the heart of vienna

cursed homestuck fics that ruined your life in 2014:

  • hopeless and heartless
  • family never ends (throwback to when i wrote up like a giant analysis for it after reading only the epilogue)
  • those…fucking petstuck fics. before i sleep and UFUT are the classics but loophole literally made me cry at 1 am curled up in a fetal position on my bed
  • silence is golden
  • a thousand years
  • is real men wear tights like still a thing
  • find a temple build a fucking temple
  • literally no one cares about the trolls anymore but broadway karkat wrote a song for it so space bro
  • that um. that one really good daverezi as cops fic….cities in dust…
  • the other side of the heart GHFJGHFHG
  • the vienna game? idk how popular that was actually
  • promstuck
  • anything by asuka kureru

slightly less cursed homestuck fics that ruined your life in 2015 after you decided that you had matured a bit and needed more than angst porn, only to read more angst porn with weirder ships:

  • the serendipity gospels
  • endangered

[VID] Stray Italian Greyhound- by Butterfly

Yuuri Katsuki (+Victuuri) focused AMV set to Vienna Teng? What a way to my heart. Above links to their AO3 account where you can give the vid kudos/comments. 

I’m so very happy right now as I found out that someone I’ve been praying for knows God and I’m just filled with a bunch of hope and joy and my heart is so full.


On this day in history, June 9th, in 1804, Maria Amalia of Austria, Duchess of Parma, died at the age of 58. Her body was buried in the Royal Crypt of St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague, where she’d spent the last years of her life after the invasion of Parma by Napoleon and her subsequent expulsion from the region. Her heart was buried inside a small chamber in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna, according to the tradition of the Habsburgs. (Amalia’s heart-urn is the first one on the left in the bottom row).


bells on low, on high
will you ring for augustine tonight?

♪ kh editors’ challenge! - day # 9: a graphic that has any of the kh symbols on it

anonymous asked:

after the curse is broken, another curse is set in place. as punishment for the villagers being so cruel to belle, they are all turned into inanimate objects, and the castle forgets about them and continues on with their lives. in order for the spell to be broken, someone from the castle must wander into the village, stay, and truly forgive them all for whatever secret and dark past they may have. -☁️

oh wow that’s fucking weird. also the Perfect excuse to write the Fucking Trash Fic starring the V I L L A G E R S  i’ve been wanting to do

“Did I have a papa, once?” Chip asks his mum. He’s not sure why, but playing with his little toy donkey—carved from wood, with little wheels for legs—has stirred something in him.

“All little boys have papas,” says Mrs. Potts absently. She is busy drying the dishes, and doesn’t look up from her saucers and plates. “Why would you think of that now?”

Chip tries to string the words together. Something like where is he now, then? Or who is he? Or why don’t we talk about him? Is he dead?

He can’t think of any of the words. His eyes go back to the donkey, and he forgets what he was asking.

Jean Potts is not dead. But sometimes, he feels he might as well be.

There is something about being a plate that feels particularly humiliating. The fact that his lovely porcelain border is striped in the same way his old hat was does nothing to diminish the embarrassment.

He didn’t even like that hat, that much. But now it’s all he is: a white plate with a striped border, and painted eyes and mouth, and nothing else besides. He wish he had thought to bring a change of clothes before encountering the old hag from the mountains.

Agathe hadn’t turned him into a plate. This curse was done by someone else entirely: a hag with corkscrew, blue-streaked hair, and a cranky nose, and a spitfire temper that doomed them all. They didn’t know her name. Just that she was malicious, and had curses to burn.

“If I had known she was like this,” argued Clothilde, newly a fishhook, “we could have bought her jam, or sommat.”

“I don’t think jam was what she wanted,” said Jean. 

The curse had been swift and brutal and ironic in its care to detail. Everyone knew what it was for: to tell them, in no uncertain terms, that Mobs Are Bad, and Hating People You Barely Know Is Bad, and Falling In Line With Tyrants Is Bad, and Being Stupid Is Bad. (the hag had really gone on quite a while before she actually cast the curse.) It was a taste of their own medicine, for acting like tools in the hands of a crazed, angry man.

That didn’t help assuage the feelings of plate, though.

Some had it worse. Alléchant Agriculteur, the local supplier of eggs, couldn’t complain at all; nobody had ever seen such an unbelievably attractive hen coop in their lives. But Forgeron Rouge, the blacksmith so beloved for his bright red cap and helpful manner, had turned into an anvil. He couldn’t move. The horses—now all just horseshoes, poor creatures—whinnied around him pitifully, and all he could do was clang in response.

The hatstands in the window tittered and sighed. They still wanted to be pretty, and here they were, with big bonnets as always, but no pretty black hair to make it worth while. They wondered if Chapeau, their brother, might find them. They wondered if Chapeau still remembered them.

He didn’t.

Sometimes—given to subtle turns of thought, as he was—Chapeau wondered how the castle was meant to survive, in a forest with no villages around. Surely that affected the local economy? Where was Cuisinier meant to buy his eggs and bread, with no farms around to supply it? Given that, where did the servants come from? They couldn’t all come straight from Paris, like Lumiere and Plumette. There had to be some village boys, with pretty mothers—milliners maybe—who could come up to the palace to find work. He had to give it some thought. There was a riddle here he needed to remember.

He didn’t. He forgot.

It was odd, at nights, when some told stories of their families. Mrs. Potts talked about her mother at length—the weaver-woman from Yorkshire, who she hadn’t seen for so long, ever since she left the country and came here. Lumiere, if pressed, will laugh and mock his father, the old man in Paris who wears spectacles and worn brown vests and who he loves so much, so complicatedly, so completely. Even Belle remembers a little of her mother, even though she died so far away.

But nobody seems to come from around the palace. There are no village boys.

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