I used to be someone.

The thought echoes through my mind for the millionth 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 sculpted chest. I used to have men like him every night, when I floated high on the confidence my side hustle gave me. I raise my third beer to my lips and take a long, deep draught.

See, the thing no one tells you about super-heroics is that it’s all too easy to be branded as the villain. I started off with a simple but apparently too ambitious goal: actually changing things for the better. I didn’t chase down the underprivileged doing what they had to do to get by, I punished the people who did what they could to make things worse. I exposed the crimes of the hyper-rich. I stole and leaked formulae for patented medication people needed to survive. I moved like a ghost through the city, striking fear in the hearts of the actual villains of our world. I worked to really help. I never hurt anyone, and the only property damage to my name belonged to Stone Enterprises, a corporation big enough to have probably made some money off of what I did.

All I got to show for it was being branded a villain, a top spot on the wanted list of every supergroup in the city, a shoulder that’s all too happy to dislocate 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 mark.

My eyes lift to the television over the bar, the silenced 11 o’clock news showing the masked face of the man who put the final nail in the coffin of my career as the hero the city really needed. The one man who actually managed to catch me—if only for a few minutes.

It’s the city’s golden boy, with his ridiculously square jaw below the white and gold cowl. There he is again, making the news for foiling someone’s puerile plot to rob a bank. 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. I can’t resist looking back at the TV and the image of the hero from earlier today, his costume (tight in all of the infuriatingly right places) glinting in the sun as he rises into the air with my old pal Bill hoisted under one beefy arm like a football. Bill’s limp, but I know he’s fine; after all, the hero never kills. I feel a pulse of empathy for the man, but it fades fast. Bill’s hardly worth the hero’s time, hardly worth anyone’s time. He’s small potatoes. Why aren’t the heroes actually doing something to fix the world?

Still, I can't help but think back to that night. 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 as he flew with me in his arms: a heady mix of mint and sandalwood, vanilla and man. He’d even had the gall to try and make small talk while all I could do was hang on to his powerful form as the city spread out below me. The idea of getting back into the game floats itself around my head once more, but it’s quickly banished. There’s an anger there I’ve tried to bury, a desire for something I know I should be better than: revenge.

Wanting revenge would make me everything they said I was. Besides, I’ve moved on, haven’t I? The city clearly didn’t want what I tried to bring it. Maybe didn’t deserve it.

“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, instantly soaking through the white shirt I was wearing. I curse and step back, looking down at myself as the pink fluid spreads over my chest. That’s a stain that won’t come out. The word tears out of me before I can stop it: “Dammit!” 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 a tight t-shirt, and a curl of chest hair peeks out over the collar. “I’m so sorry,” a deep voice says, and my eyes slide up over his perfectly square jaw and stubbly chin. His eyes are clear and bright behind a pair of thick-lensed glasses, and his brows are lowered in concern.

Oh, of course. Of course he’s fucking hot. My anger deflates, my shoulders dropping, but I can’t look away from him.

“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, rifling through. He holds the wad of cash out to me, and I only just manage to look away from his crotch, feeling a low rush of warmth to my own as my eyes land on his hands. He has large hands, supported by hairy forearms that are worthy of posting on Reddit. “This is the least I can do, he says.”

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

I swallow, my mouth dry, my blood running cold as the sounds of the bar fade in my ears. There’s no way.

He pauses, his expression turning pensive for a moment. Then, as if he had to screw up some courage, he smiles again. 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 my eyes widen as I stare up at him. Any lingering doubt evaporates. This close, I can smell him, his masculine musk underneath the all too familiar scents of mint, and sandalwood, and vanilla.

The man grins with some relief as he leans back, his eyes moving from mine and down my form, then 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 I have a KinkList (and with details). 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 people 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.

In this story, I'd like to explore the idea of a former vigilante hooking up with a big-time superhero and starting a relationship. The "villain" knows who the hero is, but the hero doesn't realize who he's dating, at least to start. What happens next? You can check my post history for other prompts and ideas I'd like to explore.

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), sometimes more. 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 the above scenario, 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!