#and that’s the end of this story

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again - Epilogue

Summary: What classifies home? For them, it was each other.

Warnings: small bit of angst, mostly fluff

Series Masterlist

-Epilogue-

There was a shift in the air, so subtle that it could’ve been passed off as a breeze through a cracked window. It was just enough to wake Y/n from a deep sleep, Azriel’s shadows caressing her skin as she rose despite the male being dead asleep beside her.

The sky was still dark as Y/n pried herself from Azriel’s grip, untwining their legs, pushing away the hands that try and keep her pinned to his chest. The male didn’t wake up as she finally slipped from their bed, searching the floor for his shirt and her own underwear to cover her bare skin. He didn’t wake, not even as she slipped from their room, a shadow or two following her out.

Their little town house was quiet, nothing out of place, no sign of that shift in the air. Maybe it was just an open window, maybe she hadn’t latched the one in the kitchen where she’d cooled the pie she baked for dinner. Elain had been teaching her new recipes, Y/n was testing them out on Azriel, who finally admitted he also had a sweet tooth, after years of denial.

The house had been a gift from their family, the first few months after the gate had closed had been hard for Y/n. She was happy, so unbelievably happy with her mate, but she’d find herself back in that room, staring at that empty arch, waiting for anything to happen, waiting for her family to step through.

More than once, Nesta had found her sitting there, the busybody of a house guiding its owner to her to check on her. Nesta had sat with her, had listened to Y/n talk through her conflicting feelings, she’d been the one to suggest to Feyre that they needed a new place, somewhere not haunted with memories and what ifs.

After several years living here, she didn’t need any lights to find her way down the steps and into the kitchen. The window was indeed open, the small crack letting in the winter air beyond. She breathed it in, a small smile on her lips at the familiar feeling. Terrasen would be covered by several feet of snow this time of year, similar to the mountains of Illryia, where her mate had grown up and trained.

He’d brought her to Windhaven and other villages throughout the territory several times, usually against his will when Rhys asked them to check on the Illryians, to watch over the female’s training. Y/n knew that Azriel despised the place, she understood why, he’d rarely experienced kindness while he was growing up, not until his brothers had found him. Yet Azriel had bared it, for the females they were fighting for, and for her. The mountains reminded her of home, the snow, the trees, all of it. He’d made them a cabin there among the pine trees, a place she could go when she was especially homesick.

Y/n latches the window, overlooking the small garden behind her home, the towering red cliffs far beyond it. She could see the house of wind high in the starry sky, a few windows lit up by flickering lights from fireplaces inside keeping the home warm.

There, Nesta and Cassian would wake in a few hours, just before dawn broke to eat breakfast and prepare for the day. Y/n and Azriel would fly up to the training grounds atop the cliffs for their daily sessions with the them and the rest of the Valkyries. Then she and Gwyn would go into the library to study and work, Azriel would kiss her goodbye and several hours later he would wait for by the door to take her home.

Silent as ever, she doesn’t notice him until his strong arms were wrapping around her waist, tucking her into his chest. Azriel is practically a furnace at her back, a welcoming feeling in the winter kissed room.

She sighs, letting her head fall back against his bare chest, looking up at her mate. He’s perfectly disheveled, hair messy from sleep and from her hands running through the waves, his neck a constellation of bruises, surrounding the crescent shaped scar of her teeth, a mating gift. His eyes are still heavy, like he’d barely woken up, just knew that she had left, blindly following her.

“Where’d you go, my love.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, lingering for a few moments.

She smiles softly at him, “Just forgot to close the window.”

He glances through the glass, where she’d been staring off, he found nothing, “Come back to bed, Princess.”

Y/n couldn’t help but look back out at the garden, at the city, at the cliffs, as if there was something out there begging her to check one more time. Azriel doesn’t persist, he lets her take her time, but he does rest his head on her shoulder, a gentle reminder that the shadowsinger was still half asleep. He would never rush her, but he nuzzles her neck, kissing one of his own claiming marks, the dark purple bruise directly above her pulse.

She sighs, tilting her head to give him better access, “Fine.”

It’s all he needs to pull away, just to sweep her up into his arms, strong and steady despite his sleepy state.

Y/n laughs quietly, “So needy.”

He doesn’t pause his steps towards their bedroom to lean down and capture her lips in a chaste kiss, “You’ve spoiled me to long, Princess, I can’t sleep with out you.”

“Big Illryian baby,” she coos, giving him one more kiss before resting her head on his shoulder.

They walk up the stairs, and into their room. Azriel gently lays her down on her side of the bed before laying down beside her. He tucks the blankets around both of them, pulling her to his side as he settled into the pillows behind him.

In the safety of his arms, Y/n finds it easy to fall back to sleep, dreaming of a night sky, full of constellations, a beautiful stag smiling down on her.

Far above them, the house of wind stirs. A room, long since dark and empty, lights. If anyone had been watching they would have seen a green light in the window.

Nesta had stirred at the familiar feeling, running to that room that hadn’t moved in the last ten years. She was hopeful, but cautious, Ataraxia in her hand.

The green light flowed through the door way as she rounded the corner. The gate was shining with that bright green light, familiar yet different. And there, standing in the middle of the room was a beautiful female she didn’t recognize.

She examines the room with mute curiosity, and Nesta notices a simple blade strapped to her back, a scrap of red fabric tied to the hilt.

“Who are you.” Nesta levels her own blade at the female, “What are you doing here.”

Her golden gaze halts its lazy search of the room, slowly dragging towards Nesta as if she just noticed her. There was something unsettling about the female, like something lurked below her skin, the beauty a disguise for the monster beneath.

Her head tilts in a way that has Nesta’s instincts reaching for her power, “I’m here to collect my niece, witchling.”

The white hair, golden eyes, Nesta raises a single brow, “Manon?”

The witch queen smiles, and those iron teeth slide into place, “I hope she only told you the good stories.”

“Depends on your classification of good.”

Azriel woke to a gentle tap on his mental shields. He was hesitant to open them, he knew what his brother had to say would make him get up and leave the warmth of his mate’s arms. The gentle taps turned persistent, like Rhys knew he was ignoring him.

What? Azriel sighs, Is the world ending before the sun has a chance to rise?

Not quite, Rhys laughs, But it would seem you and Y/n are needed at the house of wind.

Azriel sits up, For?

You’ll see.

Rhys doesn’t give him a chance to respond. Azriel looks at his mate, sleeping peacefully by his side. Her hair is a mess, and her lips are parted, letting out the softest snores. He hates to wake her, half because she looks adorable like this, the other half, because she got grouchy when woken up. He’d learned that the hard way.

So he did it the one way he knew would work. Azriel pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then her temple, her cheeks, her nose. Each kiss had her whining in her sleep until she was slowly stirring.

“Good morning, Princess,” he whispers, lightly pressing his lips to hers. “You’ve got to wake up.”

She hums against him, “No I don’t.”

Azriel smiles, pushing a wild piece of hair behind her ear, “Yes, you do.”

Y/n nuzzles into his palm, “I don’t want to.”

“I know, my love.” His lips travel across her jaw, down her throat, “We’ve been summoned.”

She sighs, tilting her head back as his lips explored her neck, “Tell Rhys to suck it up, he can summon me when the sun wakes up.”

Azriel laughs, nipping at the sensitive skin around her pulse, relishing in the small noise she makes, “I’m sure he wouldn’t ask me to risk my life waking you if it wasn’t important.”

Finally her eyes open, glaring up at him as he pulls away, “I’m not a feral animal you need to poke with a stick.”

Azriel smirks, “No, I wouldn’t say a feral animal, maybe a domesticated one, like a fussy cat.”

She hisses, baring those lethal canines, and Azriel leans down to kiss her, not scared of those sharp teeth, even when she lightly bites him. He just smiles against her lips.

You two are taking your time, Rhys butts into his mind, Tell Y/n the sun is coming up, no excuses anymore.

He doesn’t even open his mouth to relay the words, before Y/n is already snarling, “Tell him he’s a prick.”

His high lord simply laughs in his mind, before disappearing completely.

The dawn broke as they flew to the house of wind, the sun peaking out over the horizon, desperately trying to warm the snow covered city below. It did little to keep them from freezing, so they flew fast.

The house welcomes them with a warm embrace when they enter, and it’s far from quiet. Voices tumble out of the main living space, and one stops her dead in her tracks.

“No you cannot ride Abraxos.”

Cassian groans, “But-“

“No.”

“Who is that?” Azriel takes her hand in his, noting the way her whole body starts to shake.

She doesn’t respond, only pulls him towards the room, she sees Cassian first, wings flared like he was ready to fight. And there, standing like she couldn’t care less about the giant Illryian before her, was Manon.

Those golden eyes slide to her, and a smile lights the witch queen’s face, “Hello, witchling.”

Faces turned to her Rhys, Cassian, and Nesta, she searched for more, searched for any sign of her parents.

“They’re not here,” Manon says, “I didn’t waste time sending for them, I came as soon as the mirror opened.”

“Mirror?” Y/n asks breathlessly.

Manon pulls a small object from her pocket, a witch mirror. They were few and far between, she’d only seen two growing up, the sister-glasses her and Dorian used to talk when they were apart. This one was similar to those, but engraved into the edges were Wyrd marks.

She read a few of them, most where protective marks, shields. But there, right on top, was the mark she’d made to open the gates, the simple archway.

Azriel examines the mirror over her shoulder, in its reflection she can see his furrowed brows low over his deep hazel eyes.

“As soon as they told me that you’d been taken through a gate I had every witch in my kingdom looking for a way to bring you back,” Manon explains, “And when Dorian had returned, told me that you had stayed in this world, I kept looking. While he was squandered away in his libraries studying those dusty old books, I flew through the world looking for a witch who could make me a mirror no one had ever made before.

“It took many years, many trials, and many broken mirrors,” Manon says, “But we finally made this one, it’s sister-glass is back home, holding my gate open, hiding it from prying eyes.”

Beside her, Azriel speaks softly, “How does it work?”

Manon eyes him, and Y/n has a brief moment of panic as to what the witch might do. The others seemingly have a similar reaction, Cassian none to subtly resting a hand on a dagger at his side. Manon notes the movement and glares at the male.

“It only requires a drop of blood to open the gate,” she says, voice tense like she was holding back her iron teeth, “Simply think of the place you wish to go and the gate will open. It will stay as long as you wish it.”

Y/n felt like laughing and crying all at once. She could go home, could live her life with her mate by her side, could come to her home in Velaris whenever she liked.

She didn’t think, just surged forward and flung her arms around Manon. The witch didn’t snap her iron teeth, didn’t scratch her with those metal claws, she simply wrapped her arms around Y/n and held tight.

“I’ve missed you too, witchling.”

Her whole body is shaking, joyful tears welling in her eyes. When they part, Azriel is there to keep her on her feet, he always was there for her, always would be.

She knew it was something that ate away at Azriel these years, that she stayed for him, that he hadn’t gone for her. It was a conversation they’d had many times, he had no reason to feel guilty, she’d made her choice, and she didn’t regret it at all. Azriel was needed here, there were many things he hadn’t told her those months when she’d first arrived, human queens threatening war, fae from the continent stirring, ancient beings in lakes. They’d dealt with those things together, spying and fighting and killing.

Y/n loved her home, missed it terribly, but she had found her mate, found her own story to tell, found her purpose beyond being a spoiled princess. Her parents reign was far from over, her own was in the far distant future. She believed that she would one day find her way back to Terrasen, and now it was happening.

“Can I see the mirror?”

Manon holds it out to her, “It is yours, use it wisely.”

Y/n held the glass, looking at that small archway carved into the mirror. Behind her, Azriel is smiling, stepping back to give her space. He stands between his brothers, nodding once, whispering down that bridge of shadow, Go home, Princess.

She grins, bringing her thumb to her sharp canine, biting down just enough to draw a little blood. Y/n pictures Orynth, the castle, her parents, and she presses her thumb right on that Wyrd mark.

Green light flairs, shining through the mirror to the floor at her feet, and before her, like a window between worlds, opens a gate. And there, sitting right where she knew they would take their breakfast, her parents, both standing at the ready, to fight, to defend. Yet they don’t find any threat, their eyes wide as they met her own.

“Oh gods,” her mother sobs.

And Y/n is running, wind pushing at her heels, she feels the exact moment she passes through the gate, like the magic in her blood sighs in relief. Her mother meets her halfway, colliding hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Before they have the chance to fall, her father is there, wrapping both of them in his arms, holding them steady.

Y/n can barely breathe, they hold her so tight, and she holds just as tightly.

“How?” Aelin asks through her tears.

“I got sick of waiting for you all,” Manon says behind them.

She walks through the gate, leaving Prythian behind, the three Illryian males and Nesta as well.

Rowan looks to the witch, his voice thick with emotion, “thank you.”

Manon nods simply, “It was time my niece came home.”

Aelin pulls away, her hands resting on Y/n’s cheeks, “I’ve missed you, my Fireheart, every single day.”

“I missed you too,” Y/n sobs, looking up to her father, “both of you, so much.”

Rowan doesn’t speak, only places a gentle kiss to her head, holding her tightly, like she’d disappear at any moment. Y/n holds just as tightly to them both. For several minutes, that’s all they can do, none of them willing to let go. Only when Manon clears her throat does Rowan pull back, Aelin is more hesitant to release her hold.

Her father’s eyes move behind her, Y/n looks back to find his gaze on the portal, on Azriel stepping through tentatively. Her heart gallops in her chest as her father walks to her mate, that calm mask over both of their faces.

Rowan stops before him, offering his hand like he had the last time they’d seen each other. Azriel carefully takes the hand, shaking it once, and then her father pulls him into an embrace.

“Thank you,” Rowan says, “For taking care of her.”

Azriel, to her surprise, hugs him back, and her heart almost burst in her chest, “Always.”

Aelin pulls back, wiping the tears from her eyes as she looks through the gate at the three fae still standing there, “Would you care for a tour?”

Rhys grins, “Can I grab my mate before we begin? She’d love to see it.”

“Of course,” Aelin smiles, looking back at Y/n with her eyes shining, “Bring everyone, you’re all family now.”

His family had jumped at the opportunity to tour the vast castle, and the beautiful city surrounding it. He’d stayed by Y/n’s side, watching her tell stories of her childhood home. They’d encountered many of her family on the way, Cassian had almost jumped Lorcan on sight, only stopped by Nesta at his side. Each reunion left Azriel feeling raw.

She’d given all of this up for him, no matter how many times she’d reassured him that it was her choice, and she chose him gladly, he still felt that guilt, he tried to hide it, but she always knew, even without the bond to tell her.

“Come with me,” she whispers in his ear, taking his hand in hers, “I want to show you something.”

He put on that mask, hoping she wouldn’t see through it, see the thoughts eating away at him.

Azriel smiles down at her, “Lead the way, Princess.”

They leave their families in the training grounds, where Cassian was getting closer and closer to wearing Lorcan down for that fight he was itching to have. No one noticed them, and if they did, they didn’t stop them.

She brought him back into the castle, pulling him up the huge grand staircase.

“Where are we going?” Azriel asks.

She sends him one of those sweet little smiles, “Just wait and you’ll see.”

Y/n takes him through several hallways, each of them grand and decorated with gorgeous paintings. Feyre would love to take her time looking at every single one. He didn’t have that time to admire them, his mate’s pace rushing them past each one.

They finally stopped at a set of doors, tall, white doors with golden handles. She takes her hand from his to open each of them, revealing a huge room.

He instantly knew it was her own, her scent still clings to the space, despite her decade long absence.

The sitting room is decorated with well loved chairs, pillows and blankets draped over them, surrounding a large fireplace, the mantle decorated with flowers and trinkets.

There’s a piano in the corner, it looked near identical to the one she bought for their house, she’d been teaching him to play for the past few years, he could finally carry a tune.

Y/n moves through the space, running her fingers over her desk full of papers, “It’s exactly how I left it.”

Azriel follows her, closing the doors behind him, she walks through the space, towards the door that leads to her bedroom. And beyond that, a balcony.

She opens the doors, stepping out onto the ice and snow covered stone, he follows her and he looks out over the city below. Beautiful, it was absolutely breathtaking. The city was alive with music and laughter, much like Velaris. Azriel looked out over the horizon, he could see all the way to the Oakwald forest, the ancient magic singing to him even from here.

“I didn’t give anything up,” she says quietly, entwining their hands between them, “I made my choice, and I gained everything.”

Azriel couldn’t speak, so he squeezed her hand, begging her to continue. She turns, placing her other hand on his chest, directly over his heart.

“I didn’t lose my crown, my life, it’s all still here,” she says, looking out over Orynth, “and I found my home. Not through a gate, but with you, Az.”

He could only look at her, could only admire his beautiful mate. This female, who’d fallen into his life, who’d stood toe to toe with him and won, stealing the heart from his chest. Y/n had chosen him, and he would chose her for the rest of his life.

“Where’d you go, shadowsinger?”

Azriel brought his free hand to her face, holding his world in the palm of his hand. When he kisses her, everything feels right, feels perfect. And for the first time in his life, he felt like he truly belonged somewhere, and that somewhere was with her, wherever she was.

“Home, Princess.”

Tag list

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[liquidstar]

If my mom sees a significant amount of blood she gets lightheaded, and has fainted on some occasions. Once it happened when we were kids, I wasn't there to witness it but I heard the story from my dad. Basically my brothers, around 7 or 8 at the time, were playing outside while my mom was making their lunch, and she accidentally cut her finger. It wasn't anything serious, but it drew a fair bit of blood and she passed out. My dad saw this and rushed over, but he didn't really know what to do so he just sort of started slapping her to wake her up (not recommended, but he had no idea and panicked)

At that exact moment my brothers both came in from playing, and all they saw was our mom unconscious on the floor and our dad slapping her. So, like, without even saying a word to each other they both just INSTANTLY start whaling on him, like, full blown attack mode to defend our mom. Which obviously didn't help the situation, but she did wake up and everything was fine.

Now our dad says that he's actually really glad they attacked him over what they thought was going on, because it means he raised good boys. And I still think that's true, they're very good boys.

[valtsv]

i do enjoy "living weapon" characters but specifically living weapons who did in fact do absolutely horrific things which at least a part of them enjoyed and thought was good and right at the time, and that no amount of not knowing any better or guilt they feel in hindsight will ever make up for. i love living weapons who are "irredeemable", and no it's not their fault that they were made that way or pointed in the directions they were by the hand that wielded them, and yes they are victims, but so were their victims. living weapons who some people will never be able to forgive, but who still wake up every day and try to do better than what's expected of them. a sword that uses its blade to cut wheat to make bread for the people who once lived in fear of its arc falling on their heads.

[crowkip]

yeehaw, baby!

[ered]

Here’s my take on the whole audio books vs. reading:

Oral tradition of storytelling predates written ones by millennias, and honestly, which one you like is just a personal preference.

The actual difference is

when listening, you have no idea how to write characters’ names

when reading, you have no idea how to pronounce characters’ names

hope this helps!

[stargirl230]

you’re my hero!

bnha doomed yuri was not on my 2024 bingo card

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated)

[nenoname]

Stan Pines' drawings

Plus a Stan drawing of debatable canonicity but I love his signature being a dollar sign

[classycookiexo]

[bastardlybonkers]

i feel like not enough ppl are factoring in the cultural clash between laios and shuro and the many micro agressions shuro faced while being in their group. literally the name 'shuro' in itself is one

his name is toshiro 😭 lets also not forget that he has his own communication issues, in the opposite way that laios does- thats literally a factor in their argument, that his envy for laios's ability to express himself sincerely manifested as part of his distaste for him.

ig all this to say like, was their fight heart wrenching, especially when reading laios as autistic? absolutely. anybody whos ever been in laios's position knows how much it hurts to realize someone you thought was your friend doesnt actually like having you around, especially when they didnt tell you and you had no way of knowing due to not understanding their cues. but im begging yall to step back and see the nuance of this situation cause im gonna be real a lot of you are kinda just brushing over it acting like everything is toshiros fault and that hes a terrible person when in reality hes an average guy who really, really clashed with laios and it led to a very long misunderstanding due to their supremely opposite methods of communication. even laios and toshiro, after letting everything out in their fight, were able to come to an understanding and start a foundation for an actual friendship built on better communication

ok yknow what Edit: i shouldve made it even more explicit at the end of this post, i hadnt thought i would need to since i started the post with this, but i think a few too many people are missing my point so i just wanna clarify. i shouldnt have said 'really clashed' and left it at that because yeah they did, but it wasnt just their opposite methods of communication, it is also very much that toshiro was experiencing microaggressions via laios. it may have been unintentional on laios's part, but it still happened and wore him down, made it harder for him to communicate on top of both the more subtle social cues that he was raised with and his own communication difficulties. i also want to say that the fandom reaction to toshiro and the complete ignorance of this point is also racist tbh or at the very least ignorant. i understand that the anime did not cover this panel, and neither did the manga, as this was an omake, but im gonna be real with you guys. there are enough context clues within the story to clue you into this. if you didnt pick up on it thats ok, but i think this is a good lesson in picking up subtext in the stories that youre watching and/or reading. kui shouldnt have to explicitly say 'by the way laios was racist to toshiro' for this point to be understood, and at the very least, when the author portrays a character in a sympathetic light (as kui clearly does) it should make you question Why they are doing so and what makes them sympathetic, rather than youre immediate and only reaction to be 'well i hated what this guy did/said so i hate them and they suck'. idk exactly how to finish this, just. idk. question your biases and gut reactions to things you see in media and stories, and think about whether or not theres subtext that youre missing.

[c-rowlesdraws]

Ratatouille would have been a better and potentially much more interesting story if Remy had partnered with Collette instead of Linguini. Two underdogs with talent and passion forced to maintain a dangerous ruse. Fiercely independent Collette giving up temporary control of her body to a creature who, despite the insanity of a rat wanting to cook professionally, she can relate to on a personal level and who she does want to teach. The inner conflict of wondering if Remy’s growing talents are eclipsing her own, if the praise their food is earning belongs more to him than to her. Her guilt over feeling resentment and jealousy towards this little guy who wouldn’t have a hope of realizing his talents if not for her trust and protection. Both of them unraveling the mystery of that sweet but bumbling kitchen boy with the obvious crush on Collette being Gusteau’s secret son, and working together to thwart the new evil owner’s plans to stop Linguini from claiming his birthright. The message of the movie not being this weird, almost smug “some people are born with talent, some people aren’t, and that’s how being a ~great artist~ works”, but something more like, “if you have a dream, you deserve to pursue it, and be supported and encouraged in your pursuit of it, even if other people tell you that, because of some intrinsic aspect of yourself or the circumstances you were born in (like being a human woman in the restaurant industry, or being a literal rat), you have no place pursuing this dream. Also, raw talent can only get you so far, and skill and passion existing in the right balance is key.” I’ve been thinking about this for seventeen years. I’m breaking my silence

[saints-who-never-existed]

“In the war film, a soldier can hold his buddy—as long as his buddy is dying on the battlefield. In the western, Butch Cassidy can wash the Sundance Kid’s naked flesh—as long as it is wounded. In the boxing film, a trainer can rub the well-developed torso and sinewy back of his protege—as long as it is bruised. In the crime film, a mob lieutenant can embrace his boss like a lover—as long as he is riddled with bullets. 

Violence makes the homo-eroticism of many “male” genres invisible; it is a structural mechanism of plausible deniability.”

–Tarantino’s Incarnational Theology: Reservoir Dogs, Crucifixions, and Spectacular Violence. Kent L. Brintnall.

[mischievous-thunder]

And then the two princes saved the world and moved in together to start a new family with their adopted daughter and a dog. The end.

[bamsara]

I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

[tariah23]

The manga industry, especially JUMP, needs to hurry up and do away with weekly scheduling for mangaka. There needs to better regulations put into place for their health and safety because this is pitiful. Two weeks - monthly updates should’ve already been the standard for the manga industry at this point. These money grabbers will only continue to put the lives of these artists at stake for the sake of capitalism unless some serious changes are implemented.

[gotstabbedbyapen]

It's always "Hades isn't bad or cruel, his deeds are just metaphors of the inevitable death" or "Hades kidnapping Persephone represent the premature death".

But when the argument "Zeus has numerous affairs and many children because he represent the fertile rain" is brought up, all nuance is suddenly out of the window and Zeus is just a womanizer who can't keep it in his pants.