I want you to take a minute to yourself

and just look at this man

Can you see how he makes you feel happy all of a sudden?

How you just wish you could stare at his face forever?

How the world is a better place with him in it?

How there’s actually an exception for the phrase “no one is perfect”?

Can you see it?


Now take another moment and VOTE for this man.

Because we both know it would be a crime to let him lose this one.

A Battle of Wits (better-holmes-and-deductions)


Lawliet took a sip of his coffee, staring at his computer screen. “Sherlock Holmes. British detective, hm? Let’s see if you’re as good as you say you are…”

He set his cup down on the table in front of him, before leaning forward to look at the website he’d found on Sherlock. He seemed so fake, using big words to make himself seem smarter… Not that he didn’t do that, it was hilarious to annoy those with an inferior mental capacity. 

Moments later, he’d already typed up a text message, sending it to the phone number listed.

Sherlock Holmes… Private detective, solver of various crimes which stumped the police. I challenge you to take my case, Holmes.

Your instructions are simple. A series of murders have recently taken place…

He listed details of the case he had already set up. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned that he was the one to create the case, the details carefully hand-picked by L himself.

After the Kira case, L had moved back to England, so once he located Sherlock’s house, he could easily hide cameras inside the home.

I fear I may be the next victim, Mr. Holmes.

L felt an amused smirk cross his lips as he clicked send.

Now, he just had to find out where this detective lived. He easily found an article about Sherlock from a local newspaper. He emailed the picture to himself, that way he could save the image on his phone for later reference. Hm… 221 Baker street.

He looked up the address in a new tab, screenshotted it, repeating the process and saving the map on his phone. Perfect.

A battle has begun, Mr. Holmes. 

And I intend to win.

With that, the detective packed up his laptop, walking out of his apartment.


“We did make a conscious choice to forgive. Forgiveness is a process of healing. It doesn’t matter to the boys if we practice forgiveness.But if you aren’t able to forgive it creates a life sentence for you. It locks you down to that moment in time when you were violated, when you were hurt. For Rachel it was a life sentence. It was over. I choose not to make it my life sentence by letting go of those boys. Forgiveness is me saying, what you did to me is not okay but I choose to forgive you because I’m not going to live in the pain of that for the rest of my life. You’re not going to control me because I’m not going to let what you did to me define me for the rest of my days.”

(Beth Nimmo: Mother of Rachel Scott)


By Shveta Thakrar

for Karuna Riazi, an inextinguishable candle against the gloom


That was all the rakshasi could think of, how she longed to sink her sharp fangs into freshly caught flesh, how delicious a still-beating heart would taste. An organ ripped from a rib cage, sundered valves dripping crimson, muscle still supple and slippery from the life that had animated it just moments before.

So. Hungry.

She stepped off the pedestal. How fine it was to breathe once more, to stretch long-stiff limbs.

Centuries upon centuries spent as stone, and for what? What crime had she committed? She had simply disguised herself as a lovely maiden, thick of tress and lash, curvy, and with large, mischievous eyes. Then, slowly, she’d approached the handsome young fisherman on the riverbank and let him know of her interest in his company.

She didn’t often dally with humans, preferring to lure in and make meals of the worst of them, but occasionally romancing them offered a nice diversion.

Clearly charmed by her attention, the man had plucked a flower from the grass and offered it to her. She’d accepted both the blossom and the invitation to stroll along the water—past the house where a great rishi dwelled. “My house,” the fisherman explained.

They’d met this way each day for months, their walks growing more languid, more intimate. He was different, kind, always offering her food before he took any, murmuring to her of his wishes and dreams. The rakshasi allowed her heart to swell just a bit.

Perhaps she would even keep this one.

But some months later, they’d returned late, the fisherman’s basket of fish forgotten, to find the rishi waiting outside his house. The sage had immediately seen through the rakshasi’s veneer to the green skin and long teeth hiding beneath and cursed her for her deception.

The rakshasi had huffed. Deception! As if she were to blame for her natural ability to cast illusions and change her shape.

“Rakshasi,” the rishi had shouted, jabbing a finger in her direction, “you would dare to steal my son? A thousand years you will stand on this spot, a statue for all to see. A sign to warn those who would imitate your arrogance.”

She should have eaten him.

Instead, her disguise had fallen away. Her lungs had halted, her heart had ceased its rhythm, and each bit of her skin, each scrap of her sari, had hardened into marble. The last thing she’d perceived was her suitor turning away in revulsion.

His grimace would be forever etched into her memory. The rakshasi scowled. She certainly should have eaten him.

Of course, all that was a millennium behind her. She took another breath—and was promptly wracked with coughing.

The air! It wore a smoky haze and burned her lungs. She tasted filth, char. And what was that noise?

Rather than the golden chariots she’d always known, boxes zipped by on wheels. Even Arjun’s chariot had never been so fast. She glanced up. Lines of rectangular edifices taller than the mandirs in Madurai rose up into the sky, blocks that extended into the clouds. Their rows of glass panes reflected the sunlight, stinging her eyes.

For the first time in her lengthy life, the rakshasi faltered.

What had happened to the world she had lived in? This spot had been a riverbank lush with trees and flowers. Now there was only a strange gray material like the stone pedestal on which she’d passed so many years.

She hefted the pedestal from the ground with one hand and smashed it on the gray ground. It crumbled to smithereens. That, at least, felt good. No one would ever imprison her again.

As she dusted off her hands, a mortal man approached her. His manner of dress was so odd, she wasn’t sure at first that he was mortal. When he spoke, the words were unfamiliar. The rakshasi frowned. “Speak Sanskrit.” He bridled in surprise, then recited a shloka. How useless. She wanted information, not chants to invoke the gods. “I said speak Sanskrit.”

The man waggled his head and said something else she could not understand. She let out a heavy sigh and marveled at his short hair. Cropped so close to his scalp—why?

Her stomach roared, reminding her she had yet to eat.

Hungry. So hungry.

Grinning, he stepped closer. That was not what she was used to from mortal men. They feared her skin, her teeth. They feared her.

The man gripped her arm.

Glancing down, she realized she’d unknowingly donned her maidenly disguise once more. No wonder. He thought her soft, sweet fruit ripe for the plucking. They always did.

She shook him off as easily as though he were a gnat, knocking him back ten paces. “I gave you no leave to touch my person.”

The man, eyes wide, clambered to his feet. Then, muttering under his breath, he stalked off.

The rakshasi’s smile was bitter. A thousand years later, for all that the trappings of the world had changed, its heart remained the same.

He wouldn’t have tasted good, she reminded herself. He looked stringy and full of gristle.

She wandered toward the snaking gray path where the boxes rolled, all belching smoke. How could anyone find riding in them remotely comfortable?

All around her, pedestrians stopped and stared. Some pointed, some cringed, and others laughed as though she sported a costume. As though she were a joke for their entertainment. They said things that swept past her ears like the wailing of storm winds. But there was no fear. Certainly no respect.

It struck her then: no one recognized her. Perhaps the world had changed more than she knew.

Another man approached her, this one followed by a woman. He was quite attractive, even with the strip of strangely patterned silk knotted around and dangling from his neck—why would he wear a paashu, an easy weapon for an enemy? The rakshasi thought he looked a bit like the fisherman before his face had twisted in disgust.

Her eyes narrowed.

The man tapped the small box he held a few times and said something unintelligible to the woman, who nodded. Smiling, she addressed the rakshasi in Sanskrit. “Welcome.”

At last, someone who made sense. The rakshasi smiled in return. She rubbed her belly. “I’m hungry.”

The woman nodded, but before she could speak, the man said something to her. She shook her head. He said it again, louder, urgently, and when she again refused, they began to fight.

As the rakshasi observed them, her hunger grew.

More people stopped to watch. They smelled so good, the rakshasi’s mouth watered. She could almost hear the blood strumming in their veins. How hot and coppery it would taste …

The man shoved the woman, and the rakshasi flashed back to the rishi and his anger. Why hadn’t he punished his son for dallying with a rakshasi if he was so appalled? Why hadn’t the fisherman stood his ground?

Did history just repeat itself over and over until Kalki came to burn the universe to ashes once more?

This man was no different than the rest. His like had existed throughout history: Dushasana pulling off Draupadi’s sari against her will; Ravana abducting Sita and Ram rescuing her, only to abandon her in the woods; Arjun philandering his way through life. They would never learn.

They were prey, nothing more. Food to sate the appetite.

The rakshasi reached out and punched through the man’s chest. She emerged with his heart clutched in her fist, then took a huge bite of the bloody, dripping, still-beating mass. It tasted like life. Still chewing, she tipped back her head and moaned.

The crowd screamed and scattered. Some people raised the same kind of device the man had held and tapped at it before fleeing.

Then it was just the rakshasi and the woman. With blood dripping down her chin, the rakshasi waited to see what the woman would do.

“Thank you, sister.” For a second, the woman’s eyes gleamed with scarlet fire, and her skin flashed green as grass. “I’ve become too sentimental of late and stay longer with the meat than I should.”

Wonder of wonders; another rakshasi!

“But in the end, a girl must eat.” She nodded at the corpse now sprawled on the ground. “They may have forgotten us in these modern times, but we are still here. Come, let us find dessert.”

The woman winked a sly, deliberate wink. Then she transformed into a cat and sauntered off.

The rakshasi, lips still jewel bright with blood, did the same, becoming a sharp-clawed tabby. She would remind the world of her presence in it, one meal at a time. With delicate swipes of her tongue, she licked her chops clean and set off into the new world.

Shveta Thakrar is a writer of South Asian–flavored fantasy. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous magazines including Faerie, Uncanny, Interfictions Online, and Strange Horizons, and anthologies such as Kaleidoscope: Diverse YA Science Fiction and Fantasy Stories, Beyond the Woods: Fairy Tales Retold, and Year’s Best YA Speculative Fiction 2015. When not spinning stories about spider silk and shadows, magic and marauders, and courageous girls illuminated by dancing rainbow flames, Shveta crafts, devours books, daydreams, draws, travels, bakes, and occasionally even plays her harp.

Twitter:   Website

Guys, what happens if, when Greg finishes for the day at work and he goes home, he keeps his phone on loud and next to him all night, never letting it out of his sight. Why? Because he is friends with Sherlock Holmes and that man could need him at any moment.

When Greg first became friends with Sherlock and knew about their past, every day Greg would call Sherlock and make sure that the man was alright, then the phone calls turn to every other day and then every week and then once a month and now, Greg doesn’t have to worry. But if Sherlock doesn’t turn up at crime scene or looks a little worse for wear, the phone calls start all over again because Greg wants Sherlock to know that he has someone that cares about him and he should never be alone.

John was a blessing, Greg finally started to get a good eight hours of sleep a night because he longer had to worry as much. Still, he keeps his phone close by, just in case.

Best moments in tonight’s ep (for me)

  • “Don’t go through my purse.” “LET HIM!”
  • Everyone basically working together to make Maya’s birthday great. EVERYONE LOVES MAYA HART SHE MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS GOODBYE
Torso, Mutsuki and Justification

With the new Tokyo Ghoul :re chapter having just dropped, a lot of the discussion in the fandom has turned to whether or not Mutsuki or Torso’s actions are “justifiable”, and I’ve noticed there seems to be a bit of a divide- some who sympathise and/or root for Mutsuki, but detest Torso, and others who sympathise or detest both. 

I can’t pretend to know the ins and outs of what makes a psychopath, let alone break down the subtle differences in how these two characters have been represented, but I’d like to think anyone and everyone could agree that these are both two very ill characters, regardless of whether or not you like them.

But why do we look at Mutsuki and Torso differently? Is it because Mutsuki’s abuse was sexual in nature, unlike Torso’s, which was represented as predominantly verbal/physical? Is it because Torso’s crimes were meticulously planned, while Mutsuki’s were sporadic and in-the-moment? Is it because Torso seems to have at least a degree of agency in his actions, while Mutsuki seems to suffer from a multiple personality disorder? Is it maybe even as simple as how the characters have responded to their actions? Torso being “indifferent”, and Mutsuki being “repulsed”? I’d definitely be inclined to say that all those factors contribute to why a lot of people are willing to turn a blind eye to Mutsuki’s actions and some spit on the idea that Torso even needed a backstory, (I know these factors certainly contribute to how I feel about them both) but I’d hesitate to say it’s as simple as that.

One element that I think played a huge role in moulding the way we think about Torso is hindsight- we, the readers, have spent the last 70+ chapters with the impression that Torso is beyond redemption- and he is. We’ve seen him brutally mutilate and murder innocent civilians, without a hint of self-reflection or regret, eventually going on to try and do the same to a main character-he’s the very definition of a psychopath. (From my limited knowledge, at least). Why would we want him to get out of this confrontation unscathed?- It’s very easy to use this portrayal as the basis for how we feel about his past.

Mutsuki, on the other hand, was at best, our cinnamon bun, and at worst, a character that some may have been indifferent to or disliked- but always a character we were meant to wish the best for.

To see Torso’s naivety and helplessness as a child and to see Mutsuki hack the head of his father off with an axe with a smile on his face directly subverts everything we’ve been lead to believe about them up until that point. We’ve been conditioned to see Torso as the enemy and Mutsuki as a friend, but this whole time they’ve both been following very similar paths as victims of the cycle of abuse- and I say similar, because while both murdered members of their family in blind fits of rage, the circumstances from then on are extremely different- Torso becoming a taxi driver who we can assume raped and murdered countless innocents, and Mutsuki being a CCG investigator who killed cats as an “outlet” and went on to murder coworkers out of necessity; 

So do either of these characters have “justification” for their actions?


Being a victim of abuse never “excuses” actions such as these later on in life, circumstances are irrelevant in this respect, although it’s not wrong to consider these circumstances when evaluating how you feel about the character- and clearly, in that regard, Torso’s the one who could be considered further beyond redemption.

Honestly, I’ve never been a fan of the word “justifiable” being used in the context of character actions such as the likes of these, because it implies we have to find the action reasonable. Of course no sane person could find Torso’s foul actions reasonable, and while it’s not hard to make a case for why Mutsuki had cause for killing Torso, I certainly can’t see the way he went about doing it as anything less than repulsive.

But this doesn’t mean we can’t sympathise. It’s not contradictory to find a character or person’’s actions abhorrent, but sympathise with them- because unlike “justification”, sympathy doesn’t inherently assume we agree with what the character has done. I don’t sympathise with Torso because he’s an okay guy, I pity him because his brain is wired differently, I sympathise with him for the same reason I sympathise with Mutsuki- because they were both just children who were dealt the wrong hand and ended up with shitty parents, who themselves may have suffered from similar problems. All the while, such sympathy should never overshadow the sympathy we feel for the victims of their actions or change how we feel about what they’ve done, only help us understand why they have.

TL;DR- Are their circumstances the same? Of course not, that’s never the case. But regardless, I don’t see it as wrong to sympathise with either of them. It’s not a question of whether or not you like them as characters, and It’s not a question of circumstances later down the line- it’s simply appreciating that no-one is born bad, only influenced by their environment and predispositions in the brain.

I found a partner in crime in YOU 

No, not the literal partner in crime. Of course, we must not let ourselves to be involved in crimes. That’s wrong! But seriously, you showed me what a REAL partner is. In all those crazy moments, you are with me. You are there laughing with me. Thank you for allowing me to share my happiness with you, and I’m glad because I did.

Remember those times when we couldn’t stop laughing because of something we did or we talked about? How I wish we’ll continue to be like that in the years to come because I really like seeing you so happy. I love making you smile even if it requires me to do silly things, make fun of myself, anything… anything that will brighten your day. I volunteered to be your own clown even if you’ll surely tease me for that; and you know how much I hate you for teasing me at times. But that won’t make me love you any less. 

And you pay me back by bringing joy in my life. You are always on the go in everything that we do. You’re a YES person! Whenever I asked you to go to that place, to eat at that resto, to do that thing with me you never said NO, unless your schedule won’t allow you to which of course I totally understand. I loved it the most when you thanked me for making you try things which are new to you. Well, that’s no problem dear, like I said I love sharing my happiness with you. We truly are a great team. I don’t need others to see that because I myself feel that and with all these adventures we had, I guess we already proved that to ourselves. We are a team together—You and me. I love you my partner in crime.

S3E10 thoughts

Yes, there were many flaws:
(1) Tom delivering Karakurt in front of the media and none of them bothering to film him.
(2) Cooper being allowed to see Liz.
(3) The Director’s death was way over the top.
(4) Ressler seemingly having the authority to give Cooper his job back.
(5) No questions as to why a framed Liz hung around with Reddington. 

Edit-addition: (6) Liz’s will. Typical maneuver by tptb in keeping that document super secret. And was it smart leaving it with a stranger?


The episode flowed so incredibly smoothly and was full of so many great moments that I can actually suspend reality and let the problematic issues go.

Red’s team was fantastic and worked as we would expect - perfectly. This group of actors is superb and they completely sold being a real team. Aram, this is where you belong, by Red’s side, asking inappropriate personal questions of the Concierge of Crime. Speaking of personal info - therapy with the former wife? True?

Liz being held responsible for killing Connolly. It didn’t make sense to let her return to the FBI. I suppose she’s now working with Red full-time? Let’s hope Red insists she move to a lovely apartment.

Liz’s “thank you” to Red. It’s taken 2 ½ seasons, but a huge thank you to tptb for this monumental moment.

Hitchin is quite the lady and a fine actress.

Red seemingly taking charge of the Cabal. My, you are a master. Again, bravo to tptb, I did not see that coming. Does he need this power to battle the big bad?

The look between Red and Liz and the hug. I’m not sure which I hold more dear as both were magic. And romantic!

Episode grade: A (as I’m suspending the issues for a story that was smooth and made sense).

The promo for S3E11: Makes me wonder if Red isn’t Raymond Reddington. The first time I’ve truly questioned his identity. Straight from Lizzington fan fiction.


Rewatching 1x10 tonight I notice something that escaped me before.

When Athos holds his sword to Milady’s throat, Aramis tells him that he doesn’t have to do it and then Porthos says: “leave this to the proper authorities, Athos.”

So it’s obvious their plan is to have her arrested and trialled for her crimes. Which would inevitably lead to her execution or her rotting in prison forever.

However, Athos has none of that - not only doesn’t he kill her, he also doesn’t arrest her. He simply lets her go. And his friends just go with it, silently agreeing that is is his decision to make as she is his wife. 

I think this moment is very smart - hidden beneath the “I will kill you if I ever see you again thing” is Athos’s decision to set her free in spite of the harm she’s done to everyone, to save her from being condemned to death or prison for her crimes and to give her a chance to start fresh. 

This is actually the best thing he could have done for her in the situation, it wasn’t just him showing mercy this once as he tried to make it look. It was him having her back entirely, helping her out of an impossible situation she put herself in, making it look cold and even cruel, but meaning well.

And it was him saying “I still love you for some damned reason” the best way he could and she heard it. She said it right back with her “no peace for either of us”, before she left. 

And that was exactly why she never left for good - because then and there he gave her a reason not to. Ironically enough by saying he’d kill her if he ever saw her again. 

Canned Lion Hunting is now BANNED in Botswana!

If only I could tell this Lioness as she is looking at her cubs the great news….“Canned Lion Hunting” has now been officially “Banned” in Botswana! After March 15th when the Global March for Lions and we brought this to the worlds attention, Botswana has stepped up and now banned it completely! This is such an incredible win for the conservation efforts of these animals! Now, South Africa is the worst culprit and still allows it and also “Trophy Hunting” which is a hideous crime. Hunting for food is one thing, but to kill a Lion or any of these animals for sport and to display them makes me sick to my stomach. This is a huge step forward. I had to share this victory, for me personally this is such an amazing moment and a positive reinforcement that through social media and awareness we can make changes. Let nature take care of itself, these animals are meant to be free. Amen!

not especially friendly: a vitri fanmix that’s just virus on trip but not literally (except sometimes)

1. the only difference between martyrdom and suicide is press coverage panic! at the disco // 2. zero yeah yeah yeahs // 3. truth or dare marianas trench // 4. animal the cab // 5. it gets better fun. // 6. dirty little secret the all-american rejects // 7. suicide blonde jack’s mannequin // 8. let’s make this moment a crime the format // 9. dull life yeah yeah yeahs // 10. slut like you p!nk // 11. lonely hearts club marina and the diamonds // 12. all to myself marianas trench // 13. overdone ludo // 14. you will. you? will. you? will. bright eyes // 15. all the stars in texas ludo

credit to asatoxkonoe for the transparent virus and trip!!

(companion to this)

For me, the thing that hurts the most about TRF is that John knows Sherlock so well at this point. John knows how to help him through all the press conferences. John knows how to smooth his rougher edges at crime scenes. John knows that he isn’t really the “annoying dick” he so often pretends to be. And even when Sherlock fears that Moriarty is planting doubt in John’s head, John holds fast to his belief in the Sherlock that he knows. But after all that, it’s Sherlock’s own actions that make him doubt. It just takes that one moment in the lab when Sherlock lets John believe he doesn’t care about Mrs. Hudson to make John doubt him, call him a machine though he knows that isn’t true. And it’s that tiny moment of doubt that allows John to be separated from the man he’s been working so hard to protect, that allows Moriarty to rip them apart.

Sherlock worried that Moriarty was trying to get into John’s head, but ultimately it’s Sherlock who does. Even though he sent John away to protect him, in doing so, he is the one who ends up making John doubt him for just one small moment, but it’s a moment that will haunt John for years as he replays this day over and over in his mind wondering how it might have been different if he hadn’t stormed out of the lab, if he hadn’t called Sherlock a machine, if he could have somehow in some way shown Sherlock that he truly knew him, believed in him, always had, always would.

Let’s Talk About Ezekiel Jones

Heads up to US people, the new season doesn’t premiere in the UK till tomorrow, so please no spoilers!!

I’m rewatching the point of salvation and I can’t help but notice that Ezekiel in desperation has three primary speeds:
- Humour: self deprecation, not even taking reality seriously
- Anger
- Sheer gritty bloody mindedness

And you know what? That makes for one hell of a better thief than lighthearted jackass. Because a life of crime is all fun and games till you bump into the legal system that is less likely to give you a witty quip than it is to shove you in a little box and give you a black eye to remember it by.

Ezekiel is sad, hysterical, exasperated, furious. But he doesn’t actually let himself express his own grief for more than a moment - blink and you’ll miss it. He’s loving and kind and grimly determined, but he doesn’t tell the LITs and Eve that he’s mourning.

Or at least, he does, but he does it laughing, briefly, matter of fact. Occasionally, he debriefs them with anger.

And you know what that brings me to? The above screenshot.

What the hell kind of person reads the security manual of every building they enter? Who has no connections to anyone, anyone at all in the world? Who has seen so many people overdose they’re willing to improvise a defibrillator instead of sit back and watch another person die? Who knows what it looks like when someone steps on a taser plate, and why they don’t want to see it again?

Ezekiel is traumatised by the point of salvation - I choose to believe he remembers it, and chose to protect the others by claiming ignorance. (Because gee, doesn’t that sound just like him?)

But he was traumatised, I would hypothesise, by the deaths of friends, loved ones and allies before his helpless gaze long before he got stuck in a video game. And in a world as dangerous as that inhabited by the ‘expendable’ librarians? I doubt he believes for even one second that he’s stopped living in a loop of watching people he allows himself to care for suffer and die.

And I think that he still thinks it’s his responsibility, too.

boy-with-the-black-eyes  asked:

For the ask game... let's go with Toland

  • First impression: The penultimate dark warlock, exiled from the City for some unknown and terrible crime, brought back only because his terrible knowledge of the Darkness had a chance to save the day
  • Impression now: Milo Thatch, but edgy
  • Favorite moment: Honestly, hearing his voice in the game because my first impression of him shattered (ba-dum tss!) so hard it left a lasting impression and it makes me laugh every time I play that level and Ghost plays the snippet from his journal
  • Idea for a story: Mr. Radiant is not bothered in the slightest by freezing cold air and Eris highkey does not approve
  • Unpopular opinion: I… guess that he’s “edgy Milo Thatch” but I honestly don’t know if that’s unpopular?
  • Favorite relationship: w/ Eris
  • Favorite headcanon: That the way he acts around Ir-Yut is the way Arthur acts around Hester Macauley

anonymous asked:

You shouldn't re upload fanart . That's actually illegal because you are stealing art from their respective owners. Please take them down if they are not yours

Actually it’s not because we give credit, usually in links to the actual art. And we don’t repost if it directly states not to. Besides, we’re not the only ones posting fan art. Look around tumblr, there are plenty of fan art blogs, are they stealing too? If that’s the case then why aren’t the artists themselves locked up for stealing their own work. Why doesn’t tumblr just get in trouble for letting such a horrible and gruesome crime happen, OH MY WHAT HAS THE WORLD COME TO!

….Okay sorry, serious moment now. Bottom line: It’s not stealing, nor illegal, to post fan art if a) the artist allows it and b) credit is given, both of which we are sure to make sure of.

As of right now I have zero tolerance for bullshit and that’s what I’m calling. Please at least do your research before you go accusing people of things. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but we’ve had to respond to things like this before and explained, more than once, that we don’t claim any of this.


~Admin VIXX