Yes she does

A few hours later, you started to relax a bit. Then came a thunderous banging on your apartment door—wood splintering under each blow. Huntress stood silhouetted against the hallway’s flickering fluorescent light, she was wearing a purple body coat and her domino mask was cracked at the edge. You hesitate, but slowly unlock the chain and deadbolt, the door swinging inward with a creak like a tomb opening. She didn't wait for an invitation; she shoved past you, her gaze sweeping the cramped studio—takeout containers, a stained mattress, the flickering TV casting blue shadows. "He squealed like a pig," she stopped in front of your bed, "he gave us the location of his boss and Two-Face is now behind bars and none of that would've been possible if you hadn't helped me." She then turned around and walked back to you, "So, consider this a thank you." She then take undoes her coat revealing a purple bikini underneath, she then sat on the bed and patted the space beside her. "Come on, you've earned it." You hesitated, knowing associating with vigilantes was dangerous, but a primal part of you stirred at the promise of her body—sleek muscle coiled beneath sweat-slicked skin—and the raw power radiating from her.

She didn't speak; just hooked a finger into the waistband of your jeans, pulling you toward the mattress. Her mouth crashed against yours—all teeth and desperation—as she shoved you backward onto the sheets. Leather gloves scraped your chest as she ripped your shirt open; buttons pinged off the walls like gunshots. Her teeth found your collarbone, biting hard enough to bruise as she straddled your hips, grinding down with deliberate friction. You gasped—her scent was gun oil and stale alleyways—as her hands pinned your wrists above your head. "Stay still," she hissed, her breath hot against your jaw. "I'll take the lead."

Her knee pressed between your thighs, forcing your legs apart as she leaned back to unhook her bikini top. Purple fabric fell away, revealing small, firm breasts tipped with hardened nipples—the sight punched the air from your lungs. She smirked, tracing a finger down your sternum. "Never had a vigilante ride you before?" Before you could answer, she pulled down your trousers, freeing your erection, and sank down onto you with a sharp, ragged gasp. Wet heat enveloped you instantly—tight and clenching—as she braced her palms against your chest, riding with punishing rhythm. Her hips snapped forward and back, each thrust grinding her clit against your pubic bone, her breathing reduced to harsh, animal grunts. Leather-gloved fingers dug into your shoulders like talons, pinning you against rumpled sheets smelling of sweat and gunpowder.

You arched up instinctively, meeting her brutal pace, hands gripping her waist. Her skin was slick beneath your touch, muscles corded like steel cables as she drove herself onto you. A choked moan escaped her—half pain, half fury—when your thumb brushed her nipple, and suddenly she slammed her pelvis down hard, burying you to the hilt. She held there, trembling, her eyes wide behind the cracked domino mask, pupils dilating in the blue TV light. "Fuck," she hissed, breathless, her voice stripped of its modulator's rasp. "Don't stop." Her gloved hands rested in your chest, as she moaned softly.

Your hands play with her tit's, her nipples passing through your fingers as you grasp them softly. She gasped sharply, her rhythm faltering for a heartbeat before she slammed down harder, grinding her clit against you in tight circles. Her hips bucked wildly now—abandoning precision for raw, shuddering need—as her cries escalated from grunts to **** whimpers. Sweat slicked her spine beneath your palms, her skin hot as gunmetal after rapid fire.

Her leather gloves scraped across your chest as she leaned forward, capturing your mouth again in a kiss that tasted like blood and adrenaline. "Harder," she demanded against your lips, biting your lower lip until copper bloomed on your tongue. You obeyed, driving up into her with bruising ****, and she screamed—a raw, jagged sound muffled against your neck—her body clamping around you like a vice. Her thighs trembled violently against yours, her grip on your shoulders bordering on painful.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Huntress chanted, her voice breaking as she rode you like a wild thing—her hips pistoning frantically, sweat-slicked breasts heaving. Her gloved fingers clawed trenches in your shoulders, and you felt her inner muscles flutter—a frantic pulse—before she collapsed forward with a shuddering cry, burying her face in your neck. Her climax rolled through her like seismic tremors, her body trembling against yours as she gasped wetly into your collarbone. You continued to fuck her through it, driving deeper while she whimpered—half-protest, half-pleasure—her exhausted muscles yielding beneath your thrusts.

You flipped her onto her back suddenly—her masked eyes widening in surprise—and pinned her wrists above her head. Leather squeaked against sheets as she bucked beneath you, but her resistance was weak, trembling. "Oh, we're not done yet," you growled, driving into her harder, deeper, each thrust rattling the bedframe against the wall. "Really now?" she gasped, her voice ragged and real, the modulator forgotten as her hips rose to meet yours hungrily. Her thighs locked around your waist, pulling you closer, nails digging crescents into your palms through the gloves—a wild animal trapped, but still biting back.

"Yeah, you already got to fuck me, now it's my turn to fuck you." You then kissed her deeply, your tongue slipping past her teeth as she moaned into your mouth. Her leather gloves scrabbled against your back—**** purchase on sweat-slicked skin—as you pinned her wrists tighter against the mattress. Beneath her mask, her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the dim blue TV glow like ink spreading through water. Her hips arched up instinctively, grinding against the relentless pounding rhythm—each thrust driving the headboard into the wall with rhythmic thuds that echoed the sirens wailing somewhere far below.

The bedsprings screamed like dying animals as you slammed into her—deeper, harder—her thighs trembling around your hips. Her cry ripped through the apartment, raw and unfiltered: "Don't stop, don't fucking stop!" Sweat dripped from your jaw onto her collarbone, tracing the bruise left by her teeth earlier. Her gloved fingers tore at your shoulders, shredding skin like paper beneath the leather, as she bucked against you with frantic, jerking movements. Her inner muscles clenched like a fist around your cock, milking you with **** pulses.

Neon light sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across her heaving chest and the cracked mask still clinging to her face. Her breath came in ragged sobs now, each exhale a broken plea as you drove her relentlessly toward another peak. The headboard hammered the wall in a frantic drumbeat—*thud-thud-thud*—matching the frantic pulse throbbing in your temples. She arched off the mattress suddenly, spine bowing like a drawn bowstring, her scream **** off into a silent gasp as her body locked rigid beneath you.

Her inner muscles clenched like a fist around you, milking with ****, rhythmic pulses that dragged you over the edge. You came hard, vision blurring into streaks of purple leather and sweat-slicked skin, collapsing forward as your hips jerked through the last shuddering thrusts. Her gloved hands scrabbled weakly at your back, fingers trembling against torn skin. For a long moment, the only sounds were the frantic drip of a leaky faucet in the kitchen sink and Huntress’s fractured breathing against your shoulder.

She shoved you off abruptly, rolling away to sit on the edge of the bed. The cracked domino mask hid her eyes as she snatched her discarded bikini top, fingers fumbling with the clasp. Neon light caught the sweat sheening her shoulders, the tremor in her hands as she tied the fabric back into place. "That," she rasped, her modulator's distortion creeping back into her voice, "wasn't part of the thank you."

You watched her stand, leather coat swallowing her frame as she buckled it over the purple bikini, movements stiff and deliberate. Her boots crunched over scattered buttons near the door. She paused, one gloved hand resting on the knob, as you slid your hand around her waist. "Leaving already?" you murmured against her neck, your fingers tracing the curve of her hip beneath the coat. Her spine went rigid, but she didn’t pull away—just tilted her head, exposing the pulse hammering beneath sweat-damp skin.

"I'm not finished with you yet," You murmured against Huntress's ear, your free hand sliding beneath her coat to trace the waistband of her bikini bottoms. She inhaled sharply, her gloved fingers tightening on the doorknob—but instead of pulling away, she leaned back into your touch, her hips pressing against yours in silent invitation. Her breath hitched when your thumb dipped beneath the fabric, tracing the damp seam between her thighs. "Then finish what you started," she hissed, modulator crackling with static, her head falling back against your shoulder as you slipped a finger inside her—still swollen and slick from your earlier fucking.

You pull her away from the door, steering her backwards toward the mattress as your fingers work deeper—circling that swollen bud with relentless precision until her knees buckle. Her modulator emits a garbled static gasp when you shove her facedown onto the sheets, her coat pooling around her elbows like spilled ink. Leather squeaks as you rip her bikini bottoms aside, spreading her thighs wide with your knee. She claws at the sheets when you thrust into her from behind—no preamble, just brutal re-entry—her choked cry muffled by the mattress. Her gloved hands fist the bedding, knuckles whitening beneath the leather as you pound into her with jackhammer ****, the bedframe screeching protest against the wall.

Neon bleeds through the blinds, striping her sweat-slicked spine and the cracked domino mask askew on her cheek. Her muscles clamp around you like a vise with each withdrawal, dragging you deeper on the next thrust—a punishing cycle that wrenches animal grunts from her throat. You grip her hips hard enough to bruise, pistoning into that **** wet heat while her back arches, pressing her breasts flush against the sheets. She twists her head sideways, biting the mattress to stifle a scream as you hammer against her cervix, your thumb grinding tight circles on her clit.

Her gloved hand snakes back blindly, clawing at your thigh—not pushing away, but pulling you impossibly deeper. Leather tears against skin as she bucks backward with savage ****, meeting your thrusts in a frenzy that rattles the bedframe against the wall plaster. The modulator cracks, her ragged plea raw and unfiltered: "Don't stop—ruin me!" Her inner muscles flutter wildly, a frantic pulse dragging you over the edge as she convulses beneath you, sobbing into the sheets.

You fuck her with relentless fury, driving into her clenching depths until her screams dissolve into choked sobs and the bedframe cracks against the wall. Neon stripes paint her trembling back as she collapses, spent and shuddering beneath you, her mask smeared against sweat-damp sheets. You grip her hips tighter, dragging out your release with slow, grinding thrusts that draw a ragged gasp from her throat—her muscles milking you dry in exhausted pulses. When you pull away, she stays sprawled facedown, leather coat tangled around her waist, breathing like a survivor dragged from wreckage.

You then drift off to sleep. Neon bleeds through the blinds, coating her sweat-smeared mask and tangled hair. The following morning you awoke to her head resting on your chest, her face mask still partially attached—one lens cracked, the other fogged with condensation. Her breath warmed your skin, rhythmic and deep, leather coat bunched at her waist like discarded armor. You shifted; her gloved hand instinctively tightened on your bare shoulder, nails digging crescents into flesh even in sleep. Her thigh draped possessively over yours, bikini bottoms still shoved aside, the scent of sex and gun oil thick in the stagnant air.

You considered peeling away slowly—maybe vanishing before she woke—but her grip tightened like a sprung trap when you tested it. "Don't even fucking think about it," she mumbled against your collarbone, modulator crackling with sleep-static. Her eyes stayed closed behind the fractured mask, but her lips curved into a razor-thin smile. "We’re not done talking." Her thumb traced the bite mark on your neck, a silent reminder of last night’s debts.

She then looked up at you, her breathing shallow, the cracked mask shifting as she frowned. "I was thinking I need an informant, someone on the ground feeding me information about what's going on in the underworld," She then ran her finger down your chest, as she shifted her leg off yours, "You're not exactly squeaky clean, but you did help me catch Two-Face and Tommy," she continued, her modulator softening slightly. "Let's make a deal, you help me take down as many of Gotham's worse as possible, and I'll make sure you don't spend another night alone." She then leaned up and kissed you softly, her leather glove tracing the curve of your jaw. "You in?"