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#westlijah
iamthepulta · 1 year
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Sunless-Albion tasted like gunpowder and cinnamon.
If Westlie opened her mouth and breathed deep, she could ever-so-faintly taste hours on her tongue. A muted, earthy tang, like truffles stored in ice.
The sky was a deep pitch.
She hadn't gotten used to it, even after two years; even after near-death blowing up the sun; even after landing the Queen's final blow with her own two hands. None of it felt real.
Elijah's footsteps sounded on the stairwell and she turned as he made the final step. One mug was more carefully balanced than the other, lest it slip on his glass fingers. She took that one. They both settled against the railing.
She sipped. Elijah had made an Achlys blend of tea; dark, earthy, very familiar. She savored it. "... The sky's darker than I remember."
She couldn't see his smile behind the mug, but the skin behind his eyepatch wrinkled. "The Khanate has helped. There have been contributions."
"Contributions from you I hear."
His nose wrinkled. "Family contributions."
"Your contributions."
He ignored that, and Westlie dismissed it for another day.
"... How's Andy?"
"Brilliant." She smiled. "Still rough around the edges, but he learns quickly."
"You have an inordinate amount of patience for the most inexplicable things."
"Thank you," she sipped again. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"He needs it."
"He does."
"What about Arthur? Are you going to visit him?"
Westlie hesitated. "... Probably. At some point. I should."
Elijah hesitated, and Westlie could see the question on his face. She took another sip so she could hide behind her mug.
"Why haven't you come to London for two years?"
'Busy' was true, but it was also a lie. Westlie squinted at the stars like they would hold an answer and Elijah waited.
She admired that about him, as much as she hated it. That deep-sunken silence as she tried to reconcile her actions with words. She let her breath spiral in soft blotted clouds from the chill. "I... I don't know."
Elijah waited.
"Nothing's finished," she whispered. It sounded loud despite the noise of London. "There's so much to do- so many runs to make- we didn't finish."
"There's no sun in the sky. No throne of hours."
"Achlys-" Westlie's voice cracked; for a second she hated herself for sounding half her age. "New Winchester, Port Prosper- They took the brunt of London's invasion so we could have that chance. There isn't enough to repay them-"
She stayed quiet for a moment, hoping he'd read her mind- that she didn't want to sit. She had to do. Had to keep doing. She could help, she could fly, she was free, it was purpose, and whenever she was still there was that itch to keep pushing.
She wasn't Morgan- Gods knew where Marion and Sally and Morgan were off now to kill more Judgements- but she wanted to make things safe in the mess they were leaving. Which words said that?
"I- I just... I want to finish the job; and right now, it's not in London."
"I know." Elijah hesitated. He cleared his throat. "I mean, you have a ho- place here, if you want it. Somewhere to stay that isn't Arthur's."
"O-oh."
"I hoped you weren't staying away because of that." His voice softened a little. "I know you're not done."
"... how?"
"Your letters were happy." They'd finished their tea, so he couldn't hide the way his visible eye softened with understanding and the separation that lingered between them sometimes.
They stood there on the roof of the Fry mansion as gas lights shone through the mist and locomotives steamed to the docks.
"I missed you," Westlie blurted out. "It's not the same."
Elijah's face flushed a violent pink.
Her cheeks burned.
"I- fuck-"
"Yo- you have a home here, whenever you need-" Elijah's words were a little strangled but he managed. "I- I mean that."
oh fucking hell
In the middle of the night Elijah was still wearing his goddamn tie under his waistcoat and Westlie had parked in Wolfstack station and signed 29 pages of paperwork and after two years Elijah was still going to play dignified even though it was very, very attractive- and she dragged him into a kiss.
It was fierce and crushed and hurt, kinda, but she wanted it to hurt because she couldn't stop captaining, and there was a hole at her side where he once stood and that hole hurt, and she missed him and that hurt, and they were both gasping and red when she finally let go.
"... Ow."
"I love you." The words choked in her throat. "I love you- I will come home."
"You could have said that."
"I am- did."
"Gentler next time." But he was teasing now in his dry manner with the subtle up-quirk of the lip.
"Fine." Westlie waited for him to collect the mugs and face her again before she grabbed his tie.
She
gently
with
emphasized slowness
-pulled him down into another kiss that she did make softer that time because she was almost crying with relief. She didn't pull away at the end, and he rested his forehead on hers.
"I'm sorry," Westlie whispered, "for making you worry."
"Come home to me, Wes."
"I will."
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thepulta · 1 year
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Skyfarer Epilogue - Westlie and Elijah
Elijah Fry was the sort of man to always be on time. Westlie Faire, on the other hand, was the sort of woman to mostly be on time. Which was why he was the one sitting in a London restaurant next to a bottle of slowly-warming champagne.
Her last letter, sent two weeks before, had mentioned something about Hour tariffs and Fairweather. Elijah had skimmed over the specifics because she’d prefaced that section with, ‘The new tariffs are awful! I’m headed straight to London after this and you’ll get my full opinions then; but I have some spare time and Andy is absolutely up my ass; I’m writing anyway.’
So now Elijah was at their usual restaurant, watching the champagne sweat and occasionally glancing at his watch.
He occasionally looked out the window too, although the chandeliers shone too brightly for him to see her through the glass. He spotted his reflection instead; still tall, face still angular – maybe even more so now his hair had begun taking on a greyish, middle-aged sheen. He shouldn’t be shocked because he saw himself every morning in the mirror, but he’d been so busy carving out a life in London that it didn’t feel like ten years after the Clockwork Sun had been destroyed. He certainly didn’t feel ten years older; looking like it felt like a subtle betrayal.
He’d been so sure, so many times that he was doomed along with the rest of his crews. But no, he’d lived; most of the Pyrrhus had lived. It was startling being reminded that time continued ticking.
Westlie swept in at a respectably late 9:12, out of breath.
Her silhouette had stayed the same over the years, if wider, even though most Londoners wore pants now regardless of gender; she still preferred simple travel skirts and a vest. She just shrugged whenever Marion questioned her. “Habit,” she said. And to Elijah, with a sly smile- “It feels more official when you’ve killed the Traitor Empress in a skirt. You can’t really go back.”
Westlie reached out her hand with a warm smile when she got close enough; Elijah met it and she squeezed tight.
“Elijah.”
“Westlie.”
Their meetings were always like that – he kicked himself for it, actually, as he pulled her chair out for her – a soft, affectionate squeeze of the hand that lingered just a second too long; moments from being something more.
She started off the usual way too, sinking into the seat and thanking him with that grateful smile.
“Has the menu changed?”
“I don’t think so.” She settled back and picked up her menu. Elijah skimmed the list. “Oh, they added… bouillabaisse.”
“Bouillabaisse… bouillabaisse… Is that French?”
Elijah shrugged.
“… ‘moray, fluke, and megalops in a pungent jillyfleur broth, topped with cinnamon and slices of caramel.’  They use the word pungent like I’m supposed to be enticed.”
“We had jillyfleur at a dinner recently,” Elijah admitted. “It wasn’t bad.”
She eyed him with suspicion. “Was it pungent?”
“A bit sweet, actually.”
They spent a few minutes going back and forth until the waiter came – a prim man in a neatly oiled mustache – who took their order and poured the champagne. Westlie decided on the bouillabaisse and Elijah settled for the veal, which he’d had four times at this point and knew it was a fairly safe option.
Westlie settled into her chair when the interaction finished, taking a deep breath and letting the stiffness drop from her shoulders.
Elijah smiled. “So. Six months.”
“Six months.” She took a sip of champagne. “I did not plan on being six months.”
“Wasn’t it supposed to be a Lustrum hours run?”
“It was! It’s never just a Lustrum hours run!” He loved the way her eyes lit up with indignation, like she couldn’t have just said ‘no’ to Rear Admiral Ainsley and not spent four months flying reconnaissance through the Belt of Midnight. Elijah definitely, definitely did not miss the Belt of Midnight. He wasn’t even sure how Westlie could be excited about it, as she began to break down their arrival in Achlys and the delivery of building materials.
The Dowsers had built a new base for their outlaw insanity- still near Pan, but farther than before, tucked away under a precipice that bulged and distorted gravity. Unsuspecting locomotives were snatched up while navigating the route, and knowledgeable locomotives had to go out of their way to avoid the horde. The Cogsworth had spotted an unfortunate locomotive lurching away from a boarding party and Westlie – ‘Of course,’ he thought, pretending to sip his champagne – dived after it.
“So that took a week,” Westlie said. “And it was another week before we got to the Empyrean.”
There were dicey bits in the Belt of Midnight. She was avoiding them.
“Did you see Mallory?”
“I did!” She brightened more, then her face darkened; she leaned in. “He has a beard.”
“I can’t imagine Mallory in a beard.”
“It’s hideous. He said it’s for Hamlet, and I don’t believe him. I saw a poster from eight months before and it was still on.”
“How long has Hamlet been running? There are only so many times the whole Empyrean can see Hamlet and that facial fuzz.”
“Exactly,” she dropped back in her chair. “You understand.”
It was the kind of motion that insinuated someone else close to her did not. Elijah politely raised an eyebrow.
“Andy and the rest of the Empyrean do not. It’s apparently ‘dignified’, ‘sophisticated’-” Westlie grimaced. “-‘sexy’.”
“Andy’s only twenty-two. Give him a few years.”
“He started trying to grow out his own beard.”
“Westlie, you didn’t-”
She scowled. “Oh, have more faith in me. I thought about it. I thought about telling him I’d shave it off his face myself. But I didn’t.”
Elijah rolled his eyes. “Commendable.”
“Thank you.”
There was a moment of silence as a waiter approached and they sat back. It wasn’t their food. Westlie gave Elijah an awkward grin.
The crow’s feet wrinkles on her right eye deepened, and she smiled deeper, personably, like it was a joke only he could understand. He knew that look, and he did understand the joke because he knew all her mishaps; but Westlie’s smile was still different: less apologetic, wiser, with an assuredness at her own mistakes that she’d never had when she was younger. Once again, he felt nagged by the past- the selves they had been and the selves they were now.
He opened his mouth to say… something, but her eyes were avoiding him now, fleeing her imagined awkwardness. He shut it when the waiter reappeared and they both leaned back so he could uncork the champagne. The waiter raised Westlie’s glass, refilled it, bowed, and left.
Westlie didn’t comment that Elijah’s glass stayed mostly-full; she never had. Throughout the years she must have noticed because she never said anything, but his only hint was the occasional warmth in her eyes after one of his polite sips, and that was just Westlie’s look of friendly affection.
She realized something and refocused on him, leaning forward in her seat.
“Whatever happened to your bid for a seat in the House of Commons?”
He flushed immediately. His fault for not telling her sooner though; he’d been deliberately evasive in his last letter. “I… did win the seat.”
“Congratulations Elijah!”
“But-”
 “But?”
“That kid-”
“Oh god, Elijah, this again-”
“That kid,” he hissed. “Is junior member of the opposition!”
“Elijahh.”
“No, you don’t understand! He is deliberately following me around, getting in my way, trying to strike down all my bills! Westlie, he lives on the same street now.”
She was laughing. His nemesis lived on the same street and she was laughing. “The same street?! You’re telling me you ran for Commons and- was his name Artie? Not only ran for a seat as well, but moved onto the street. All in six months.”
“I saw him walking into a house on the opposite end, twice.”
“Elijah, you barely know him!”
“I know him well enough! He’s a liar and a thief and apparently the ruffians of 9th quarter have adopted him as their little spokesman even though he is unqualified-”
“You saw him walking into a house twice! Maybe he was visiting. People do visit you know.”
“He has to be staying there! Why else would I see him twice?!”
Westlie kept trying to stifle her laughter and it became a series of unladylike half-snorts into her champagne. There were glances from a few other tables and she finally had to bite her tongue.
As much as he hated Artie, he loved she could still laugh. He loved that shoving a cart to the white-hot of the Clockwork Sun and the glassy patches of skin on her arms and the ring of her wrist where the skin was wizened, hour-touched, and patched with forty years of Correspondence had not darkened the joyful glitter in her eyes.
He was still salty though.
“… Otherwise-” Elijah said. “Otherwise, it’s fine, you know. It’s nice to be able to help. … Not Artie though. I hope an aeginae eats him.”
“Oh, Elijah.” She looked like she was about to say something, shook her head with a smile, and traced her silverware.
They didn’t have to think of anything to say after that since the waiter conveniently swept in with their dishes.
Elijah was still impressed by the veal every time he got it; he preferred the umami glaze seared into the meat, but the flank was never too well-done. Westlie’s bouillabaisse on the other hand, came with an extra bowl for shells and smelled like sweetness and nostalgia. The soup itself was a sort of iridescent purple with bits of shellfish bobbing through the film.
Westlie sipped it cautiously once the waiter left and cocked her head. “… I don’t like it. But I don’t know why.”
Elijah’s veal was excellent. He felt superior. “Is it too pungent?”
She sipped again. “No… I think…” Another sip. “… I think it’s just bittersweet. Pungent is how strong the mood hits you.” She thoughtfully trailed her spoon through the soup and sampled the fish. “It’s good. Acquired taste, I guess.”
“Have you had Neathfish before?”
“Once? Once or twice, maybe, but I don’t know where.” She glanced at the soup. “The fish is good. … Oh, I think that bit’s crab.”
They ate in companionate silence with Westlie occasionally gazing out the window. Her hair looked lighter, Elijah realized, as she kept turning. Not grey, but a little more orange? A slightly different texture. He still remembered a deep auburn from when she was 28 and scared shitless to join the crew. But that was… 16 years ago? And she was 44 now. God, they’d both aged.
The thought of time overwhelmed him again and he almost asked her. The words lodged in his throat.
“Oh!” She glanced up from cracking a portion of crab shell. “I forgot about the tariffs!”
Elijah breathed out. “You mentioned them briefly.”
“You could do something about it, actually.” Westlie’s eyes flashed and she settled back in her chair. “But it’s all Lustrum’s fault really. The new governor decided to relax the restrictions on Hour smelting, so there are two new factories in the city. Which is good for refined Hour supply of course, you would think, but they didn’t plan for the influx from Albion.”
“So they increased tariffs.”
“Throughout the Reach,” Westlie huffed. “As if Hours from Lustrum are any different from Hours anywhere else. I could ground the Cogsworth and make more money throwing the shiny things in the boiler.”
Elijah took a sip of his champagne and had to remind himself not to hold it like a teacup. “You’re not in it for the money.”
Westlie attacked a crab leg shell with a fork. “I’m not in it for the money. Thank you, Elijah. Which is what I keep reminding Andy, and then he tells me-” she waved the fork around, mockingly “-‘But Fairweather’s margins, Westlie.’ And I have to go, ‘Fuck margins, Andy, I like flying to Lustrum.’ And he goes, ‘You’re not supposed to be here in the first place.’ And then I tell him I’m going to dock his pay or leave him at the next port.”
“But you don’t.”
“But I don’t.”
Elijah hid a smile behind his champagne. “… Truly generous of you.”
“Oh, don’t be facetious with me, Elijah.” She circled the fork at his face, which would have been more terrifying if she weren’t a pretty, middle-aged woman in a white blouse. “I know when you’re poking fun.”
“I’m not being facetious.”
She went back to attacking the crab leg, grumbling. “This is why I didn’t tell you in a letter.”
“You just don’t like hearing the truth.”
Eating. Unladylike fork waving. “I don’t like having the truth shoved down my throat when it doesn’t matter. So what if we don’t make as much money doing Lustrum runs? It’s still a net profit.”
“True.” The waiter brought them both a cup of tea and Elijah sipped his gratefully. “It’s your ship, Captain.”
“You only call me Captain when you’re making a point,” Westlie grumbled again. She finished the soup and leaned back with her own cup of tea. She sipped it. “I hate it when you do that.”
“You hate when I’m right.”
She eyed him. “I do hate when you’re right.” They were both quiet for a minute until she puffed out a breath in defeat. “Tariffs are still bad for business though.”
“… Your business or ‘business’?”
“’Business’. If it’s too expensive to do Hour runs to Lustrum, the only people who will be able to do it will be people like me- established Captains who can take a profit hit, you know.”
“There are more than enough Hours in Albion and the Reach for research projects and whatever else they’re used for now.”
“That’s the point though. Tariffs will cripple Lustrum and Albion will be the only Hours exporter.”
Elijah vaguely realized that they hadn’t seen each other in years and they were using this opportunity over tea and – Ah, apple fritter – to talk about work; the fact wasn’t disappointing so much as frustrating that if they didn’t talk about work, they would have to talk about feelings. He sipped his tea. “That would be bad.”
“Talk the governor into shutting down one of the new smelters, or raising restrictions; either one really. And try to get them to lower tariffs.”
“I’ve been in office six months you know.”
“You’re persuasive.”
“Not that persuasive.”
“I have faith.”
Well. He couldn’t argue with that.
They sat in silence for another minute. Restaurant patrons had begun to trickle out. Elijah and Westlie were left to their tea and fritter amongst pastel wallpaper and dimmed gas lights – the old crystal kind. The whispered voices of servers seemed louder as they listened, and somewhere in the back of the room, a grandfather clock chimed.
Westlie sipped her tea again and glanced down at it with a little smile. “It doesn’t taste as good as yours, you know.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. However you and Sebastian made your tea… it’s not the same.”
“Would you like the last bite?”
“Sure.”
They finished the fritter slowly, savoring it. Elijah wasn’t sure if they were savoring taste or time more, neither of them meeting the others’ eyes. He felt the clock in the corner pressing on him as the night drew to a close. His mind so preoccupied he wasn’t even sure if they kept up mindless chatter while finishing tea, he just felt himself drink and pay, declining Westlie’s offer to pick up her end.
He extended his arm as she rose from the table and they walked to the door together. Westlie neatly slipped on a wool coat from the rack by the door. It was one of the modern skyfarer coats, he realized, with woolen leather lining; although usually they cut off at the waist. Westlie’s extended to her knees to accommodate her skirt.
They stood on the sidewalk while she fastened the buttons and belt, and she gave him a little apologetic smile when she was done.
“I like it.”
“Oh, thank you. It’s new.” He knew. “I got it last year in Lustrum.” Her cheeks flushed a little. “The sky nips a bit harder now, you know?”
He knew. It was time, chasing both of them. He couldn’t think of anything to say though.
“Where next?”
“Elutheria again. Khanate business. It might be a while.” She sighed, shoving her hands in her pockets and turning to look over London. The city was still bustling at night – maybe even because it was night. “It’s so quiet here now. I miss it, honestly.”
It was going to be another year and a half before he saw her again and he was going to grow more grey hairs above his ears and Elijah’s heart hammered in his throat. He wasn’t sure if she cared, but he cared. Maybe this dinner was the last time they talked face to face. Maybe next year would never come. And he had to say- had to say something. He closed his eye, let out a breath, and looked at her again.
He’d thought for a long time about words that wouldn’t make her feel obligated to stay; he refused to drag her out of the sky. He’d settled on reassurance, because she’d already stayed with him several times over the years. Mallory, Marion, Morgan- they all knew Elijah’s home in London had an open door. But a reminder was the best way to restart that conversation. Elijah swallowed as the words stuck in his throat. “You… you know you always have a home here in London.”
“I know.” Her eyes searched his face. “London is my home.” Westlie opened her mouth like she was going to say something else, and shut it. She opened it again. “It… still feels strange when I walk into the cab and you aren’t there.”
Elijah swallowed. “I’m sure Andy does an excellent job. As… odd as that is to say.”
She half-smiled. “He does, but it’s not that.”
“What do you mean?”
She hesitated again. She wasn’t good at hiding it. Say it, Elijah realized he was begging. Say what you mean. “Well, you don’t sing opera in the cab, for one.”
Elijah chuckled and he closed his eye while Westlie was distracted. Her port stops were always quick. This would likely be the last time to talk before she left. Too many years. Say it now. Elijah took a deep breath and swallowed, hands in his pockets. “Westlie…”
“Yes?”
Last chance. “Do you still… have feelings for- for me?”
Westlie immediately flushed red and her eyes flickered down. Her hands came out of her pockets to tuck hair behind her ears as she panicked, which made Elijah lean toward ‘no’. His heart clenched. She regained her composure a few seconds later and half-met his eyes, cheeks scarlet. “… I do.”
Relief washed over Elijah. He felt the muscles in the back of his shoulders undo knots he didn’t know existed; he still, somehow, didn’t know what to say. “I’m… glad.”
“I miss you,” Westlie suddenly whispered. He realized that was the thing she’d wanted to say when she hesitated. “I miss your tea and I miss you and every time I come back to London, I remember it’s my home because you’re here.”
Elijah reached out a hand and she took it, fingers wrapping softly around his like their greeting at the beginning of the evening. But this time he felt the fingers linger in his own, something weighty; something more. He blushed as he raised her hand and gently kissed it, half-expecting Westlie to pull away, but she didn’t. She was bright red though. “You know,” he managed. “You could just… stay.”
She closed her eyes and she considered it.
He still knew the furrowed brow of her stare into the future, weighing options. There was a sudden urge to kiss her forehead and he restrained himself.
She opened her eyes and he already knew the answer. “I still want to fly.”
Her hand slipped out of his, and Elijah was surprised how much it stung. He smiled through his disappointment. “… And you have a crew. I’m sorry- for suggesting it.”
“Well, but- I think-” Westlie hesitated again. “I didn’t- I wasn’t sure how you still felt. And Elijah, when I’m done, I’ll stay.”
Her eyes were soft and brown, nose pink from the nip of the winds. She meant every word. Elijah felt his heart melt and he wanted to kiss her hand again, tell her she was a brilliant stupid captain and he would not follow her into the stars again because two glass fingers were enough for him, but he loved her and he loved her smile and he loved that she would come home. So Elijah just… smiled. “I’ll be waiting, Westlie.”
He hesitated for a moment, then turned to fix his cuff and leave her when his sleeves were grabbed – those were wool! – and Westlie turned him roughly back to face her. “Wha-”
She grabbed his collar and kissed him.
She tasted like tea and nostalgia and something sweet he couldn’t place. He felt twenty years younger, and ageless, and he loved her with the fear of loss he tried to hide because it really wasn’t healthy. It ended too soon when they were both out of breath. Westlie’s face was hot with glee when he could finally see it. Elijah managed a lopsided grin. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his head. “Are you and the Cogsworth staying in London tonight?”
“Elijah! Sixteen years to kiss you and that’s the first thing you say?”
Elijah blushed furiously, half-afraid that was a terrible thing to say since his brain was stuck replaying the kiss. But she smiled and gently straightened his lapel. “We are- I am. Why do you ask?”
“Well- Well, ah-”
Westlie kissed his cheek and Elijah knew he was the most brilliant shade of red anyone could get. Somehow Westlie wrapped her arm through his to start walking and she squeezed it gently. “Where did you want to take me tonight, Elijah?”
That was the thing that knocked some sense into him. Elijah stared down at her with happiness and it was returned with soft affection. He swallowed to get the words out, but it was far easier than before. “Let’s… let’s go home.”
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iamthepulta · 11 months
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feeling romantic. fuck the AU and being productive I'm going to go write a bunch of westlijah
I have karoke in thirty minutes though. Today is just liveblog day so who knows. But tomorrow will be for Westlijah.
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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It's kind of funny to me that I put so much effort into including Fitzroy and Lavinia and the Revolutionaries into this Liztlie AU narrative when it's no longer really necessary and the only thing I get out of it is the satisfaction of implied Westlijah at the end. xD
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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I finished the Westlijah Epilogue :( :( :( :(
/needs more content
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iamthepulta · 11 months
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Mildly important to clarify:
E is my boyfriend. Elijah is/was his DnD character.
I am me. Westlie is/was my DnD character.
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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writing Westlijah with bf as an editor is the best experience because he'll be like- "actually Elijah would do this super edgy thing that's not romantic at all" and Westlie and I make the exact same noise of married frustration.
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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The most beautiful thing about writing mature!Westlie and mature!Elijah is being able to write them with less insecurities. I'm probably doing it wrong because I'm not 40 and I can only imagine a life with less anxiety, but writing people in love who are barely in love, they just exist to stabilize the other is like touching silk or watching cave water drip.
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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You can track how much I miss my boyfriend by how many words I write for the Westlijah epilogue.
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iamthepulta · 2 years
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I swear the Liztlie AU is both my magnum opus and the bane of my existence. It's an AU of an AU of an AU (Fallen London -> Sunless Skies -> Skyfarer DnD Campaign -> Me) that is called "Liztlie" because I was just making a cute little thing with Westlie (DnD OC) and Lizzie (friend's DnD OC) that was supposed to be like 10k max so I smuushed the name for funzies and then it promptly became my Novel with a shorthand name that makes no sense.
I haven't even written the main Skyfarer DnD campaign. I was actually supposed to do that. And put it in book form. I started but I left off somewhere in Season 1 'cause I got distracted with Westlijah stuff or something.
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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Right now I just have the urge to write Emotions which I could probably funnel into westlijah content with slight effort but I know I'm just procrastinating sleep.
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iamthepulta · 1 year
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the saddest thing is that for all the Westlijah I've written, I don't actually have a coherent narrative I could post to AO3 when I looked. It's literally the same scene five times just written at different points as we were playing Skyfarer because it NEVER HAPPENED IN CANON and then it ENDED and E and I were like fine we'll make it happen as an epilogue when things are calm.
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thepulta · 2 years
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First Kiss
They locked eyes for a short eternity. Elijah, five inches taller than Westlie; her head tilted ever so slightly up to meet his gaze. He was tantilizingly close. They were in port and the Pyrrhus was achingly quiet, so quiet she could feel his breathing- the slow rise and fall of his lapel. Westlie’s fingertips stretched forward, pulled by invisible strings. ‘Elijah,’ she wanted to whisper. Her lips formed the sound, but it didn’t escape. His eyes still softened like he heard it, and his head dipped ever so slightly. His pink lips looked soft, and there was the sudden rush of nerves that sent her heart racing, and she could feel the flush run up her cheeks and down her fingertips where their hands suddenly brushed. Her fingers burned and she felt a heat in her stomach like she downed three shots of whiskey but in a good way because she craved more. She instinctively drew her fingertips up his palm, over his angular wrist bones, traced over his tendons. And it felt so natural when she felt his fingertips trace over her arm, just three of his fingers, ever so slightly brushing over her veins, sending jolt after jolt of electricity through her.
The urge to continue tracing her fingers over his arm overwhelmed Newton’s law of inertia and they shifted ever so slightly closer together so her hand was on his elbow. They were so close. She felt his breathing, his blood rushing in the pulse against his wrist. His lips were like a lure. ‘I want you,’ she wanted to say, but it didn’t come out again. ‘Elijah, you’re around me and I can’t breathe.’
They were so painfully close. Westlie felt her eyes unfocus as they slipped closer, even though she tried to keep them open - tried to retain some control of her body. Elijah’s nose ever so slightly brushed against her cheek and a shock ran down Westlie’s spine. He was breathing, he was alive; and he wanted her. Desire formed a whine that stuck in her throat. Westlie felt her fingers tighten on his arm in anticipation and just that small movement pulled their lips together, pulled them from two people to one, and suddenly she was grasping his shirt tighter and he was pressing back.
‘Westlie,’ she could imaging him whispering, like her name was an honorific, a reverent, something tender. No- it wasn’t her imagination. He whispered it; his eyes closed, forehead leaned softly against hers, lips brushing. She couldn’t control herself; she kissed him again. It took everything she had to ignore the greedy lean of her body, her desire to continue kissing him until her lips were raw and sore and they were both out of breath and still if they broke apart, Westlie knew she’d have the same desperate, hungry look for him. She needed his touch now, couldn’t live without it. That hand softly curled about her elbow, fingertips tracing her veins, caressing her like she could break from his grasp any moment. She needed his lips, needed the aristocratic curve of his chin, needed his love.
“I love you.”
The words came out of her easily because the emotion was undeniable, unmistakable, and it felt real. The nights in the cab when he made her tea, and she wondered, or when they sat in silence for hours while her happiness overflowed and she wanted to break the stillness and say it. She’d loved him then. She’d loved him for years then. But this was real. This was in front of her, now, she’d acted- they’d acted, and it felt dangerously, deliciously honest.
Elijah melted and his other hand softly slid down her shoulder, tender. “I love you too.”
They both knew, but it was good to say it. They stood there, foreheads leaned together, noses gently touching the other’s cheek.
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