whiithers-blog

[whiithers-blog]

#ѕιgнт ғor ѕore eyeѕ ;; aeѕтнeтιcѕ

[whiithers-blog]

[ altho I wanted to be more active here again, I just got into an MMO, and I got a job, so maybe I won’t become too active after all PFFF ]

#тнe careтaĸer ;; ooc

[whiithers-blog]

Doodles for The human within au!! Someone help Sebastian

#perғecтιonιѕт deтecтιve ;; joѕepн oda #yoυ’ll proтecт мe? ;; jυlι ĸιdмan #paтιenт 105 ;; leѕlιe wιтнerѕ #ᴜɴsᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴘʀᴏɢʀᴀᴍᴍɪɴɢ ;; ᴅᴇᴛʀᴏɪᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ

[whiithers-blog]

Bouquet (white tulips) by stonelantern

#ѕιgнт ғor ѕore eyeѕ ;; aeѕтнeтιcѕ

[whiithers-blog]

                          ❛ι мυѕт loѕe мyѕelғ ιn acтιon,

                                        leѕт ι wιтнer 

                                         ιn deѕpaιr.   ❜

                            -Alfed Lord Tennyson

                                 - - -

            Ind. Leslie Withers, from The Evil Within. Cherished by LittleBird

             ✧  Beautiful graphic by @taintednow ! ✧

#self promo;; #[ rb'ing this again! ]

[whiithers-blog]

Leslie Withers // The Evil Within

#ѕιgнт ғor ѕore eyeѕ ;; aeѕтнeтιcѕ #paтιenт 105 ;; leѕlιe wιтнerѕ

[whiithers-blog]

[ and now I’m awkwardly trying to follow a bunch of folks so I can get my dash full and such haha; ~ ]

#тнe careтaĸer ;; ooc #[ don't mind me don't mind me~*~*~*~*~ ]

[whiithers-blog]

[ I’ve added a D;BH verse ! it’s a lil weak, but I hope it’ll suffice..... ]

#тнe careтaĸer ;; ooc

[whiithers-blog]

Solaris (1972) dir. Andrei Tarkovsky

#dιғғιcυlтy coммυnιcaтιng ;; мυѕιng

[whiithers-blog]

[ *dusts off this blog a bit* ]

[ Hello everyone! Remember me? I’m terribly sorry for the lengthy hiatus, my muse is a fickle thing. But I’ve been wanting to resurrect this blog quite a bit! ]

[ So, I’ve revamped the theme a little, and you can expect little changes to certain bits of information, icons, etc.. ]

[ I’m looking forward to writing for my angel son here again huhuhu ]

#тнe careтaĸer ;; ooc #[ hope u haven't missed me too much! ;^ ]

[whiithers-blog]

[ My inactivity is likely going to get heavier since RL is getting a little busy, and my muse is getting weaker! Very sorry for the super long delays and absolute 0 activity on here for that ;; ]

#тнe careтaĸer ;; ooc #[ especially sorry to those I've been PLANNING threads with or already have threads with ;; ]

[whiithers-blog]

  The detective seemed to give it some thought, as though he never really acknowledged beforehand whether he was afraid or not, and why, or why not. Certainly, he was a ‘man of action’, rather than of profound thought. If that alone didn’t strike Leslie as completely strange, Sebastian’s answer was utterly confusing.

 He wasn’t afraid at all? Not for himself, at any rate. He worried about his partner. And about ‘Kid’.  It was also apparent he worried for Leslie, given the lengths he’s gone to thus far to see to Leslie’s safety.

 Maybe it was futile. For any of them to worry about anything other than their own survival. 

 Leslie wanted to help the detective as well, of course. He was more involved in this than he was aware of right now, Leslie knew as much.  He could guide the man, Leslie knew where he needed to go for information that would be invaluable for securing even the chance of an escape. But.. 

Maybe it was futile.

 Leslie’s arms wrapped around himself in a self-hug, unable to resist the momentary weakness that was pessimism and hopelessness settling in. His expression was a little distant as his eyesight blurred to view nothing in particular. 

  Since arriving at Beacon, Leslie’s swallowed the inevitability of death. Of dying in this awful place. It was miraculous enough he still lived, if he died, all he would be warranted to think is ‘Darn it! So close!’. 

 And yet..

 When Leslie thought if his own mind and soul being torn from his own weak body,  his consciousness vanishing into nothingness.. Of the frightening monsters that roamed about, the ones that would chase him, unaware of how valuable Leslie was to the mastermind of the dream-scape. His own finger nails deepen into his arms. It only stung a little. And his mind prompted him; Imagine how much more it would hurt if you were slashed or stabbed, or if those haunted people used their hands to tear here.

 Another prompt; Dying namelessly, as pathetically as you’ve lived, never having reunited with your family, never having been able to wear clothes of your own choosing, living a life where you don’t need permission for anything, or have no need to answer to anyone.

 Leslie’s teeth were clenched together.

 A third prompt; Just a vision. Of a burnt, white clad hooded figure. 

 And Leslie’s stomach tightened. 

“Yes.” Leslie answered at last the detective’s idle inquiry, voice tight but weak.

 He didn’t want to die. He wanted his suffering to end, but not like that. Not like this. Leslie just wanted to go home.  And he wanted everyone else to have the chance to go home, too. If Leslie perished now, all would be lost. And that mad doctor would have his way.

  He turned his head to the side, away from Sebastian’s look quite completely. Leslie wished he wasn’t afraid, but he couldn’t help it. He was so afraid, he could hardly respond to Sebastian’s lack of fear only being rooted in his lack of will to live. His own belief that he hardly had a future, so death was hardly frightening to the detective.

whiithers:

 The word repeated again; Hope. 

 Leslie heard it a good number of times in films, television shows, read it in stories. Protagonists seemed capable to survive any wild situation if they.. Simply believed hard enough that they could. It was never very thrilling, Leslie thought. The plots were usually very clear characters would survive, and achieve their goals mostly unscathed. They repeated phrases that revolved around enduring hope so many times it rather lost it’s meaning, it just became a tangle of letters, with an always attention holding pronounced ‘p’.

 It applied differently in real life. It did for Leslie, anyhow. He had little other things in his possession. His own mind and body became tools of some sort of use– Something he didn’t completely understand yet. What they were doing to him, that is.. What they intend to do to him. 

 Leslie’s fingers knotted together, and he glanced concernedly to the detective who stood by, the aura about him heavy and worn. He wasn’t sure enough of the detective’s identity to try and encourage him– Leslie wasn’t sure if he had a family, or people to live for at all. If the man was quite completely alone, were Leslie in his place, he wouldn’t have much hope in him either.

 Eyes went downwards again, to his own pale bare feet which stood out starkly, contrasting the darkness the hospital–This nightmare, was dyed in.  They were filthy, bruised and cold. But they still worked fine, Leslie could dash about with impressive and unpredictable speed thanks to them.

 This was a nightmare. Even with his naive hoping, perhaps it was impossible he would ever see the light of real daylight again.  

 His family was gone– That’s why they kept telling him, whenever Leslie may bring it up. He couldn’t believe them, his doctors, but that’s what they always would tell him. 

 If it was true, if he would ever get out of this hospital– Of any hospital, if he had no family waiting for him.. If he became truly alone, what then? 

It would be easy, like falling asleep. If he let go, he wouldn’t need to feel scared anymore, he wouldn’t need to run anymore or endure any more hurt.  It was tempting– Promising, even.

 But his thoughts couldn’t settle on it. It was too frightening still, and he couldn’t let go of his stubborn hope. If he couldn’t live for his family, he could live for himself, something he’s been deprived of for as long as his blurry memory would re-call. 

 This was a nightmare, but it promised him the chance of freedom. He would die chasing it, if that’s what it came down to.

 What did it come down to for Sebastian?

Leslie’s mouth opened wordlessly, then closed again, in preparation of the task of verbal speech, with his own words rather than borrowed ones.

“Are, are you..” A short pause, a discomfort with the second-person point of view in regards to pronouns like ‘you’. It was too personal. But he was asking personally, so maybe it was appropriate.

“Are you, scared?”

 Of being hurt, of being used, of dying? Of losing the chance for freedom? Of being manipulated, pried into, peered into? Of anything, everything? At all?

Exhaustion slowly settles in like this, and Sebastian scrambles back to his feet, just to stand rather than sit, eyes searching their surrounding for a possible nearby thread. The familiar weight of his gun still rests in his hand, at least something to cling to, when all else - like cigarette and glasses of booze - are denied right now, the cold metal framed in wood is at least reassuring enough to grant them a chance of survival.

The boy can’t do much but if they are attacked, and Sebastian can only hope that he can buy him enough time to escape if all else fails, even though he does not yet see a way out of this place. But who knows, Leslie seems to have seen more of this place than he does, and maybe he even knows a way out. The piece of hope he decides to cling to now, when nothing else is left to hold on to.

“Scared?”

He repeats the question, tastes the word on his tongue. It’s a question that catches him off guard in way, if only because he’s never given it much thought.

There was a time when he was afraid of many things, like not being good enough at his job. Of failing to help people in danger. When he heard about Myra’s pregnancy. He’d been scared many times in his life, but right now, it has all dulled down to a numbness, settled inside him, toning down every other feeling except the occasional outburst of anger.

If there’s nothing left to lose, what’s left to be scared of?

He knows he wants to survive this place. Why exactly, he can’t even tell. Trading one hell for another is all it is after all, but at least back homeit’s his own, personal hell, not the deranged mind of some weird psycho that’s keeping them hostage. But he’s not exactly scared of dying. Too little is left, and probably only his own stubbornness is what’s keeping him alive at this point; too broken to live, but too stubborn to die.

It’s the thought of his partner though, and what could happen to any innocent bystander, that touches something inside him. He’s not scared for his own survival, but he would never forgive himself if he would let anything happen to those that do not deserve any of this. Leslie, Joseph, Kidman … even though they are not, he feels as though they are his responsibility, and he needs to get them out of here.

Yet, at the boy’s question, he shakes his head.

“I’m not scared,” he finally says, after what seems too long of a pause. “Worried about my partner, ‘s all.”

He turns his head, finally looking at the young man next to him, and Sebastian tries to figure out his age for the first time since meeting him. He’s grown up, but the features are so ageless, the behavior so indescribable, that he has a hard time to determine anything about Leslie, really. Yet, a part of him feels as though he’s talking to Lily.

“Are you?” he asks, his voice as soft as he still manages after all.

#loѕιng oυr мιndѕ ;; ιc #don'т wanт тo go тнere.. ;; вeacon ѕтeм #stereotypicaldetectivesebastian #[ sorry if this got too long again ww; ] #[ I really like the inner monologueing you do for seb! :o it's very insightful and depthful IMO ! ]

[whiithers-blog]

By Amber Ortolano

The light’s hitting your nervous hair

#ѕιgнт ғor ѕore eyeѕ ;; aeѕтнeтιcѕ

[whiithers-blog]

with·er ˈwiT͟Hər verb “To cease to flourish; fall into decay or decline”

#paтιenт 105 ;; leѕlιe wιтнerѕ

[whiithers-blog]

 The word repeated again; Hope. 

 Leslie heard it a good number of times in films, television shows, read it in stories. Protagonists seemed capable to survive any wild situation if they.. Simply believed hard enough that they could. It was never very thrilling, Leslie thought. The plots were usually very clear characters would survive, and achieve their goals mostly unscathed. They repeated phrases that revolved around enduring hope so many times it rather lost it’s meaning, it just became a tangle of letters, with an always attention holding pronounced ‘p’.

 It applied differently in real life. It did for Leslie, anyhow. He had little other things in his possession. His own mind and body became tools of some sort of use-- Something he didn’t completely understand yet. What they were doing to him, that is.. What they intend to do to him. 

 Leslie’s fingers knotted together, and he glanced concernedly to the detective who stood by, the aura about him heavy and worn. He wasn’t sure enough of the detective’s identity to try and encourage him-- Leslie wasn’t sure if he had a family, or people to live for at all. If the man was quite completely alone, were Leslie in his place, he wouldn’t have much hope in him either.

 Eyes went downwards again, to his own pale bare feet which stood out starkly, contrasting the darkness the hospital--This nightmare, was dyed in.  They were filthy, bruised and cold. But they still worked fine, Leslie could dash about with impressive and unpredictable speed thanks to them.

 This was a nightmare. Even with his naive hoping, perhaps it was impossible he would ever see the light of real daylight again.  

 His family was gone-- That’s why they kept telling him, whenever Leslie may bring it up. He couldn’t believe them, his doctors, but that’s what they always would tell him. 

 If it was true, if he would ever get out of this hospital-- Of any hospital, if he had no family waiting for him.. If he became truly alone, what then? 

It would be easy, like falling asleep. If he let go, he wouldn’t need to feel scared anymore, he wouldn’t need to run anymore or endure any more hurt.  It was tempting-- Promising, even.

 But his thoughts couldn’t settle on it. It was too frightening still, and he couldn’t let go of his stubborn hope. If he couldn’t live for his family, he could live for himself, something he’s been deprived of for as long as his blurry memory would re-call. 

 This was a nightmare, but it promised him the chance of freedom. He would die chasing it, if that’s what it came down to.

 What did it come down to for Sebastian?

Leslie’s mouth opened wordlessly, then closed again, in preparation of the task of verbal speech, with his own words rather than borrowed ones.

“Are, are you..” A short pause, a discomfort with the second-person point of view in regards to pronouns like ‘you’. It was too personal. But he was asking personally, so maybe it was appropriate.

“Are you, scared?”

 Of being hurt, of being used, of dying? Of losing the chance for freedom? Of being manipulated, pried into, peered into? Of anything, everything? At all?

“Rather than dying… it’s harder to stay alive.”

@whiithers  answered: (continued from here)

Leslie frowned quietly, taking the moment to process the weight of the detective’s words.

Dying, to Leslie, seemed very difficult. Even at his most hopeless, if by nothing else, by instinct alone, he fought tooth and nail against anything that could potentially threaten his life. It was anyone’s rough guess how close, exactly, he’s come to dying.

Supposedly, Leslie could only refer to ‘luck’ as being the reason he hasn’t died thus far. Astronomical, cosmically comedic, luck. It was hardly his own efforts to led to his survival.

Staying alive.. Of course, the very notion was weighty.

Avoiding people who could too easily take your life from you, or situations that could. And that was in a somewhat literal, physical sense of it– What Sebastian referred to now– Was having the urge to stay alive. Leslie assumed that was the case, anyhow.

 To ensure you don’t starve, or don’t run afoul with traffic.  Having the will to live, when dying promised peace after only a brief difficulty.

He would remember back to times he felt that weight, as well. The weight of his pulse. Of impending nothingness.

“You need, something to hope for.” Leslie spoke with a slight stress, uncertain of his word choices. Uncertain if Sebastian was even looking for advice.

Hope was always his incentive to put in all of the work required to live. Hope he would be some place better soon, hope that his family may come for him,  so on and so fourth.

Even if it was a tiny hope, it could get one through most days. It was the spider’s silk Leslie clung to through years worth of institutionalized living, from mundane hospitals and facilities, all the way through Beacon, and what he endured during his stay there.

It was simple– But sometimes, the simplest answer was the best. Wasn’t it?

He doesn’t even remember why the thought crossed his mind in the first place. A part of him assumes it’s just this place and this whole situation that leaves him having such bleak thoughts. Not that there have been any brighter moments as of late, but normally he doesn’t allow these thoughts to crawl up on him like they do now, slinging their tendrils around his mind and poison it with words and thoughts he normally likes to drown before they even arise. But being out of booze and out of cigarettes, out of luck really, there is no way to silence the himself or his thoughts.

The boy doesn’t know about Sebastian’s past, of course not. Just as much as Sebastian doesn’t know anything about Leslie but his name, not why he’s in here, nor why that psychopath seems to be chasing after him. So while he appreciates the words of comfort the boy clearly means to be saying, they hit that one nerve that pains Sebastian more than anything.

“Hope,” he repeats, his voice emotionless and blank like his gaze while he stares ahead at the wall of the hallway they’re sitting in, allowing themselves a moment of rest during their constant run for survival. “Not much hope left for me,” he admits, shaking his head. More than ever does he long for the sharp taste of whiskey on his tongue, or the light weight of a cigarette in his hand. He’s still denied both, and all he’s got is the sticky feeling of drying blood on his fingertips and under his nails.

He’s never been one to just give up, even after everything that has happened. But a real sense for living is what he’s lacking, surviving rather than living, every day just doing his job and returning to a place to sleep, just to repeat it all the next day. Even this here, he’s not sure if he’d be fighting this more for survival if it wasn’t for Joseph, Leslie and Kidman being stuck here with him in this place.

#loѕιng oυr мιndѕ ;; ιc #don'т wanт тo go тнere.. ;; вeacon ѕтeм #[ aah hello!! fantastic tbh!! \o\ ] #[ i'd always like more threads here and i've been wanting to write with you for a long while as well!! ]

[whiithers-blog]

Gives him a personal-sized cake that says "Happy Birthday, Leslie" on it.

“More cake! So much cake!!”

 And, it has his own name on it. Absolute ownership. Illness be damned, he would eat it all himself. At once.

#loѕιng oυr мιndѕ ;; ιc #ιnтervιew ѕυвjecт ;; anѕwered #[ he dont care about stomach aches. he ready. ] #thebastardlady

[whiithers-blog]

“Rather than dying… it’s harder to stay alive.”

Leslie frowned quietly, taking the moment to process the weight of the detective’s words.

 Dying, to Leslie, seemed very difficult. Even at his most hopeless, if by nothing else, by instinct alone, he fought tooth and nail against anything that could potentially threaten his life. It was anyone’s rough guess how close, exactly, he’s come to dying. 

 Supposedly, Leslie could only refer to ‘luck’ as being the reason he hasn’t died thus far. Astronomical, cosmically comedic, luck. It was hardly his own efforts to led to his survival. 

 Staying alive.. Of course, the very notion was weighty.

 Avoiding people who could too easily take your life from you, or situations that could. And that was in a somewhat literal, physical sense of it– What Sebastian referred to now– Was having the urge to stay alive. Leslie assumed that was the case, anyhow.

  To ensure you don’t starve, or don’t run afoul with traffic.  Having the will to live, when dying promised peace after only a brief difficulty. 

 He would remember back to times he felt that weight, as well. The weight of his pulse. Of impending nothingness. 

“You need, something to hope for.” Leslie spoke with a slight stress, uncertain of his word choices. Uncertain if Sebastian was even looking for advice.

 Hope was always his incentive to put in all of the work required to live. Hope he would be some place better soon, hope that his family may come for him,  so on and so fourth. 

 Even if it was a tiny hope, it could get one through most days. It was the spider’s silk Leslie clung to through years worth of institutionalized living, from mundane hospitals and facilities, all the way through Beacon, and what he endured during his stay there.

 It was simple– But sometimes, the simplest answer was the best. Wasn’t it? 

#ιnтervιew ѕυвjecт ;; anѕwered #loѕιng oυr мιndѕ ;; ιc #stereotypicaldetectivesebastian