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tinolqa · 5 years

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Hey, @sildih, hey @pudgy-puk, hey @chocographs. I know all three of you have me blocked, so I cannot directly respond to the callout post Terpy made about my girlfriend and that the three of you are cross-promoting. I fucking see you.

It is disingenuous to say the least to treat the scenario that played out over the last few months as if it was my girlfriend browbeating and covertly bullying you out of complaining about Stormblood out of some kind of Garlean-loving racist mania, which you have implied if not outright stated in quite a few posts on twitter and tumblr since you unceremoniously blocked both of us. I’ve been staying quiet, and so has Jo, because this didn’t seem like something appropriate to drag into the public light.

This isn’t going to be a point by point refutation of your post. That’s giving you far too much credit.

Because what happened was you treating my partner and I like a captive audience for all of your personal grievances with FFXIV’s narrative direction. We knew you were unhappy with the portrayal of Ala Mhigo and Ala Mhigans. We knew you massively resented non-Highlander characters for their popularity and resented your own non-Highlander characters for their popularity, and you resented how the story gave any time or attention to Doma. You hated that Garleans were permitted sympathetic portrayal. I say this because you told us this repeatedly. On tumblr. On twitter. In Discord chats. Over voice chat. Over our FC and linkshell chats. It was the only thing in the game you more or less talked about other than your favorite NPC since the launch of Stormblood, and while I can respect the fact that you were deeply displeased with the way the game handled your favorite setting and subject, this was what caused Jo and I to reach the point we did with you.

The point we tried to make was that you’re not obligated to play the game. You’re not obligated to try and enjoy it. Neither of us were here to tell you that your takes on the game were wrong. But that the fucking game was making you miserable for months, and you were getting so little in the way of enjoyment out of it that we genuinely thought that you ought to have stepped away from it. God knows that it’s possible to fall out of love with a work of fiction. And what you could have done was unsubscribed. You could have networked with other dissatisfied fans of Ala Mhigo and actually talked to them about your shared thoughts on how the game handled the narrative. And despite what you might think, they do exist in the community and I’m pretty sure you are or were mutual followers with at least a few of them. You could have focused on a work of fiction that you actually enjoy and don’t find miserable or problematic to engage with on the level that Stormblood did, but you didn’t. You didn’t seek out people who felt similarly.

You treated Jo and I like a captive audience. Because we were trying to be friends with you, and help you deal with your loneliness and alienation from the community. But as it turns out, it became increasingly hard to enjoy spending any time around you being incessantly negative about nearly everything in FFXIV. We didn’t want to turn conversations into arguments. It’s not something either of us enjoy! I don’t know if you did. I don’t think it matters. But I don’t think the fact that you became a constant presence of negativity and passive-aggression in our lives is something you even considered. We tried so fucking hard to be polite for so fucking long and you didn’t consider the fact that you digging yourself into a hole of misery and sourness about the game in more or less every social media post and conversation for months was something that could have been unenjoyable or alienating to your friends. Considering how quickly you dropped us, it’s a little hard to feel like you ever saw us as friends to begin with.

But I guess it’s easier to paint my partner as an evil, racist harpy who told you that you weren’t allowed to be upset about Ala Mhigo anymore, instead of a human being who finally decided she’d had enough of being treated as an open forum for all of your Stormblood criticism with zero room for her own thoughts on the matter, lest you get even more upset that the person you opened up to not treat your word as law. That was never the fucking point. The fucking point is that we were tired of being what felt like your sole audience for all of this commentary, that you couldn’t step away from the game and focus on something else that could actually make you happy for once, and that you openly resented the fact that we enjoyed Stormblood. That we liked it more than Heavensward- don’t think that I haven’t forgotten you getting passive-aggressive when I opened up about my Heavensward criticism on my twitter! I genuinely could never tell if you saw us more than a couple of goddamn wooden posts to talk at to validate everything you had to say about the game, regardless of what we might have thought.

Also, really cool that you call Jo out for having a black character in-game while not being black herself- I suppose it’s only bad when it’s a person who isn’t vocally critical of Stormblood, and not when it’s one of your “good” friends?

Just, bye. I don’t even have anything to say to you, Teg and Chesca. But I see you there. And I haven’t forgotten how you abused my trust and confidence and used me for emotional support that I couldn’t afford to provide with my life circumstances. I know you’re not fucking unbiased.

Iif you liked or reblogged @sildih’s original callout, fuck off forever. You don’t get to uncritically accept a callout post about my girlfriend and stick around on my blog.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #sildih #sichore #sichoral #pudgy-puk #chocographs #zodiarch #drama

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dragons-bones · 4 years

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FFXIV Write Entry #1: The Bluebird of Ishgard

Prompt: crux | Master Post | On AO3

This fill is a combination of both the FFXIV Write prompt, and a prompt from the Book Club server as posited by @pudgy-puk: “aymeric takes his date to The Fanciest ishgardian patisserie and drops an ABSURD amount of money.“

We are starting off FFXIV Write with EXACTLY MY BRAND! This takes place post 3.1 and references the events of my FFXIV Write 2019 fill, “Finally.”

Please enjoy!

Synnove hummed quietly to herself as she walked with Aymeric through the streets of Ishgard, her right hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. His own right hand gently covered hers, and every few moments he softly rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. A silly grin tugged at her lips every time he did, a flush of pleasure rising on her cheeks.

Aymeric had arrived at Fortemps Manor shortly after lunch, dressed down in simple leathers and that fur-lined leather coat he had worn that day not-so-long ago when she and Galette had run into him shopping along the Jeweled Crozier. He had asked for the pleasure of her company on a leisurely walk through the city—“I am not yet allowed the more strenuous exercise of the sparring ring,” he had said ruefully, a twinkle in his ice blue eyes, “but I am, thankfully, allowed to stretch my legs on daily walks.”—and after being subjected to a frantic wardrobe change by Rere (“We’re in a relationship! I don’t need to impress him! And why is this skirt in my size?” “Shush, be glad I’m always prepared on your behalf, and wear this sweater with it! Oooooh and the green shawl Heron made for you, I have the perfect pin to go with it.” “Rereha!”), she had been out the door with him, hand in hand.

Their leisurely ramble had taken them through parts of the city Synnove hadn’t visited, or had only walked through or by once or twice. Neighborhoods of the minor or vassel houses; the district where the merchants and burgeoning nouveau riche dwelled. Small parks carefully tended to preserve some green within the limits of the city; statues of minor saints and folk heroes of the Dragonsong War; a street lined on either side by greenhouses, the area bristling with dragonkillers. Aymeric had a story for each place: here was where a childhood friend had lived, before his family had moved out of the city; that was the house of his mother’s least favorite cousin, whom social propriety had declared Mama still had to entertain; there was he played at knights and dragons most often; that was the saint for whom his father—“The one who raised me.”—had been named.

She had enjoyed listening to him speak, his tone shading equally with fondness or wistfulness or, in the case of his mother’s least favorite cousin, palpable disdain. They so rarely had moments of quiet, never mind such moments together, and the opportunity to learn more about his home through his eyes had been an honor. She was sorry for the outing to end.

Except, instead of taking the turn that would lead them back the Fortemps Manor, Aymeric began to lead them in the direction of the Jeweled Crozier and all its myriad shops. Synnove made a questioning sound, looking up at him.

Aymeric grinned at her and kissed her forehead. “My lady was kind enough to accompany me about Ishgard in the cold, without complaint,” he said cheerfully, “and listen to me ramble besides. The least I can do is provide her some refreshment and something hot to drink in return.”

She laughed in delight, and pushed herself to her toes to kiss his cheek. “It was my pleasure to walk with you today,” she said, “but I’ll not refuse the offer of a treat. Lead on, my knight.”

The main thoroughfares were busier than the side streets, and the pair garnered some attention as the Lord Commander and a Warrior of Light, though blessedly no one approached them. Aymeric turned them down onto the lane that housed most of the Pillars’ cafes and bakeries, and Synnove’s stomach rumbled at the enticing aromas of coffee and bread and sugar that perfumed the air here.

He took them past the places where she and her friends often supped, past even the cafes about which Emmanellain waxed poetic. The traffic thinned as they walked, the businesses becoming more exclusive, the displays of pastries and menus becoming more elaborate and frankly obscene. Synnove looked around in growing surprise, her eyebrows rising, even as Aymeric continued to smile, secretive and mischievous.

Finally, they stopped in front of a patisserie in whose window was a display of éclairs so decadent that Synnove reflexively swallowed the saliva suddenly flooding her mouth. The choux was so fluffy it looked as if it was about to float, the chocolate icing thick and so dark is seemed to gleam black in the shop’s light. Some were left plain, but others hinted at the flavor of the cream or custard within each: candied orange peels; coffee beans; halved strawberries; roasted chestnuts. She swallowed again and glanced up at the placard over the shop’s door.

A simple bluebird in flight, holding a sprig of mint, was the only hint at the patisserie’s identity.

Synnove felt the color drain from her face. “Aymeric…”

Aymeric raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles and she turned to look at him. He was smiling, the rogue, as brilliant and joyous as when they had first kissed after retaking the Vault mere weeks ago. “Let me spoil you,” he purred.

For a few heartbeats she was absolutely torn: the tiny five-year old watching her parents and aunt count every gil to make the week’s earnings feed six people, along with the frugal adult who owned her own home, at war with the same tiny five-year old who loved sweets of all sorts and the hopeless romantic who secretly wished to have someone dote on her without reservation. “Refreshments and something hot to drink” at the most exclusive, most expensive patisserie in Ishgard. Not even Rereha, with her near bottomless trust fund interest, had wandered this far down the lane…though in fairness to Rere, that more due to being perfectly content with a coffee and croissant at the first shop that caught her eye.

Synnove chewed on her bottom lip, glancing back and forth between Aymeric and the Bluebird. Finally, sugar and romance won out. “All right,” she said, only a little bit weakly.

Her knight kissed her knuckles once more, and without further ado, led her inside.

The scent of cooking sugar sent her stomach growling again and as Aymeric helped her shrug out of her heavy winter coat, she looked around with wide eyes. Éclairs, macarons, petit fours, madeleines, opera cakes, mille-feuille, bavarois of all sorts—there were more types of cakes and cookies and tarts on display then she could name. She let Aymeric lead her to her a table—the only one in the shop—and as she took her seat, she saw one of the staff quickly dart over to the door and flip the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ She whipped her head around to stare at Aymeric as he sat.

He reached for her hands and she let him take them, her knuckles going white as she squeezed. Raising her hands, he kissed the back of her right, and then her left, quietly murmuring, “It’s all right, my love,” he said with a wry grin. “Anyone who wants to enjoy the Bluebird’s delights on premise must make a reservation ahead of time to ensure the table will be free.”

Synnove narrowed her eyes and hissed, “How long have you been planning this?”

“Not that long,” he said cheerfully. “A fortnight, perhaps.”

They let go of one another as a server brought them cups of coffee in surprisingly plain white mugs, heavy and thick to keep the liquid hot for as long as possible. As the server stepped away to flit back behind the counter, Synnove stretched her leg beneath the table and hooked her ankle around Aymeric’s. He beamed and raised his coffee to take a sip, and she followed suit.

She purred at the first taste. It was a dark roast, rich and flavorful, and roasted so carefully there was no hint of bitterness. While she would always love the coffeehouses of Limsa Lominsa best, there were more than a few cafes in her seaside home that could stand to take a lesson from the Bluebird in coffee brewing. Without cream or sugar, it would be the perfect compliment to the sugary delights of the pastries.

Aymeric smiled at her over his mug, and that was when the first of the treats arrived.

Éclairs, four of them, cut in to make for easier sharing, and to show off the flavored fillings within: one vanilla, one chocolate, one coffee, and one strawberry.

Synnove’s eyes went wider. She had never seen a pastry so generously filled before; the sight was actually borderline obscene, and the part of her mind where a facsimile of Rereha lived was dying to make a crude joke. She raised her eyes to meet Aymeric’s and he actually waggled his eyebrows at her.

She burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hands to try and stifle the sound, shoulders shaking. Aymeric joined her, his own laugh slightly softer, though it came from deep in his belly.

“You took that far better than Mama ever did,” he said as they calmed. “I hadn’t the faintest idea of just what Da meant by it until I was fourteen, but Mama slapped his arm every time and turned red as a tomato.”

Synnove smiled and warmth suffused her, as it did whenever Aymeric offhandedly spoke of Rolandoix and Gwenaëlle de Borel. It was such a joy and honor to have these pieces of his past shared with her. “Did they come here often?” she said, eyes on Aymeric as she reached for a half of the vanilla éclair.

“Four times a year,” he said, eyes going distant as he reminisced. “Our birthdays, and their wedding anniversary. It was one of the few frivolities they allowed themselves, and one of the few times of year they would spoil me rotten!” He grinned, a touch sad recalling his parents, before he shook his head and gestured to her. “And here I am on the cusp of becoming maudlin, and when I wish to be spoiling you. Eat!”

She laughed, and raising the éclair to her mouth, took a bite.

Almost immediately she moaned in rapture. Oh, but the choux was as wonderfully fluffy and cloudlike as it had appeared, practically melting on her tongue. The icing was a truly sinfully dark chocolate, bittersweet and more like a ganache than she had anticipated. And the crème, oh sweet gods, the crème. She was used to vanilla being a light flavor, delicate and easily overwhelmed, but this was so intensely concentrated it was more than a match for the chocolate icing.

She opened her eyes—when had she closed them?—and stared at Aymeric with wonder. His smile was equal parts delight and lasciviousness as he took a bite of the chocolate éclair. He chewed, swallowed, and drawled out, “Now, aren’t you glad you let me treat you?”

Synnove nodded frantically, finishing her bite with a swallow, and the popped remainder of her vanilla éclair into her mouth, another happy moan escaping her as she did. The chocolate, coffee, and strawberry éclairs were just as intensely flavored, exploding on her tongue in a riot of sensation, but the vanilla remained her favorite of the set.

From there they were served an entire tasting menu of the Bluebird’s finest treats. Palmiers were next, crispy and light and absolutely decadent when dipped into her coffee. Opera cake followed, the layers of buttercream, almond sponge cake soaked in coffee liqueur, and coffee ganache melding together that her toes curled in her boots and Aymeric had to laughingly fend off her fork with his own when she tried to steal a piece of his opera cake when hers was gone. Meringues were fourth, lighter than air, and slices of traditional fig bavarois fifth, the jelly bright and smooth. Then an assortment of flavored macarons, then mille-feuile, then buttery madeleines, and on and on and on, with heavy, rich desserts alternated with light, simpler fare.

Each pastry was exquisitely made, the quality of ingredients and care of the craftsmanship shining through. She didn’t bother to hide any of her appreciative hums or groans, and while Aymeric’s eyes flashed every time she did, the staff of the Bluebird, when she caught sight of them, wore large, delighted smiles of their own, rightfully proud to have a new customer so enjoy their hard work. Even better than the wonderful desserts, though, was the knowledge that it was Aymeric who had wanted to share something he considered special with her, and continue following the traditions of his family.

After all, she thought, pleasure suffusing her at the thought: it was exactly a moon today since the attack on the Vault, and the night they had confessed their feelings for one another.

The servers cleared away the last plates and refilled their coffee mugs, and Synnove sat back with a content sigh, cradling her mug in her hands. “Thank you for this, Aymeric,” she said, beaming at him. “I am well and truly spoiled.”

Aymeric smiled at her and hooked their other ankles together so that they were a tangle of limbs beneath the table. “I’m glad,” he said, voice soft. And then his smile turned cheeky. “But we’re not done quite yet…”

His gaze was somewhere behind her shoulder, and she turned to follow it. Approaching them with a tray in hand was a plump, stately elezen matron wearing the traditional garb of a culinarian, a bluebird embroidered over her heart. Synnove guessed she must be Madame Iriene, the owner and chief pastry chef of the Bluebird.

Madame Iriene stopped next to their little table and gave a half bow. “By request,” she said, a sly look in her eye, “a special finale in honor of the Lord Commander’s lady.”

Synnove blinked in shock, glancing askance at Aymeric. His smile widened.

Madame Iriene set the tray between them, revealing its contents: two plates, each with three pastries arranged in a neat row.

The first was small pudding pie, topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream. The second was a soft bun, golden brown and delicious, smelling ever so faintly of apples. The third was a trio of three caramels, unusually darkened, and sprinkled with red flakes on top.

Synnove stared at them, mouth going dry. These—these were—

“A chocolate pudding pie, its crust made of crushed chocolate cookies,” Madame Iriene began to list, “topped with mint-infused whipped cream. A soft bread bun, stuffed with apples spiced with cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and star anise. Caramels, infused with coffee and dragon pepper.”

Tears pricked at her eyes and Synnove set her coffee down so she could once more bring her hands to her mouth.

Galette. Tyr. Ivar.

Representations of exactly how the aether around each of their summoning foci tasted to her senses.

Aymeric made a concerned noise and Synnove looked up at him as her tears overflowed. “Synnove, are you all right?” he said gently, reaching for her. “My apologies, I overstepped—”

She lunged forward (Madame Iriene darted out of the way with the dexterity of a woman thirty years younger), grabbing Aymeric’s face between her hands, and kissed him for all she was worth. He grunted in surprise, frozen for a moment, before he brought his hands up to cup her shoulders and return her kiss with a relieved laugh.

“Thank you,” she said in between kisses and the occasional teary hiccup. “Thank you, thank you, I can’t believe you remembered, I babbled about it moons ago, I didn’t even know anyone was paying attention—”

“How could I not pay attention?” her knight said, drawing back to look at her with pure adoration. “It’s you, and something important to you.”

Synnove sniffled, overwhelmed. She had already made a claim on him, and he on her, a moon ago, but this? As far as she was concerned, he was hers, and she was his.

Forever.

#ffxivwrite2020 #final fantasy xiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #\o/#dt's writing #this is my longest raw fill ever #it has blown 'shovel talk' out of the water by seven hundred words #also *adds the CORRECT fic link whoops*

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