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You’re so in your own head—mind bogged down by the unadulterated want like fire in your body that you haven’t even tried to satiate (it’s been two hours since exposure and you’ve barely moved)—that you don’t notice someone’s entered your quarters until they’re standing directly in front of you in your chair, legs parting your knees.
Jesus Christ, it’s Batman. Well, Bruce Wayne. You look up and he has the cowl pushed back, hair a little mussed and eyes like electricity.
“You look—” you swallow, “good.”