#had the bastard on the mind😭💜 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunb1eeder · 4 months ago

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GOD 🙏🧎🏼 I 😀 FUCKING 🖕 HATE 😡 OLAF THE SNOWMAN ☃ SO FUCKING 👌👉 MUCH 😩😂🙀 HOLY 🙏 SHIT. 💩 HOLY 🙏 SHIT, 💩 EVERY 💯 FRAME 🖼 HE'S 💁‍♂️ IN, 🕺 EVERY 😔 SCENE, 🎬 EVERY 👏 GIF, EVERY 💯 JPEG, HE'S 🚹 GOT 🉐 THIS PAINFULLY 😭😂 VACANT, STUPID 💩 AS SHIT, 😡 FUCKASS LOOK 👀 ON 🚟 HIS �� STUPID 🚫 LUMPY FACE. 🐷 ABSOLUTELY 💯🙅 NO ✨ PART 💔 OF HIS 💦 UGLY 🤮 AS SIN 👿 PIECE 🍗 OF SHIT 💖🥄 CHARACTER DESIGN 🖌️ IS ENDEARING. HIS 🚹 STUPID 🚶‍♀️🚶😤 FUCKING 💪🏻 LEGS? 🏊🕺 WHO 🔭❓ THE HELL 🔙🔙 MAKES 🖕😏 A SNOWMAN ☃ WITH LEGS. 🍗🤗 HIS 🐍 DUMB 🤡 FLAILY FUCKING 😡 TWIG ARMS? 🤳 HIS 💦 SHITTY, LUMPY BASTARD HEAD? 💆💆 THE THREE 3️⃣ THOUSAND PERCENT 🤯 UNNECESSARY DUMBASS 😒 SHITASS FUCKING 👿🎮 SNOW 🏔 BUCK TOOTH THAT 👆 NO 🙈 SNOWMAN ☃ HAS 🚪👏🚪 EVER 😠 FUCKING 💦 HAD 😗 IN 👏🐕 THE HISTORY 😡‼️ OF GOD'S 😇👆 GREEN 🥗 FUCKING 👿🎮 EARTH? 🌏 GOD, 🧚‍♀️✨ I 👈 HATE 😜 HIM. 👴 I 😬 HATE 😡😟 HIM 📞😤 SO MUCH. 🔥 SO FUCKING 👌🍑 MUCH. 🔥 EVERY 👏 TIME 😂 I 😤 SEE 🙈 A STUFFED 💨💨👉👌 TOY OLAF OR AN OLAF GIF OR A SHITTY GODDAMN 🥾 COMMERCIAL, IT IGNITES MY ⭐🔋 PRIMAL RAGE 😡 RESPONSE AND I'M 📢 OVERCOME BY 4️⃣ THE NEED 😩 TO PUNT THIS SHITTY LITTLE 🐩👧 HOMUNCULUS INTO 🚟👏 THE FUCKING 😂 SUN. 🌅 "BHURR BLUR, I'M 💯🦆 OLAF THE FUCKSHIT SNOW 🛷 FUCKER, 🍆 I 💪 LIKE 😍💋 WARM 🙀💦😍 HUGS". FUCK 🖕 YOU. 💗 FUCK 🍑💦 YOU 😤😤 FUCK 😚😚😙😎😎😍 YOU 👉 FUCK 💦🍆🤨 YOU 😕👉 FUCK 💦 YOU 😂👉 FUCK 😂 YOU. 👈 YOU 💑 LOOK 👀 LIKE 💌🤔 TOW MATER SUMMONED A PATRONUS. YOUR 👆 DUMB 🤡 FUCKING 👏 TWIG HAIR 🙆 MAKES 🤔 YOUR 👌 WHOLE 👩 SHITTY HEAD 🗣 LOOK 💋 LIKE 💜 A HAIRY 💇💙✊ SKIN 💯🤙🏻🙏🏻 TAG. I 😊 HATE 😡 YOUR 👩 DUMB 🤤 FUCKING 😡 LUMPY CARROT 🥕🇵🇰 NOSE 💰 AND YOUR 😏 STUPID, 💩 EMPTY GOOGLY EYES 👀 AND YOUR ⏳👎 OVER-THE-TOP GOOFY ASS 🍑🍑💥💥 UPBEAT ASSHOLE 👌🍑 PERSONALITY. ANY 🤣 SCENE 🤝🌅 HE'S 👦 SAD 🙁 IT INVOKES ALL 🤩 THE WRATH AND FURY 👽 OF A SPOILED CHILD 🚸 HAVING 👉👉 A MELTDOWN OVER 🔁 A CHOCOLATE 🍫 BAR 🍸 IN 🚪 A W*LMART CHECKOUT 😛 LINE. ➖ AND I 🙍‍♀️ KNOW 😭💭 ITS IRRATIONAL. THAT'S 👏 THE WORST 👎 PART. 🍆 I 👈 KNOW 😍 HE'S 😗🅰️ JUST 🎤 A SHITTY FUCKING 😈 SIDE 👈 CHARACTER IN 👉 A STUPID 🤡 FUCKING 🍆 CHILDREN'S MOVIE, 🎥 I 😻 KNOW 🤔 IT DOESN'T 😚 MATTER, 🙆‍♂️ I 🤬 KNOW 😭 I 💀 SHOULDN'T 😨 CARE. 🫂 BUT 🔫 THAT'S 🦎 PART 🍆 OF THE PROBLEM. 🏻 THE PART 👏😤 WHERE 🌄🌄 NO 🤦❌ MATTER 🙅 THE MIGHT 📷 AND FURY 👽 OF MY 🏿😤 HATRED, THE LOCUS OF MY 😘 HOMICIDAL INTENT IS ALLTOGETHER INCONSEQUENTIAL. I 😇 FIND 👀 MYSELF 😉 LAYING AWAKE 💪 IN 🍑💦 THE DARK 🌌 IN 🔥 THE EARLY 🕐 HOURS ⏱️ OF THE MORNING 🌅 CONSUMED BY 👻 THE SPIRIT 👻 OF WRATH ITSELF, 👈 ALL 🙎🏿 THE FORCE ✊ AND MIGHT 🧐🤔 OF A FLAMING HURRICANE DIRECTED 🎬 AT A BOTTLE 🍶 OF PISS 😠💢 IN 📥 A DITCH BY ⏩ THE HIGHWAY. 🛣 THE ABSURDITY OF IT ALL 💯 BURNS 🔥 ME 👨‍🦼 TO MY 😲 CORE. 🥑 WHAT 😦 BETTER 🎰 THINGS 📴 COULD 🤷 THIS ENERGY 🤸‍♀️ BE 🐝 DIRECTED 🎬 TOWARDS? ⛪ AND YET 👇👀 MY 😫 DISDAIN FOR 👏 THIS STUPID, 📖🚫 USELESS, 🚫 INSUBSTANTIAL FAILURE 😔 OF ENDEARING CHARACTER DESIGN 🖌️ UTTERLY ECLIPSES THE INTRIGUE OF ALL 💯 OTHER 👪 PURSUITS. I 🐑 HATE 😡🐓 HIM. ✅ I 💁🏿 HATE 😭 HIM 🔥🔥 ON 🔛 A LEVEL 🎚 OF MY 😎 MIND 🤔 RESERVED 🈯 FOR 💼 THE WORST 👎 OF THE WORLD'S 🌍🌐🌎🌍🌐🌎🌍🌐🌎 ARRAY OF SINNERS, AND I 😊😊😀😀😊😀 CAN'T 💔 EVEN 🌃 BEGIN 🔘 TO JUSTIFY IT. SHITSTICK THE SNOW ❄ DICK 🍆 IS, FOR 👌 ALL 💯 INTENTS AND PURPOSES, THE ANIMATED CORPSE 💀 OF ALL 💂 OF HUMANITY'S SACCHARINE PRETENSES- EVERY 🍆 CONDESCENDING, PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE STATEMENT OF MEANINGLESS 🤮 UPPER 🦅 MIDDLE 🖕🖕🖕🌚😃🕒🖕 CLASS 👩 SUBURBAN 🏡 DRAMA DISTILLED INTO 👉✅ A SINGLE, 🖤💔 HATEABLE FORM. 🧐😤 THE FUCKING. 🐹 FUCK. 🖕👉 I 😀 HAVE 🙋 NO 😳 WORDS. 📓 THERE 😌 IS NO 🤦❌ CUSS OR EPITHET IN 😻📥 ANY 📨 LANGUAGE 🤠 THAT 🔍 CAN 💦🔫 ENCAPSULATE THE HEIGHT OF THE EMOTIONS 😍 I 👥❌ AM 🏃🏻💨 EXPERIENCING. 😯 GOD, 🧔🏾 I 😓 HATE 😜 HIM 👴 SO MUCH. 🔥 I 👀 HATE 😡 HIM 👴 SO, SO FUCKING 👌👉 MUCH. 🔳 I 🍊🙆🏼‍♂️ WANT 🤲 TO LIGHT 💡 HIS 💦 UGLY 🥴😆 LITTLE 🧚🏻‍♂️ DUMPSTER BODY 🧍 ON ☹️ FIRE. 🔥 I 💰👀 WANT 😭🙏 TO GRAPHICALLY BEAT 👊 HIM 👌 TO DEATH 🦴 WITH HIS 💦 OWN 💁 STUPI

God I fucking hate Olaf the snowman so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every frame he's in, every scene, every gif, every jpeg, he's got this painfully vacant, stupid as shit, fuckass look on his stupid lumpy face. Absolutely no part of his ugly as sin piece of shit character design is endearing. His stupid fucking legs? Who the hell makes a snowman with legs. His dumb flaily fucking twig arms? His shitty, lumpy bastard head? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking SNOW BUCK TOOTH that no snowman has EVER FUCKING HAD IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate him. I hate him so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a stuffed toy Olaf or an Olaf gif or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little homunculus into the fucking sun. "Bhurr blur, I'm Olaf the fuckshit snow fucker, I like warm hugs". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like Tow Mater summoned a patronus. Your dumb fucking twig hair makes your whole shitty head look like a hairy skin tag. I hate your dumb fucking lumpy carrot nose and your stupid, empty googly eyes and your over-the-top goofy ass upbeat asshole personality. Any scene he's sad it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know he's just a shitty fucking side character in a stupid fucking children's movie, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether inconsequential. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing character design utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate him. I hate him on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Shitstick the snow dick is, for all intents and purposes, the animated corpse of all of humanity's saccharine pretenses- every condescending, passive-aggressive statement of meaningless upper middle class suburban drama distilled into a single, hateable form. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate him so much. I hate him so, so fucking much. I want to light his ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat him to death with his own stupid fucking nose. I want to punch him to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that his existence as a fictional work is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this fictional snowman

#ran out of characters :(

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perlen-gold · 2 years ago

Note

For the WIP game: Varric ... (I'm bracing myself for feels) 😭

Man 🌹 @kourvo after the last snippet, you're one brave lion! 🦁

(I shared a snippet of this recently for WIP Wednesday XD but this time I’m sharing the whole chapter as it’s one of the short ones! Once again, it’s an excerpt from my longfic Ablaze)

💗💛💜 Thank you so much again for asking about all these WIPs! 💗💛💜

I certainly didn't expect it!

Varric shoves, not hard, but hard enough for Hawke to feel his back collide with the battlements.

“What the blight was all the about, Hawke?” Varric half-grunts, half-yells, his voice rasping in his throat.

Hawke’s dirt-streaked hand misses his eyes, rubs against his face and beard instead.

“’Go, I will cover you? Corypheus is my responsibility?’ Andraste’s bloody tits, seriously, Hawke?”

Varric is heaving hard, huge intakes of breath.

“You would have died, you stupid bastard!” Drained, Varric slouches against the rampart of Adamant fortress, sliding down until he comes to sit on the ground, hunched over his chest. “What about Kirkwall? What about the rest of us? What about Fenris, for Maker’s sake?”

He does not look at Varric.

“Under pressure, I start swearing and write stories and you are sarcastic to the point of ridiculousness and bust some asses! That is how we cope, Hawke, and dying in the fucking Fade is not one of our mechanisms!” Then Varric voiced what Hawke was thinking. ��Are you mental, Hawke?”

Hawke passes a trembling hand over his eyes, the other still grinding his bearded cheek, frantically, his mouth, chin, neck. His moving eyes dart around, unfocused.

In his chest, his breath tears around. It comes in long, hard, heaving draws.

“I cannot …,” Hawke breathes, half of his face hidden in one hand . “I cannot … –“ He stops speaking when the voice flees his throat, leaving it all raw and hurting.

Slowly, Varric watches him crumple, too, collapse, slumped to the ground, his bent back supported by the fortress’ jetstone walls. They do not look at each other, not speak, simply sit there, stooped, the tips of their grime-stained boots essentially touching. Their gaze falls to the ground, hijacked there, drawn into themselves.

For a while there is naught but silence, broken solely by their heavy breathing.

“Makes our first trip into the fade look like a holiday, huh?” Varric mumbles at length. “I still vote against taking a room there.”

“Yes. Too much vermin.” The weight of Hawke’s forehead presses upon his bruised knuckles.

“I should have come sooner,” he then says, calmly.

Varric wretches his gaze from the ground. “I told you not to, remember?”

“You should not have been alone in this, Varric.”

“Maker’s breath, I was begging you to stay away,” Varric mutters, his hands all over his pale, face, “and I am glad I did. I even wrestled Cassandra for your honor.”

A remote smile tugged at Hawke’s lips. His forehead came away from his arms to rest his head against the dark, battle-stained walls.

“Would have loved watching that. And place bets.”

“On the lying dwarf or the crazed sword-lady?”

“Not saying.”

Varric’s mouth twitches but he looks away.

“That clearly says ‘the most handsome dwarf in Skyhold’.”

“You are forgetting I fancy people with tall swords.”

A small, short-breathed laughter, cleft and cupped, escapes Varric’s throat. Hawke grunts then, hoarse. “You should not have been alone in this, Varric.”

Absent-minded, Varric motions nervelessly, a tiny shaking of his head, eyes focusing on no exact point somewhere to Hawke’s left in the fuliginous night.

“Thanks. But this is no story for heroes.” An inenarrable emotion passes over his face, quick and aching. “Did you really see spiders in there?” he almost whispers.

Varric looks at his hands in his lap. “If Bartrand and I had not found it … if we had never set out for the blighted Deep Roads … if we had not been so greedy … if we had never found the idol –“

“I went to the Deep Roads as well, remember?” Hawke interjected in a sharp voice, “There was no way we could have foreseen this. No,” wearily Hawke rubs is face again, sensing dirt, blood and sweat under the pads of his trembling fingers, “if anything, Corypheus is my fault. I swear, I thought we had killed him, I really did. If my father – “

“Don’t you start on this again,” Varric snapped angrily with an irked lift of his head, “I was there as well, remember? He sure looked as dead as you can possibly be!”

Fraught with exhaustion, breathing hard and shallow, the two of them laid back their heads, their gazes losing focus once more.

“All spiders?” asks Varric, after some time, softly.

A spasm, like the sudden rupture of a very tightened string, scuds across Hawke’s features. Eventually, he nods, throat too tight to speak. “And … them.”

They stare into the smoky, bluish-gray night sky.

“I have never seen you fight with someone before.” Varric’s mouth twisted, an edge of caution smoothing out his voice. “Well, severe a few limbs here and there and pierce a few egos, but never actually argue. You are no quarreler, Hawke. Maker knows, I have rarely witnessed you become angry ever before. “

After these words they look at each other, memories kindled like fire-lit projectiles illuminating the battle-worn night. Hawke wipes at his face again while his other hand travels to his chest, rubbing it as over smooth stone, as if trying to ease a pain within his ravaging breath inside his chest.

“Strout … was a good man.” Hawke’s words come slow, cautious, placed like dulled tiles on crumbling earth. Varric looks up to see a grimace sunder Hawke’s gray, pinched features as a discordant tune. Threaded with self-disgust. And something almost like shame. “I should not have talked to him the way I did. He deserved better. My manners never exceed in the presence of good men.” Hawke adds, a cracked smile passing between Varric and him like a secret gift, a twinkling in their eyes, before it passes away.

Hawke rubs his beard and face again, massaging his jaw with a slow-moving vigorousness bordering on real pain. Then, he laboriously climbs to his feet.

“I told the Inquisitor I would go to Weisshaupt. Someone must warn the other Wardens,” he says contemplatively, almost unattentive, absent-minded. A fast shrewdness passes over Varric’s face while he fixes his gaze at him as Hawke speaks.

The air presses its cold smoke-mouths against their faces. Hawke’s gaze lingers on Varric like moon-lit clouds on a dark pool , long and intense. “Come with me, Varric.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Varric mumbles, suddenly almost inaudibly, his slow glimpse falling upon his hands still resting in his lap, with defiant defeat. “But I am in this. Something tells me I need to stay where I am. At least for the time being. Someone must write down all this shit, I guess. Maybe I will compose an ode or something.”

Reaching out, Hawke simply nods and without further ado his slightly calloused, smoke-streaked hand, willfully steady now, comes to rest in front of Varric. “The weirdest shit I have ever seen.”

Varric lets out his breath as if had been holding it within his sunken chest. Then, an inconspicuous smile darting over his canny eyes, he seizes Hawke’s proffered hand and Varric too rises to his feet. “All of it.”

“Answer this one question, Hawke,” he continues, their hands still clasped around each other, firmly so, “Cross my heart! How in the blight did you coax Fenris into staying behind? Cut the petty excuses, we both know he would rather have killed himself than remaining behind wherever you go, Hawke, let alone let you walk into peril on your own – and we also both know that he is the single most obstinate elf in the world which is saying something. Mind you, I am glad he was not with us in there. Maker knows, our angsty elf does not need to be hunted by more demons.”

Momentarily, Varric halts there as he notices something else streak across Hawke’s face, the skin beneath his beard whitening, blanching, paling. Hawke could feel Varric’s grip unobtrusively tighten, a seriousness shining forth in his mahogany eyes. “Also, you look heartsick to the bone. Tell me. How did you do it?”

Hawke’s gaze flees to wander over the rampages and battlements, unhearing of the voices in the night, the shouts of those who fought, the cries of the wounded, the jubilation of survivors.

Finally, he bends one knee to kneel down.

Thus they embrace, on the half-shattered parapet of iron-black Adamant fortress. In a swirl of desertic coldness, shrouded and obscured in battle-spiraled fumes midst a barren, hissing wasteland, verging on a harsh-steep cliff just above the gaping chasm in perpetual danger of falling. Varric accepting his silence and thereby reaching beyond it. Varric’s fingers clawing into the fabric on Hawke’s shoulders and Hawke tightening his arms, his hold around Varric.

“Sorry … about before …,” Varric mutters all but inaudibly.

“I felt a little breeze stirring up there. Was that you?” Hawke ponders, a smile in his words, Varric's snort in its wake.

“Take care, my friend,” murmurs Hawke softly and he can feel Varric’s mouth stretch into something he cannot see. “You too, Hawke.”

When he somewhat loosens his hold, Hawke grips Varric’s shoulder. “Do write to Fenris for me, will you?” he asks hoarsely, his mouth almost too dry to speak. “He … he should be back in Kirkwall by now.”

“And once again a smart dwarf rescues another human’s sorry bottom,” Varric gives a deliberate sigh as he hastily wipes his sleeve across his eyes, “Ah, but you know I cannot refuse you anything. You do look lovelorn, you realize, Hawke? It is pitiful.”

Hawke forces a low chuckle. “Another human who would be lost without his dwarf.”

“We are helpers.”

Varric’s grip clenches once more around his cloak before he taps Hawke’s shoulder with the rim of his fist. “Don’t die, Hawke.” Then, taking a deep breath, “This really is no story for heroes.”

“It is good we are no heroes, then,” retorts Hawke, a hint of the old mischief twinkling in his eyes and Varric lets out a short, breathless laughter as they break apart.

“See you in Kirkwall, Hawke.”

And Hawke, standing upright, holds his gaze, teeth clenched, the corners of his mouth twisted into a crooked though genuine smile. “See you in Kirkwall, Varric.”

On the very first step of the spiraling staircase leading down into the battered watchtower Hawke passes a mirror, cracked, partially burst, half a spider’s web. Beneath the layer of blood-soot, iron-strained, the features of the man he catches sight of remain hidden. Smudged as a line of ink slipped, scratched wildly across the parchment.

It is the face of a man who looks as though he does not know where he is.

Or what to do.

Or whom he is looking at.

(Excerpt from 'Ablaze')

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