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The news cycle was doing what it usually did, going on and on about how dangerous he was, how what he did was an atrocity. He was a murderer to them, he struck fear in the 1%, a fear they deserved to feel everyday if it was up to you. To you he was a hero and you wanted to show him how much you admired his work, his boldness, his refusal to bow to a system you despised just as much. They didn’t understand him, but you did. And now, with the faint hum of the news broadcast in the background, you knelt between his legs, ready to show him how much you appreciated him.
The room was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the flickering glow of the muted television. The words of the broadcast were muffled now, white noise that barely registered as you focused entirely on him. He sat back in the chair, his posture relaxed but commanding, the mask hiding his expression but somehow amplifying his presence. His gloved hands rested on his thighs, fingers curling slightly as he observed you.
"You don’t have to do this," he said, his voice low, almost a growl, but there was no mistaking the way it wavered ever so slightly. Whether it was restraint or anticipation, you couldn’t tell—but you liked that it could be both.
"I want to," you replied, your voice soft but firm, carrying all the conviction you felt. Your hands hovered over his thighs, not yet touching, waiting for permission. The moment hung heavy between you, charged with an intensity that made your pulse race. He tilted his head slightly.
"You think I’m a hero?" he asked, the hint of disbelief in his tone as he huffed in amusement. He wasn't trying to be a hero, he was trying to send a message.
You nodded, finally letting your hands rest on him. The material of his pants was rough beneath your fingers.
"I think you’re everything this world is too afraid to admit it needs. You don’t just talk about change—you make it happen."
His breath hitched, audible even through the mask, and his hands flexed, gripping the arms of the chair. "You’re not afraid of me," he said, as though testing your resolve.
"Not even a little," you whispered, leaning closer. "I admire you. And I want to show you how much."
For a moment, he was silent, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand, the leather of his glove brushing your cheek as he tilted your face up to meet his masked one. "Then… by all means.”
—--
His cock was heavy on your tongue as you took him into your mouth. You could hear him grunt beneath his mask as his gloved hand gripped at your hair, encouraging you.
You pulled away for a moment, licking his member's length, worshipping him with your mouth. You tasted the salty skin and relished in his pleasured muffled groans above you. You closed your lips around the tip, enveloping him with the warmth just enough to suck on the sensitive skin. The bitter drops of precum tasted like victory, like praise and your brain was foggy from the need of giving him the best head he'd ever experience.
You go back to fully swallowing his cock, letting it fill your mouth and holding your breath so he could get deeper, further into your throat. He hissed sharply as you took his full length, stilling yourself so he could feel the warm heat around him. Only so you start moving, bobbing your head witha deliberate rhythm, each motion pulling a deeper, more primal sound from him. His gloved hand tightened in your hair, guiding you but never forcing, as if letting you prove your devotion on your own terms. The way he responded, sharp breaths, low groans, and the subtle clench of his thighs, was intoxicating.
"Fuck," he growled, his voice raw and strained, the sound making your stomach tighten with satisfaction. "You're… too good at this."
You hummed around him in response, the vibration sending a shiver through his body. His grip faltered, his composure slipping as you increased your pace, your tongue tracing the veins along his length with each movement. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, the smallest loss of control, and it made your heart race.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice low and thick with need. "So eager to please... Is this what you wanted?”
His groan was deep and guttural, his head tilting back as you moved faster, your hands steadying yourself on his thighs as you kept up your rhythm. His breaths came quicker, more uneven, each exhale felt like a praise to your efforts.
“Don’t stop,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your own heartbeat. “You wanted to show me, so show me.”
You could feel the way his body tightened, his restraint slipping with each passing second. His hand clenched in your hair, firmer now, as if grounding himself against the rising tide of pleasure.
“I’m gonna—” His words cut off, a sharp inhale marking the point where his composure shattered completely. His hips moved in sync with your rhythm now, chasing the edge, his masked face tilting downward as though watching you through the dark fabric.
With a final, guttural groan, his body tensed, coming into your mouth as you stayed still, swallowing every drop of cum he gave you. His voice, raw and hoarse, filled the room, mingling with the faint hum of the television and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.