[There's no time to process it, starbursts of colours lighting up Oswald’s brain as Alfred presses closer and he feels that fierce heat of him through his shirt, feels his mouth on his, warm and wet and laced with whisky. And then the moment breaks, and it's like jerking awake from a dream again, the hazy-lit bedroom and the smell of incense and the loneliness snapping back into awareness. He rears back with a sharp, startled inhale, a spasm of emotions on his face. Fear, confusion, childish hurt. He blinks back, throat heaving. Mouth hanging open for several long, wordless seconds. And, suddenly, he’s more sober than he’s been in the last half hour, his heart rabbiting in his chest.]
--what are you doing...?
[It’s all he can manage, after he has swallowed and found his voice. And it’s so small, so fragile for Oswald Cobblepot.]
no subject
--what are you doing...?
[It’s all he can manage, after he has swallowed and found his voice. And it’s so small, so fragile for Oswald Cobblepot.]