form is that I like traditionally masculine men, adult to middle aged, especially with body hair (bears are great). I'm looking for someone to develop and tell stories with, stories involving romance, intimacy, and sexual tension as well as character development and detail; if you're looking to get right to the banging, I'm not your guy. Worldbuilding is also great fun. I'm generally vanilla and versatile (but I tend to prefer the bottom role), and I'm into daddy-boy play (as the younger man) and/or mild submission. Not into ageplay, crossdressing or feminization, humiliation, heavy BDSM, animals, fisting, blood, scat or watersports.

I aim for at least a paragraph or two in my responses, and I'd hope for the same, depending on the way the story's going. I can usually get at least one message out on weekdays during business hours (Eastern). I like to get a little bit of discussion done before hopping into a role-play, to make sure everybody’s on the same page.

I’d be interested in exploring any of the above scenarios (or variations!), or discussing others if there's something you have in mind, so get in touch if you're interested, and let's have some fun telling a hot story together.