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@widwer
#WIDWER. a soft horror original character. by merrin. she/they, 30+.
navigation. rules. statistics. apply to be his husband.
warnings for: illness (one terminal), death, mental illness, coarse language, heavy explorations of grief, allusions to poor family dynamics, extremely poor coping mechanisms, suicidal ideation and tendencies, semi-unlikable main character, ghosts.
the w.idow’s bay finale released last night and i noticed this wild parallel between two completely unconnected careers. @printedblues tombev real
oh, good – he had taken that as an invitation.
❝ not if i can help it. ❞ he sets the pen aside now, closing up the notebook. no use in playing chicken with his own aspirations tonight. there's only going to be one winner and – try as he might, even he isn't vain enough to assume it'll be him. probably. ❝ what gave me away? ❞
he lifts a palm and ducks his head a bit, giving ohm as dismissive an attitude as he’s got, though beverly’s side is smug in a different way. smiling slightly, as though he’s lured the creature out of its cage without intending to give him the treat.
“not subtle, is it?” his desire to be left alone. bev does empathize. “don’t trouble yourself, love, i’m not asking for a synopsis.”
📐 for jayne, to beverly’s 5’5”
#do you understand how batshit feral this makes jayne
it's like they're trudging in the footsteps of another, more peaceful walk. but he's starting to have some hope for it, in this lifetime. one day. he doesn't feel any less tied up, and there's the wind rushing them home, beating loose screws down the road lengthwise: but he does feel lighter. suddenly far away from everything, it's almost tempting to accept beverly's offer. it's almost within reach.
almost. "hah, yeah. don't go in? do you know what will happen if i don't go in? all-all that stuff i just told you? yeah, take all of that, add actual fire to it. and rats. and-and some freak traffic jam 'round the driftwood. invasion of the pot holes." he makes a quick exchange: their takeaway bag for both of his hands back, to reach into his pocket for the house keys. he doesn't have to avoid eye contact for bev to know the truth: that he's needed down there at town hall, and that he likes to be needed. "and my eyes are fine. that's what they would've—told me—anyway."
on the second floor there's a light on. it bleeds out into the humidity like an object from deep space, corona-like. tom leans his head back and squints one eye looking up. maybe he does need corrective lenses.
"if we go in real quiet we won't have to share."
the takeaway bag lasts in beverly’s hand for a grand total of four seconds before he sits it down on the doorstep, from which position it can peer disappointedly up at them, its handles drooping like the ears of an animal. he places both hands on tom’s chest and hums shortly, having swallowed it all, and having really only liked the last bit.
in the same moment he’s rolling forward and upward to kiss him, willow opens the door dressed for bed, excepting a pair of outdoor shoes. bev stops what he’s doing and hastily withdraws, and for an instant their roles are traded: her the parent, him the child.
“i thought something had happened.” it’s about 10:30. tom’s car is in the driveway. the fretful apple doesn’t fall far from the fretful tree. “i was going to— fuck it.” she waves them off and turns back inside, toeing her shoes off in the foyer. “good night. phone us next time?”
following a hurried apology and his own good wishes, beverly tips forehead-first into tom’s chest and heaves a sigh. then, without pulling back, he bends his knees—face sliding down the front of him—until he’s low enough to collect their bag of food from the ground.
“and a sandwich for you?” he plucks unhappily at tom’s upper layer on his way in. “and more comfortable clothes?”
i don't expect you'll receive another offer. if it's a jab, it doesn't exactly strike him at the gut. it's just enough, however, to pique his interest, provoke a writer's damnable curiosity.
( and fuck if he's not wrong – the offers aren't exactly through the door )
❝ whiskey. ❞ ohm's pen pauses temporarily, ballpoint prodding idly to a college - ruled gap. it's said simply, then, unaffected: ❝ neat. ❞
it had been intended as a jab, but not a mortal one. he's glad to see it's worked—bled him back to life. beverly reaches behind the bar for a bottle and tips the neck questioningly, allowing him the moment he might need to say 'wrong one.'
"you don't write in public with an ulterior motive, then," he asks as he pours. "you'd prefer not to discuss it?"
ok @widwer
what would happen. a great tidal wave is what. just pull the bath plug on the whole island. there'd be no shortage of people to— no. nonono. tom stammers a few going-nowheres. takes a few moments to readjust. beverly looks tired, but beautiful. flushed white and angel-like under the lights.
before starting back on the walk, he lets go of his hand just so he can pick up again with a new sort of gentleness. that has to be it. vengeance is over. they are back on the same side.
"don't even get me started," then he starts. a quick account follows: the day grows and expands before their eyes like a slideshow imprinted on the streetlamp halos. evan dragging his feet in the morning; paper jam in the printer so severe he had dale on stand-by with a fire extinguisher; people suddenly filing through the front door in droves like migratory birds to dispute seven-dollar parking tickets. "oh-oh, and now vandalism, thanks for that." then the eye appointment. "they said they had no such name on file. i said, i-i know i'm on file, you know me, it's tom. i'm the mayor."
by the end he's almost winded. but emptied out, serene. at one point it's just beverly holding onto him and he is floating. this is what he's always looking for, coming home.
"you know what's the best part, beverly?" the sarcasm molts into an almost-sweetness in his voice. it's the secret language the two of them speak best together. "we get to do it aaa-ll again tomorrow."
for all of his irritable chat, bev makes, perhaps, a surprisingly good listener. he'd been dreadful when he was younger—not because he was dis- or un-interested, but because he'd devoted his youth to the effort of making himself littler, and in his budding adulthood sought the opposite. his first husband taught him to find a balance.
strange to think of them in numbers now. the 1 and the 1.5.
"what a miserable thought," he says in the end, without a hint of misery in it. tom has talked for so long that they've gone residential, the lights fewer and the house within jogging distance.
sometimes he wishes he could reverse their sizes, shave a little extra off tom, and carry him to his destination. the least he can do is transport his hand, which feels adhered to his own by time and sweat.
"don't go in." he won't be upset if tom declines. not quite so easy for the mayor, though certainly not impossible. "i won't go in." given the island's sparse coverage in the medical field, it's a challenge for him, too; thus a proposal with weight. "shall i be doctor? you need reading glasses."
❝ wonders never cease. ❞
@widwer, beverly & ohm.
he gets the impression his conversation isn’t quite welcome. it ignites a little battle within him: the stubborn against the similarly antisocial.
“buy you a drink?” he asks, suspecting sorrows. at worst he’s miserable, and bev can do the least and leave. “i don’t expect you’ll receive another offer.”
i’m voice-testing patricia of w.idow’s bay because i love her. only on her own blog instead of a multi because a canon url was free! please ignore that her singular ic post is about bev and say hello @pattiwagon
the apathy lain like stone in his face, weathered by beverly’s petulance only as jayne’s blinks, collecting his confusion with his lashes,
" satisfied? " you would think it betrays a genuine indifference for his husbands display as he kneels to the level of beverly’s eye. using his thumb to wipe the tear from the corner of beverly's mouth, " you need this so badly to be about you, don't you. " and tests the taste of its salt.
" it’s disgusting. " it’s everything to jayne. he reaches down between beverly's legs. kneads the heel of his palm into his crotch to feel the heat of his cunt through his trousers, pressing between the intention of pain and arousal. whichever will do. both are completely secondary to jayne.
" isn't it? " the other hand trails from beverly's chin to his throat, squeezing enough to leave the milgrain impression of jayne's wedding band there in the skin. " isn't it. "
this is light! conversation. warming. heartwarming. they're making their way back. tom swinging their hands back and forth in the air between their bodies trying not to spiral with the mental image of any-old-one perching on his desk when he's not there. is a man's rolodex not sacred anymore? is anything? but there's a certain charm, too. focus on that. focus on beverly's sandwich crumbs, how he'll find them caught under the wheels of his chair and think of him for days. any little port window in a storm.
he laughs at the attempted american accent: it bubbles up his throat and settles in the jawbone where he can quickly bite it down to cut it short. he's trying hard not to lose it. between the day that he's had and the guilt that he's feeling, he can sense it building. he won't let it. just go home and eat your god damn baked potato, tom. but here it builds. the pressure. the skin of his neck tightens over muscle tensing. hold it. hold it hard.
ah. it slips out of his grasp.
"bev, hah. i-i know the punch of that kinda rings different where you're from, here it-it's really very. i. you-you can't go calling people c—ah—" he finally hears himself. stopping dead in his tracks, it hits him then. "you're fucking with me!"
by the time tom has stumbled his way into the full realization, beverly has wound up a grin, self-satisfied and toothy and bright. it’s almost enough to make him feel bad for feeling good, which he supposes is something they’ll have to reckon with in their marriage. the pair of them bound by grief they didn’t share, growing on but not always in one another, like vines along the brickwork of a house.
“of course i fucking am.” he’d really been enjoying the lecture. wishes he’d got to hear him stutter to the end of the word.
he loves him a bit dumbly when he laughs; can feel himself going slack each time as he watches him, wishing there were a physical button he could press that would trigger it again.
“although i am curious,” he begins, recalling the times he’s regarded people of the bay with near-contempt. “what would happen if you were to start throwing it around. you’d know better than anyone that there are some cunts about. speaking of.”
a street lamp hits him wrong when he lifts his head to look at him, forcing him to narrow one eye against it. the lip corner and nostril of the corresponding side rise and wrinkle with it.
“your day?”
(flirting) you're beautiful btw. im going to piss you off on purpose
𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞. low stakes / low activity blog featuring original characters . written by kel . 21+ only , 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 . 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫
' 𝚒'𝚖 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚢 𝚐𝚘 , as far as you know.
trevor, what have you done? he saw it coming even as he took the reins and leaned in for it: slow-motion front collision. here comes the carnage. but his mind was quiet for exactly point two seconds on an inhale. bliss. now try not to hate yourself for it.
because this is what makes the whole thing worth it. talking is treacherous. he works with words for a living but he can't explain it. the invitation is born in the reptile brain where no-one asks his permission: it's just saying do that again and nobody's even really done anything yet, except trevor fumbling with the kiss.
beverly is still touching him. hand prints all over his flannel. that has to count for something. his new script runs a dress rehearsal. what options? i've been wanting to do that for weeks.
"what—" he chokes, swerves on a new direction. "nothing has to happen."
"oh, no." let him take charge for a minute, set this runaway train back on its tracks. he didn't mean to make trevor question the whole of it. "i know that. i know."
he touches him first, flat in the center of his chest like he's a frightened animal who's just been alerted to another's prey drive. then he kisses him again, deeper and more tender than the last, to show him he'll fucking roll over for it.
i want something to happen.
i'm almost certain of it.
"i hope not to sound like i'm—in crisis." but is he? "or in a cliché." but he is. "you're good-looking. you're young." eyeing him expectantly, leaving the blanks for the author to fill, "yeah?"
he swears a lamppost flickers and dies as they pass under it. it's back a second later. he's just blinking his eyes, hard reset. "you-you did what?"
shuffling the pieces around in his head: pawn to e4, beverly to the hallway of his office. ruth? he almost asks out loud like she's trailing behind them to confirm or deny. oh, gone, right. when he met her in the doorway coming in this morning, that must have been her wrapping it up. for the week, probably, we'll see tomorrow.
so the island is a bunch of missed connections. tom leans his head back as they walk, looks at the black-on-black telephone lines mapping their road out overhead. loose and reliable. "strangely i'm not too upset at that." i deserve it, even. "you know what? i-i won't even ask who it was. that's yours now. you can keep it. you can have ruth's salary, too. sounds like you've done more work for me today than she has in weeks."
unspoken, but thought: did you try my phone just to check it works? but he won't ask that either. oh, this old thing? he reminds himself he's done looking for excuses—though he's a magician with those things, the never-ending rope—but his hand holding bev's feels jittery with want to smooth things over. his thumb keeps going over his knuckle again and again, like he can make it shine. he's sweating and they're barely up the hill. okay, darling, i gave you permission to me mad at me, that doesn't mean you actually have to do it.
with his tone forced several octaves higher, "but you know now i'm going to have to ask to hear the voice."
he laughs, more tom-like than bev-like, pitched higher and cut shorter than it is naturally, usually. he sounds more like him than he had done whilst trying to sound like him.
"certainly fucking not." they hadn't reached out for any serious reason, the caller, and perhaps in part because of that hadn't bought beverly's impression for a second. his mouth was full when he picked up, which he'd hoped, for a shameful spiteful moment, would make tom look bad.
that's when he remembered the appointment, chewing on the limp lettuce of his sandwich and hoping to lose him the favor of a citizen. at once he'd realized he hadn't been slighted, and if anything he'd squandered his own chances of intercepting him midday, when he could instead have accepted the offer of early lunch with the medical staff. might have seen tom there.
at least he'd stammered believably, with his speech made staccato by guilt.
"it was a vandalism complaint. weren't lost, it was the sign for their own fucking street. phoned with a view from their front window." he readies up the voice. just for him. "and i said, 'you know you could, uh, clean it up yourself.'" it's all over the place. too bostonian but then, somehow, not bostonian enough. "they caught me out, if you can imagine that. they called me an impostor so i called them a cunt."
gone soft. jayne bleeds tension from his body through a slow, chest born hiss in his smile. airy, honey-trapped, too overtly gentle of jayne to be mistaken for anything less than the kind of caustic devotion that is unique to him. he loves this man so terribly that it could kill them both. in a perfect world, it will.
it's love - beverly wouldn't mistake it for anything else - that he uses to surface the bright, flushed shape of his hand to the side of beverly's face, hard and swift, and put him on the kitchen floor.
beneath him, where he belongs. he's looks so small like this, on his knees at jayne's feet. he's nearly perfect. blood nearly collects in jaynes mouth as he fights the instinct to tell him, instead willing the smile against his bitten tongue to leave his face before beverly can notice it.
" what was that? " standing over him, jayne reaches down to guide his face upward again by his chin and admire the involuntary tears swelling at his impacted waterline. it's his favorite color, this dewy version of beverly's eyes. he wants to hang it on the wall.
" was there something you wanted to ask for? "
the pain in his knees registers before that of his face does, unprepared as they are for sudden impact; the pulse in all directions of a young man’s discomfort, strumming his nerves like overtightened strings on an instrument. until jayne speaks, bev’s ears ring with shock and arousal, and he can remember no sound from before but his own harsh, choked gasp.
it’s a blurred image through the tears, but no less a breathtaking one. he can feel the perfect shape of his hand across his cheek, as if it still lays there.
“yes,” he says with a bit of a rasp. chin in his grip, he raises his eyebrows, staring up without a flicker even as a tear rolls down past the corner of his mouth. “i’m not satisfied.”
he is, however, trembling. not quite out of fear.
“would you like instructions?”
