[ I FORGET ALL OF MY DREAMS : OPEN ]

[WANDERER]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]random moody drunk val muse lmao quick warning that this thread does involve alcohol and he's. pretty drunk so it'll be a thing in responses, just in case that bothers anyone

His attempts to get away from this place led him nowhere. The Pitt's depravity had stained his fur and maybe even slipped a little bit deeper underneath his skin. Everywhere he went, people assumed the worst of him just because of the faint scent he carried with him. Perhaps they were right to (he was here willingly, no matter the reason), but it still just sort of stings. Everything does. This is the last place he wants to be while also being the only place that he has a friend in the world. Better angry than lonely, right? Maybe not. Every time he's gotten close enough to see someone's face for these last few hours, he's barely been able to duck his head down and avoid some sort of fight. So far he's been able to slip mostly under the radar. People ignored him, and being ignored is the only thing worth keeping up. As long as he didn't mean shit to anybody, the world would keep turning and he'd make his way out of here eventually. Slip up, and nobody knows what'll happen. He doesn't want to find out.

But today's been a bad day — a really bad day. So the dog shed off the jacket Butch had given him and ended up on the floor with a bottle of alcohol. The jacket just smells like himself and sand now (which is stupid, he doesn't like that), and alcohol burns the same way it always does. He's not much of a drinker, and that just makes this go a little bit worse. Or better. His thoughts come to his mind fuzzy and slow, every drink leaving his tongue heavier but looser. So far there's nobody to talk to though, and maybe with the sour expression on his face, that's for the best. The half-empty bottle of whiskey now lies on its side, liquid almost ready to pour out from the neck but not quite. Val keeps his head on his paws and simply glares at it like he's waiting for something, expression filled with a wide-open, hazy sort of anger. Today just wasn't his day.

[ninazu]

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© lexasperated

I WISH YOU COULD SEE THE WICKED TRUTH
CAUGHT UP IN A RUSH, IT'S KILLING YOU

The sand cat remembers seeing Val around -- mostly loitering near Butch -- but she barely remembers his name. That's her problem; she likes to live in her laboratory, spending most of her 'socialization' time teaching Cosette or playing word games with Stryker. Now, though, she smells the rank odor of too much alcohol pluming from the panda German shepherd, rolling off his fur and spewing through the air with every exhale. Normally, the erudite likes to avoid getting to close to anyone bigger than her and likely unstable.

But she supposed this obvious sign of mental health issues meant she needed to step in. Frankly, Ninazu rarely played the part of a councillor or therapist or shrink, whatever you wanted to call it.

"Looks like something's bothering you. Want to talk about it?" she asks, sitting next to him with two of her five tails curled around her paws. She notices the gleam of anger in his eyes, but doesn't want to comment specifically on that. Instead she glances at the whiskey, and wonders how long he's been working on it.

WRITTEN BY AXIOM * TAGS

© LEXASPERATED

[B. WAYNE]

[align=center][div style="width: 51%; text-align: justify; font-size: 10pt; letter-spacing: -1px; font-family: verdana;"]Bruce drinks in good company, when it's convenient. He'd say that he would drink at parties if he knew the grounds were secure and the people were trustworthy - but he hasn't been invited to any such event since he was a child. Even under those pretenses, he hates the slippery lack of control that he wasn't capable of desensitizing himself to. He could poison himself to become acclimated to the toxins, he could microfracture his bones to strengthen them, but becoming numb to the lull of alcohol was a slow and painful path that he wasn't sure he would be able to come back from. At least, with everything else, he could force himself to recover in the end.

"Something's on your mind." It isn't an attempt at some mocking quip over the other's habits - he's being honest. The frustration, the anger, it pooled around Val like the whiskey gathered at the lip of the upturned bottle and was just on the edge of running over. He glances at Ninazu for beating him to the punch, but still sits down a little ways off to listen.