Violence Tw - Blog Posts

DEAR ALL SCAMMERS WHO POSE AS OLD RAGGEDY ASS SUGAR DADDIES GO KILL YOURSELVES I DON'T WANT A FUCKING MESSAGE OR A SINGLE FUCKING COMMENT FROM YOU GO FUCKING KILL YOUR WORTHLESS SELVES I'M A GODDAMN CHILD AND I'M TAKEN. GO FUCKING ROT IN THE JAIL CELL YOU DESERVE TO BE IN

anyways hi guys this DIRECTLY contradicts my fucking banner (positivity? haha not tonight!) but i want to not just crawl out of my skin. i want to rip it off! tear my organs to shreds! i want to KILL someone! i want to MAUL someone! tear someone to shreds! i want to rip my own body apart because the way i experience rage is so unique and i hate it! i hate it so fucking much and nobody UNDERSTANDS me. and nobody cares about me either! and god forbid my friends actually like. idk talk to me unless they need something. at least that's how it feels sometimes. I'M usually the one to reach out. do they hate me? am i too annoying and insane for all of them? probably! because fuck me i guess! might as well kill myself!

i'm not actually a suicide risk btw. this is hypothetical and overreacting.

WOW, oh wow ow wow wow and ouch! This is wonderful,another absolute banger from you! His two contradictory feelings! His fantasy of death and how belos would react, of hurting himself or being killed?! The mix of hate and desperate want for approval?!! God you write such good monologues! W o w. By the conclusion, I can only imagine Amity is in for an absolute shitshow.

Here’s a little oneshot wip(?) for @pincushionx, who inspired me to write a little BPD Hunter character study that takes place during Eclipse Lake

TW: violence, rage, swearing, suicidal ideation, self-harm ideation

There’s no point anymore. Hunter’s done for. This was his chance to prove himself to his uncle, and he blew it.

A wave of despair washes heavy over his body as he falls to his knees. When he doubles over, the dirt is cold under his gloved fingertips, and he can barely breathe over the weight on his shoulders and the sudden, pooling rage in his stomach.

The all-consuming sensations flooding in urge him to scream, fight, and destroy everything in his vicinity just as much as they make him want to throw himself off of a cliff and smack his head against every rock on the way down.

Either reality melts a bit, viscous and toxic, or something’s shifted sideways, pixelated and fuzzy; he’s not sure which, but he does know that he’s filled with the inescapable awareness that everything is wrong. His entire world isn’t right anymore, now that he’s failed, and all he wants is for everything to stop.

He wants this rabid animal under his skin to shred his body to pieces until he’s nothing more than mutilated flesh left behind in the dirt. He wants to make his shameful face so unrecognizable that no one will ever figure out what happened to the boy behind the mask. He wants this world to move on without him, and he wants to pretend he never dared to disgrace it with his presence in the first place.

He wants to die.

He wants to die, die, die.

He pictures himself grabbing his go-to knife in his nightstand and slashing wild gashes into his thighs. He thinks about how good it would feel. How maybe, if he wasn’t such a coward, he could dig deeper and deeper until he’s lightheaded from blood loss. How maybe, if he did a good enough job, he’d bleed out on the floor and never have to face his uncle’s disappointment first-hand. How one minute, he could be there, and the next, he could be gone, leaving behind only a husk for no one but his Uncle to mourn.

The thought of Belos finding him murdered by his own hands sends a bolt of thill through his body. He can't help but fantasize about it. Belos would walk into Hunter’s room, gasp in shock at the state of his poor, beloved nephew, and try to revive him. He would watch in distress as the healers try to revive him, to no avail. When there’d be truly nothing left for Belos to do to fix his mistakes, he would feel so bad about just how much anguish he put his poor guard through. He would look back fondly on all the ways Hunter had helped him over the years and bury his nephew with guilt-ridden tears streaming down his cheeks. He would be so, so sorry, and Hunter could rest in peace knowing that he’d at least be loved unconditionally in death.

Or not.

Hunter lets out an anguished whine as he tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls.

He’s only deluding himself, isn’t he?

When has Belos ever felt bad about anything when it comes to hurting Hunter? When has Belos ever wiped away Hunter’s tears without mocking him, or acknowledged Hunter’s efforts without some kind of ridicule undermining the entire whisp of praise? When has Belos ever said the simple promise of “I love you” without it having to be a reward to chase after?

Hunter understands why Uncle is so harsh. Hunter knows that Belos only wants the best for him. He wants to train Hunter well enough that Hunter will be able to survive in a world without having innate magic. Uncle’s reserving this special position just for Hunter so that the teen won’t grow up without employment. He provides Hunter with the best instructors and the best artificial staff so that Hunter can make up for his deficits. Yet despite the accommodations, Hunter spits in Belos’s face with his failures every single time.

Hunter tries so fucking hard, and for what? Nothing he does ever matters. Hunter always just takes, takes, takes, from Belos, and nothing he brings back from missions is ever enough to buy Belos’s kindness for more than a day. Hunter was born wrong; he knows he needs to earn the right to live, but he wishes it wasn’t so soul-crushing to bear the curse of an unruly body like this.

If Hunter was just good enough effortlessly, Uncle would love him more, but unfortunately, Hunter eventually has to fuck it all up. His heart always has to drop every time his Uncle sighs heavily in his direction.

It’s not fair.

He sounds like a child, he knows, and he hates himself for it, but it’s not fair.

Dirt gathers under his gloves as he scrunches his fingers to curl into fists. A revelation boils under his skin so hot and vapid that it can’t help but change the tide of rage. He grabs a handful of dirt and screams as he pelts it across the empty lake.

He hates his Uncle.

He hates him so much.

How dare the man string Hunter along like this? If he knew that Hunter was such a fuck-up from the start, why did he even give Hunter the time of day? Why did he breathe false hope into Hunter by saying that Hunter could ever truly achieve anything worthwhile?

Surely he had to have known this would happen. Surely he had to have known that Hunter would never be good enough. Hunter should have been killed from the start, and he hates Belos for treating him with the cruel mercy of of an unearned life.

Hunter’s not sure when he’d started sobbing.

He untangles his knees from the dirt and repositions himself to sit on his bottom with his knees pulled to his chest. From this position, he can wrap his arms around his legs and scratch his forearms as hard as he possibly can.

The sting of pain isn’t enough. He wants to flay the meat of his arms open and cause as much damage as possible. Sadly, gouging welts into ins skin with his hands isn’t as productive. There’s no way he can cut anywhere near as deep without a knife.

He looks around through blurry tears and comes to a decision. He’s already here. The Blight girl should be arriving anytime soon. If he’s lucky, she’ll be kind enough to kill him. That would be much easier than dragging himself back to the castle to do the job himself. He’s quite tired from this whole pointless endeavor, anyway. It would be good for her, too—she seems to hate his guts.

He loves a fair trade.

With a cautious serenity lifting the haze of negativity ever so slightly, he unclenches his fists and puts his hands to work, just like his Uncle likes.

It wouldn’t be fair to make the Blight girl dig his grave, too.

I would pay A LOT of money to see that. Get fucked Ben Sharpie🫧

Hayao Miyazaki transformed into a human-sized AOT Titan and fought Ben Shapiro to the death.

what will azazel do… if they're being threatened?

Bringing his right hand up to pinch his nose, Azazel squeezed his eyes shut, hearing the threat, especially from someone who looked like they belonged in an amusement park entertaining children. For a split moment, an intrusive thought invaded his mind amongst the irritation that was consuming him. He imagined just pulling his gun on the other and firing point-blank into their head, especially given the idea that they thought he could be threatened. He'd been running with the Vitelli gang long enough now that he had heard plenty of threats, most of which did next to, if not a single thing for him. It was not that he was not scared, of course. It was simply who the threat was by, and most people he knew were not all that threatening to him. Once the invasive thought had left him, he put on a smile, offering brightness to mask how brutal he could be if any threat to him became real.

Azazel laughed, hollow, “Well, why don't we cut the chit-chat, and you get to doing that? Hm? Until then, I think there's still a place for you at the kids' table. Kay?” Turning away, he rolled his eyes and walked away, as if tempting them still to do what they threatened, instead of just being words that did nothing for him. He had a lot more things to worry about these days, than some petulant child trying to mouth off to him when one broad backhand and a few loose or knocked out teeth could send them scattering away to go whimper and whine in a corner, then cry 'wolf' because their mouth was writing checks it couldn't cash. Azazel couldn't care one bit about little dogs when there were plenty of bigger, more feral dogs to focus his efforts on. Those were less likely to talk a big game and act on their greater desires. Azazel knows to strike the shepherd, not the sheep. So he tries to lay his plans on those who act, rather than those who talk, when it is the advantage to do so.

It was getting to be a lot, especially with what transpired from the events concerning the Drive-In. With his boss's brother dying, things were, in his mind, progressing very quickly along the designated path. He had to get away from it for a bit, acting normal. Old habits seemed to die hard, as he went about doing this. Slipping easily into the act, as if he were pretending to be someone else, his entire life. Perhaps, he was.

Stopping by the café on his route to excuse himself from whatever was going on concerning the most recent death of a member. The fact that it wasn't just any member, either, was a significant concern. Azazel stood to one side, waiting for his order to be fulfilled, scanning over the rest of the room in the time he had to his thoughts.

The quiet of the café, barely full of anyone at this hour, thankfully. He spotted one that stuck out to him, jotting away in their journal. Turning his head away, he smiled as his drink was finally delivered, “Thank you-” He whispered appreciatively, then glanced back toward the male. A split second or so later, as the other spoke up, he tutted, “Now tell me what I'm thinking.” Azazel replied, taking another drink from his cup. He seemingly carelessly moved closer to the other, studying the male. Not sure why he was even interested at all. Perhaps boredom, honestly, anything to distract himself from one of the other two things currently consuming his life at the moment. “Don't worry, though, I'm not interested in you. Go back to your writing-” He turned away and walked to the other side of the café, still in eyesight of the other.

Sitting near a window, he turned to look out of it as he quietly enjoyed his drink for the time being, slouching and bending over the table from the waist, he rested his head in his free hand, looking quite content and at peace at that moment. Though in reality, his mind was anything but at peace.

@boneyardstarters ; open starter ! date: april 29th location: a quaint café somewhere in vegas

fun fact: your bones always ached the day after a mission. or maybe that was just him. there was always that dull, insistent throb that hummed beneath the skin, nested deep in marrow, as if his skeleton remembered what he didn’t want to; as though his body knew it had never been built to carry this kind of weight. a slight, slender frame that spoke of cathedral halls, faded sonnets, and tragic french novellas; better suited to waste away in verse, not weave paths of blood with someone else’s heartbeat in his hands. and yet. the others moved like soldiers, all muscle and momentum — he was the scalpel in a drawer full of sledgehammers. precise. quiet ( unless he had fully gone off the deep end, which, thankfully, hadn’t happened in a bit ). lethal. easy to underestimate once, never twice — if you didn’t mind losing your throat, that was. still, it left him tired, though he was tired at the best of times. he sat alone in the booth the lémieuxs had always claimed — back when legacy was louder than loss. the cracked leather beneath him remembered better days. so did he. it had seen him at his worst. held him when nothing else did, and continued to do so. it was, in every way, a refuge. the kind of place that knew better than to ask questions. his usual arrived without him asking. refills appeared as if by instinct. they knew his order even when he couldn’t remember it himself. a journal lay open before him, its spine worn and pages crowded with black ink, as the same coffee went cold in front of him — same cup, same bitterness. his elbows rested on the wood, spine curled forward, a soft crescent over the table, dark curls falling over his face like shadows. unbothered, untouched, unseen … except, not really. he let the silence stretch, and then, without lifting his head or giving the pen pause, he finally spoke, “i can feel you staring, you know.”

Grumbling under his breath, he made his way toward the snack bar, finding all this nonsense at the drive-in to be ruining the evening. Maybe. He was still debating it. At least, it was, more or less, keeping him awake. But what was going down was more like an alarm clock going off on your day off from work, and it just would not stop. Perhaps he was thinking a little too much about it, now that he was starting to dip in wellness once more.

A slight layer of sweat had formed on his skin as he made his way as casually as he could muster, his eyes locked on the space in front of him. Even as the exhaustion caused his head to spin briefly for a couple of seconds here and there. It would pass, however, as it had been doing since his return. It always did. Napping helped. However, it did not entirely pass, as he came up to a scene that stuck out peculiarly to him. Quirking an eyebrow at what he was seeing, Azazel didn't need to lip-read just looking at Kael was good enough.

Exhausted brown eyes glanced toward the two standing around Kael's routes of escape, front or back, a sly smirk formed over his lips. Staring then toward Kael, catching the others' gaze toward him in a brief moment, he takes a step back, ducking out of sight behind a structure for cover. Moving to quietly remove his backpack, he dug through it, retrieving the knife he kept in there, figuring it would be easier than the gun he was carrying with him, since they were still surrounded by people. He tucked the knife up his shirt sleeve and then moved to bring his backpack back onto his shoulders.

Walking back out into view, he kept his attention not entirely on the scene, but on the one that had his back toward him. Quickly walking up behind that one he flicked out the arm concealing the blade, now that he was close enough to keep from others seeing him with it and doing anything to warn anyone he was close. Before bringing it to the neck of the masked person by pressing up close to them, he narrowed his eyes from behind them onto their partner, his other hand gripping at the back of the one he was holding the knife against the throat of, jerking it forcefully back to expose their throat more. Cold brown eyes remained on their partner as he pressed the blade against skin, enough to draw blood, “How about you kids go play somewhere else, hm?” He pressed the blade harder into flesh.

Turning his head a little, he whispered into the first masked person's ear, “I'm going to stick this blade deep into your brain, if I can find it- since it's peanut-sized and everything- then, once it's all blended up in there, I'm going to make your friend here watch as it spills out of your nose.” Still staring at the second masked person, “Just so they know what I'm going to do to them,- if you two don't get the fuck out of my sight by the time I count to ten-one…two…-three…” Now all he had to do was hope that Kael got a clue on what he should do next.

weekend of horrors, drive-in, after 8pm / @boneyardstarters

There was a part of him that knew, realistically, he should be a little panicked by this. Stressed out, maybe. Perhaps even a little afraid. But, somehow, the most prominent emotions shooting through his mind were embarrassment and exasperation. A series of mishaps and poorly executed attempts to scramble to gain an upper hand had gotten him into this exact situation but, really, none of it would have happened if the Big Guy back there could have just minded his own fucking business. Perhaps, having only just returned to consciousness, he was too out of it to really accept the weight of the situation. That, and he was in too much pain to think straight. There was little doubt his wrist was broken and it only took the briefest running of his tongue over his teeth to confirm that, no, he hadn't dreamt up that he'd lost one in that fight. (Calling it a fight might have been something of a stretch, given how poorly it had gone.) His mouth still tasted distinctly of iron.

Where did that leave him now? Sat at the drive-in theatre, between two of these big bodyguard-looking guys with no obvious means of escape. To put it simply, he was fucked. Perhaps he might have tried to make a break for it himself but there was little chance of him not getting caught in the best circumstances, never mind right now. It's clumsy, maybe even hopeless, but his only bet now was to try and catch the eye of a passer-by. There were enough people around, after all.

Oi. Look over here, he mouthed, trying to keep his posture stiff enough that the two people he was sat between did not catch on. Now, knowing his luck, the chances of him catching the eye of someone could lipread were fairly low but perhaps the desperate look on his face would speak for itself. You wanna help a guy out? I'm a little stuck.

Azazel Hawthorn

HEY, i think i just saw AZAZEL HAWTHORN walking down the strip. stop by to catch up and you’ll learn the THIRTY-ONE YEAR OLD is working as a BIOTECHNOLOGIST and lives in STARGAZER VILLAS. given they are ECCENTRIC but BRUTAL, it’s likely that they ARE NOT a vampire. on the flipside, rumor has it that THEY HAVE BEEN MISSING FOR A WHILE AND CAME BACK CHANGED, TO WHISPERS OF WHAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED IN THEY’RE LONG ABSENCE, ONE SUCH RUMOR GUARDED ABOVE ALL OTHER, AN ILLNESS THEY KEEP TO THEMSELF. and it keeps them looking over their shoulder. i bet you can find them tearing up the dance floor to SURVIVOR by 2WEI and you’ll know why they’re called THE TORMENTED SOUL.  ☾ .⭒˚ avan jogia. non-binary + he/they. bisexual + scorpio.

General Information

Full name: Azazel Vayu Hawthorn Reason or meaning of name: Azazel-Scapegoat Vayu-Air Hawthorn- Thorn Bush Nickname: Zaz/Zel/Hawthorn/(Insert none name-related nicknames here) Reason for nicknames: His names. Age: 31 How old does he/she appear: 25 Nationality: American. Religion: None. Place of birth: Jarbidge, Nevada The current living place: Las Vegas, Nevada Job title: Biotechnologist. Employing company: Income: That's no one's business but his. Socioeconomic status: That's no one's business but his. Is he or she married? No. Pets: Desert Lynx Cat (Caracal) -Female- Name: Moonshine, Permit: Acquired. Russian Tortoise -Male- Name: Jellybean. Green Iguana -Male- Name: Crackers. Irish wolfhound -Female- Name: Shadow. Mother tongue: American English. Birthday: November 22. Does he or she own a home? Yes. Clubs/Memberships: Math Club, Band (Thunderstorm Dreams: Back-Up Vocals/other), Robotics Club, History Club, Dance Club, Theater Club, Book Club, Chemistry Club, Occult Club, Dungeons and Dragons Club. Public perception of them: Introverted but welcome before his disappearance, unsettling and confused after he comes back. Plays a musical instrument?: Yes, his voice and oboe are on a near professional level. But practices in other instruments, with varying ability, mostly at the average skill. Plays a sport?: Yes, Golf/Tennis/Volleyball/Baseball/Skateboarding/Mixed Martial Arts/Soccer/Gymnastics. How he/she would spend a rainy day: Inside doing inside hobbies. Smokes: Yes. Drinks: Yes. Other drugs: Yes, which is a very recent development for him. What does the character like?

Museums Pop music Worms Parks Lakes Color: white Rock Cryptozoology Sheep Fantasy novels Singing Graphic novels Stamps Choreography Clay Photography Caves Monster movies Snakes Baths Insects Alcohol

What does the character dislike?

Mimes Open windows Baking Epic music Throwing knives Going outside Color: olive Planes Pool Clowns Poetry Statues Minimalism Listening to people talk

Background

Trigger Warnings For: Drug use, Fire, Alcoholism, Pregnancy, Death, Mental Illness, Violence, Serious Injury.

Like most stories begin, Azazel's started with his parents meeting. Sharada was visiting the States, all the way from India, when she met D'Arcy. It was one of the last stops on her journey through America, to hit spots in Nevada, noted for their 'beauty', one may say. As she had a hobby in photography, she had heard at one point of Jarbidge being one such sight of beauty. A few days into visiting the area, she met her future husband, and of course, they hit it off. They would start to date, with much difficulty, given her not being a Native to America. But, decided to marry, and soon Sharada had been living in Jarbidge with her new husband. Over time, having four children, and a fifth on the way in the years that followed. Life with her beloved husband was a simple one, but a cherished one for the couple. Who focused on their children and raised them partially in an off-grid lifestyle. Sharada would take on the task of homeschooling her children. while D'Arcy had focused on his job that often took him away from home for long periods of time.

For a little extra cash for the family, Sharada would work part-time as a photographer, and in doing so, their children rarely wanted for anything. They grew up living among nature and relying on themselves to find entertainment. But they were not raised entirely outside of society either. They often played outside with other children who lived in the county. When he could, D'Arcy would get time off to take his wife and children on trips to several places within the country and outside of it. Sharada would take these opportunities to make the trips not only fun, with her husband, but to also use many of them to teach her children. However, with their fifth child coming, these outside activities became less and less for Sharada as she prepared for her newest baby. It was nearing the last few months now before the newest addition to the family would be disrupting her sleep, and she couldn't be more excited.

While on a shopping trip near Las Vegas to get a few more odds and ends, her husband was working later that day and not being able to grab them on his commute back home, she put her four older children into her station wagon and off the family went. After picking up the odds and ends she needed, she noticed she had nearly run out of gas and made a small stop in the city at a gas station. On her way to the door, a younger man came bolting out of the gas station, hissing a 'watch it, lady' or some other such thing as he slammed the door into Sharada, sending her harshly to the ground. One of her children shouted after the man about him being rude, which he either didn't hear or ignored, as Sharada winced in sudden pain. The store clerk came running out, screaming at the man about having called the cops before noticing Sharada and asking if she was okay, before they both noticed her water had broken. Shocked, as she didn't think she had been hurt that badly, Sharada asked the man to call for an ambulance, frightened, of course. Then, as she waited for that, she called one of her husband's relatives to come get the children then her husband, informing him what had happened, and what was happening.

Within the next hours, things grew to be extremely traumatic for the family as their youngest would be born not breathing, and it took a concerning amount of time for the staff to get their baby to breathe. Sharada verbalizing this as she watched her baby be worked on only feet away. Before finally hearing Azazel cry, it was weak, but it was there, and it eased some of the stress. D'Arcy grabbed Sharada's hand, assuring her their child was going to be okay. She wasn't even allowed to hold him as he was rushed away to an incubator. She could see he was so much smaller than his older siblings, and that made her worry more. When she was finally able to see him, even rushing it. But agonized over the fact that she had to see him this way. Holding Azazel for the first time in her arms, however, made whatever anger and pain from how he came to be here disappear. But a pit had formed thinking that the circumstances of her youngest's birth were an omen of a future of bad luck, and suddenly she realized she was crying at the idea of it. Her tears dropping onto Azazel, she stared, hoping that this was just her mind overreacting.

After some time being monitored Azazel was finally allowed to come home, things were good from that point on. For a while. Azazel's first year after that had no issues. But about that time, while his mother was looking away and dealing with something for one of his older siblings, another of his siblings, younger than the other, placed marbles onto the tray of Azazel's high chair, resulting in his consuming some and choking on one. Sharada managed to pull the marble out, but he had to get the others he swallowed out, through other methods. The sibling who did this had all marbles banned from the house till they could be used properly as punishment, along with other discipline. Life returned to normal again. Azazel had been about four or five, just starting to form a very distinct personality for trouble. Whether by his own action or just circumstances and bad luck. He had a lot of accidents, trips, falls, scuffed knees, and small animal attacks from getting too close to the wild ones. But nothing serious until one day, climbing a tall tree with one of his older siblings. He wanted to prove he was the better climber. Only to, about 20 feet off the ground, have one of his feet slip off the side of a branch, sending him straight to the ground, hitting it hard enough to knock him unconscious and crack his skull open.

Every couple of years, something like that seemed to be happening to the youngest Hawthorn. Sharada noticed changes each one had done to her son, and felt useless watching, feeling as if there were something more at play. But again, she was overthinking things. As she had given up her religion and chose to live comfortably with her husband, both deciding to live without it, and let their children decide if they wanted to become religious on their own. But, still, old habits did die hard for her. She remembered tales, of Djinn, of other such spirits. Often she wondered if this bad luck Azazel had seemed to have around him was her fault, for rejecting her religion. Perhaps it was the same for husband, the spirits were conspiring to punish them, and they were targeting her child. The idea seemed too silly to her until one day. While driving home with a now seven-year-old Azazel, who had been sporting a broken arm after taking a harsh hit while playing a soccer game. Yet Azazel had just told her of it, 'I'm okay.' When he noticed her worried look at him. He was always okay. But she caught him, sometimes, not always. When he was not trying to brave the pain. Why, she could not help, such a sweet, strong child, would be cursed by any 'angry spirits' was beyond her. Again, it was silly, and she had to stop thinking it was anything to do with 'spirits' or the like.

Azazel was chatting up his parents on this car ride home from his latest check-up on his broken arm. He had been yapping about monsters and musing about drawing one of his own. Or, well, painting. He enjoyed that much more than drawing. Though he was not good at it yet, he wasn't too bad. Azazel paused long enough to ask his dad, as he usually did, about his indigenous ancestry, specifically asking about monsters. His father, who was only half-blood and partially Germanic, commented that the last time he told him stories of such things, Azazel was scared for a week, thinking one was in his closet. Which Azazel giggled, commenting back that he wasn't afraid anymore! But before the conversation could carry on, his father noticed a truck driver driving strangely behind them. Azazel looked through his window to see what was going on, only to see the truck suddenly turned into the back of their car, sending it sliding to one side before it caught, and flipped onto its side. Sliding across the road, metal scraping against asphalt was the last thing Azazel heard before everything went dark.

Though he was awake, he could only guess that it was a few minutes later, his mother holding him as she was running. Staring back at his father, his vision blurred for a moment before looking over toward the truck, now on its side, and the smell of some kind of gas filled the air. Then he heard several booms, and fire started exploding, like a chain reaction, suddenly surrounding them. As things got hot and too bright, Azazel closed his eyes, feeling something hit his mother before they were both tumbling into grass, and rolling down a bit down a small slope. Though she was a bit burnt by the fire, she was more concerned with Azazel. Who had taken some burns on his arms, legs, and face. She was repeatedly asking to tell him where it hurt, otherwise, he ignored her. Because he was honestly too shocked by the situation to respond. Mostly because he didn't see his father. When Sharada noticed this too, she stood and screamed out her husband's name. Azazel was able to breathe when D'Arcy emerged from the smoke just a few feet away. Finally, he snapped back from his episode. Standing up and running to the other, shouting at his mother so she would see him, too.

After a bit of a stint in the hospital to make sure his wounds weren't more serious, Azazel, his mother, and father returned home and resumed life. Azazel wore the new wounds proudly. Showing them off to his siblings for the most part, not wanting to focus on anything else, as he didn't want to think about it. One of his oldest siblings commented that 'burn scars' would be cool. Then commented that Azazel's didn't look like they would be noticeable. Before the two got in a playfight over it in a childish little argument. Which, as soon as Sharada had noticed this, shut it down, not wanting to have Azazel's injuries get worse. One of his siblings commented that Azazel was a walking bad luck totem, jokingly at this before running off to find something they could all do that wouldn't irritate Azazel's wounds. Pulling out a board game. The family spent some hours playing before going to bed. Once again, life returned to normal for the family.

After that, things were normal for a long time. The 'bad luck' seemed to have worn out, much to Sharada's delight. Perhaps she was just worrying too much, and overthinking it, she decided. As Azazel and his siblings grew up, he still got into little accidents, but nothing too life-threatening, thankfully. He seemed to settle more into who he would soon to be as an adult, she came to realize. As well, he showed to be quite intelligent, earning some amount of attention due to her persistence. As he seemed to show a budding interest in the sciences, she pushed him in that direction, letting him experiment and grow in that field as much as she possibly could.

In school, Azazel was often viewed as 'odd' for his quirky personality. But capitalized on many of the more 'jocky' and 'popular' types, offering to get them passing grades for some extra cash, so he didn't have to spend his time working some crummy part-time job through school, like his older siblings did. Entirely so he could focus on his own pursuits. It was during these teenage years that he honed his advisory skills. Especially when he was in line to take up an important role in a local gang he had gotten in with in these early years of his life, because of his skills, and rather than being an adversary, he made a better asset. Not only did he want his classmates to just use his answers, he wanted them to learn, and he wanted them to love learning. Or, well, he hoped they would do the work on their own, and still pay him for it. But whatever got him money, he wasn't too upset with what the outcome would usually be. But eventually he skipped a couple of grades, and within a few years, was attending university, one of the best in the country. Earning a doctorate and falling in love.

Eventually the two were made aware she was pregnant with their child. They both were excited over the idea of having a child. Azazel, who had been heavy into drinking and staying out late at night, do to unresolved trauma he was keeping to himself, told himself at this time that he was going to have to cut back on these habits. He even considered leaving the gang, but quickly dismissed this notion, finding it too valuable and enjoyable to leave. But he still found that starting a family would be in conflict with the dangers of being in a gang. Especially when he was in such an important position. However, he decided to not think about it, as it was distressing. Then kept putting it off, over and over again. Till it was time for the baby to be born. Just on time, his girlfriend woke him early one morning to tell him it was time and he grabbed her bag she had pre-prepared, helping her to the car. Driving her to the hospital. Everything looked to be going well. Azazel was with her when she brought their son into the world. But all too quickly, things went sour. While holding their son, he had seen how happy she was, before suddenly the color was leaving her face. The baby was taken away. He was healthy. But then, everything started to get hectic after that. He was rushed out of the room without saying much, except that his girlfriend was bleeding out.

Hours passed, his family was with him, his father or mother asking on his behalf what was happening during these times, when he didn't. It was during the night, when he was told that his girlfriend had died from blood loss. Angry, Azazel lashed out, demanding to know what could have happened. Only to be told 'It just happened' and 'We did everything we could'. His mother came to hold him, to stop him from getting more upset, and potentially hurting someone, which wasn't even on his mind at the moment. Despite his anger, he knew he had plenty of other things to take care of than spend any effort going to prison, for whatever he could have done, that night. Not an hour later, he was told he could visit his son. He wasted no time in doing so. Entering the room, he saw the baby, squirming a bit in his blanket he was wrapped in. Hesitating, he made his way over and reached over, cooing down at his son before gently brushing a finger along his red-stained face. It was just them, and it hurt so much to think of it like that. Just the two of them, now. Suddenly he remembered the conversation he and his girlfriend had on what to name the baby.

"What about Mapplethorpe?" "What? That names going to get him bullied. We can't name our baby Mapplethorpe." "Oh come on, AZ-a-zell, Mapplethorpe is totally a cute name!" "No! I'd rather name him James. At least it's boring."

He realized that he could hear her voice still, now. But soon enough, he wouldn't even remember it. Taking a seat next to the baby, he sighed, resigning to name their son Mapplethorpe, for her. Already regretting it, but knew he had to. At least his middle name would be James, he decided.

After being allowed to come home, Azazel brought Mapplethorpe home to Stargazer Villa, and the two spent the following six years without any major incident. A few pets and what felt like a lifetime later, Mapplethorpe and Azazel had carved quite a life for themselves. Azazel never left the gang, under his watchful eye when the two did come into contact. As things started to get more serious, Azazel would leave Mapplethorpe with his siblings, explaining he had to do stuff for his day job as a biotechnologist, and he figured the other would have been better off enjoying the company of his cousins. Though he had no clue how dangerous things had truly gotten till it was literally right on top of him. A day after dropping his son off on one such visit to one of his siblings, his memories just stop, and start not making much sense.

Then, suddenly, he is waking up. The dark star filled sky over him, the moon seeming fuller and bigger than it usually did on this day. Or maybe it was just in his head, honestly. He was lying somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. He felt numb at first, as if his brain wasn't readily acknowledging…whatever happened. Taking in a deep breath, though, something snapped. Something inside of him was broken, or wrong, or- well, he couldn't really explain it, himself. But before he could stop himself, he was screaming like a banshee out there in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. Thrashing against the ground, tears building in his eyes, before spilling out. Twisting his body, arching his back, he screamed before grabbing his head as all these emotions had suddenly crushed down on him. He swore he could hear barking, howling in the area around him. Wolves, or coyotes, maybe. He didn't have the brainpower to decide which one was more concerning at that moment. As this compulsion washed over him. Then suddenly, after some minutes, it stopped. He was numb again, curled up into a ball, his arms wrapped around his head. Now shaved down to a buzzcut. He had to think, he had to control himself. He told himself. Though the lack of memories, yet all these devastating emotions that washed over him, made doing so hard for him.

He felt extremely weak, especially after that uncharacteristic fit he just had. He didn't really register them as his, as he could not remember in that moment, just why he was feeling them. Pushing himself up took several tries. He felt just too weak at first. When he would get up just enough, he would collapse again, needing to rest for a few minutes. It was cold out here, but that was the last thing he was worried about. But what wasn't he worried about at the moment? He felt confused and lost about a lot of things. A million questions flooded his mind. But he couldn't even begin to answer them in this place, this nowhere he woke up in. He had to get home. He made that his first goal. Attempting to stand again, he managed to do it this time, though it took a few steps, holding a hand to his gut, before stumbling and falling to his knees. Catching himself with his free hand, he prevented himself from collapsing to the ground entirely. Something was very wrong, that was the issue, and he didn't know if he could get over it, and survive out here. Lifting his head, he looked around, at first only seeing absolute darkness aside from the little light the moon and stars in the clear sky provided him. It was no use in the desert brush that surrounded him.

But he continued to try, regardless of his weakened state. Even when he started to feel downright sick and ready to give up, he persisted, making his way to the lights in the distance. That he knew was one indicator of humanity. All he needed to do was get there. Though in the hours it took to get himself there, he stumbled, crawled, and dragged himself there. He recognized he hadn't even been far from home. Slouching against a building, he assessed, exhausted, his situation. Maybe, he told himself, if he just slept, everything would be better after that. Azazel pushed himself forward, trying to remember the way home from where he was. His clothes were in tatters, and filthy. Which seemed to bring him some attention, well, the way he looked, period, seemed to garner some attention from people leaving businesses that were still open at this hour, like bars. Azazel hadn't even registered these people, just focusing on keeping himself upright. Eventually, as the sun was looking as if it might rise soon, he came onto his street. Walking up to his house, he saw some yellow tape. Reaching out, he angrily ripped it off his door and tossed it out behind him, it getting caught in the wind. Then it got caught on a corner. Reaching into his pocket he hoped to find his key, only to find nothing. Great. Reaching up, he toyed with a part of the house that soon came loose, a key dropping out onto the stoop. With agonizing difficulty, Azazel knelt down to grab the key and stuck it in the door

Once inside, he realized why tape was on the door, seeing a significant amount of blood, he guessed that people thought he was dead or something, with how much blood stains still dotted the house. But he didn't have time to think about that. He was just set on sleeping. Not even thinking how things remained as they were, nothing was out of place, the blood didn't reach passed the entrance. Though as he moved to climb into his bed, he noticed how everything seemed to have some layer of dust on it. He told himself, once he had a decent night's sleep, he could figure out everything else that was going on. His mind just needed to rest before it could connect all the indefinite pieces that kept popping up in his head, sparking more bursts of overwhelming emotions. Unfortunately, days later, no amount of sleep resolved much, if any of it. But what did come to mind, he knew he had to keep to himself, along with the strange illness that he came home with, an absolute secret, even though it exacerbated his mental health along with it. He had to get used to when he needed to make his exits in efforts to keep his secrets. Once he had a few days to himself to get used to this new state of life, he revealed himself to well, not be dead, and back from wherever it is he even went.

With the questions from several directions mostly being about where he was, what happened, and the like, he refused to answer them. Quickly making exits wherever possible to go do something else of seeming importance. When it came to Mapplethorpe, he told the sibling primarily taking care of him at the moment to keep his son for the time being. Not sure it was safe, and still not sure if he was dangerous, with his sudden state of mind, and the illness making it worse, it seems he thought it would be better. Though he did let his sibling visit him with his son occasionally since coming back. What bothers him most, however, since coming back was his welcome back to regular mafia activity, putting on a strong front, he laughed off questions about where he was, what he had been doing all that time, and all of that. Not really ever giving a definitive answer, but played off his absence well enough. Or at least he hoped, but the whispers, the rumors buzzing from the housekeeping at the head of the family's home really would become a problem, one he had to make sure didn't get too out of control, one way or another. Even if it meant spilling blood on the carpet.

Self-Para's

Notable events/milestones: TBD. Accomplishments: TBD. Memories: TBD. Criminal record: Failure to appear/loitering. Affiliations: Mafia, Consigliere of the VITELLI FAMILY. Skeletons in the closet: TBD.

Relationships

Grandparents: Unknown Parents: Sharada Hawthorn (Chaudhari)(Mother)(Alive), D'Arcy Hawthorn (Father)(Alive). Sisters or brothers: 4 Older siblings. Wife or husband: None Children: A son. Currently living with one of Azazel's siblings since he's been missing. Other important persons: The devil may care(X)/The close encounter(RIKA HOSHINO)/The cracked jewel (X)/The malingering sloth (KINERET VITELLI)/The bad omen (SALEM JUNG)/The tiger shark (X) Partner(s)/Significant other(s): Daniel Spanou, Jazmín Ostrowski, Robertina Felipe , Zdislava Gómez, Hèctor Franklin, Gray Szabolcsi, Atousa Schultheiss, Vladimira Karimi, Renza Paulsen, Ambrose Grabowska, The tiger shark (X). Lover(s): Viliam Sheenan, Petro Sugita, Tancrède Temitope, Jacinth Shiraishi, Flavius Vaughan, Rehema Ölvirsson, Zaki Jahodová. Parents/Guardians: Best friends: Víkingr Gill, Adélard Kurz, Azra Krastiņa, Varuna Caivano. Friends: Kelley Calabrese, Gláucio Pál, Ismaël Abdullah, Adewale Abeln, Lina Pain, Conn Abdullayeva, Yaara Quirk, Simon Kovac, Jamshed Urano, Isapo-Muxika Sheedy, Guwisti Dalton, Inga Lukáč, Manius Kocsis, Andre Šarić, Zoe Yonker, Édouard Tsvetanov, Anah Giménez, Fernão Pugliese, Beata Warren, Dálach Linden, Dipaka Van Houten, Helmut Abdullayev, Raju Banerjee, Oghenero Zheng, Zoriana Mac Ruaidhrí, Maja Jacobse. Rivals: Marusya Babić, Hilding Ionescu, Oona Alvey, Zedong Oberst, Sébastienne Sydykova, Lorena Mlynáriková, Vancho Suess, Lisha Rutgers. Enemies: Helvius Davis, Tomiko Gold, Johannes Mägi, Younes O'Connor, Röstäm Klementová, Katrina Jiang. Colleagues: Mentors/Teachers: Raül Musil, Tam Cummings, Lamech Reece, Bodil Mulligan, Dalibor Westbrook, Nadir Antall, Miriana Roman, Erik Watts, Ferdi Andrysiak, Selig Shaughnessy. Idols/Role models: Socrates, Cesare Beccaria, Plato, Lao Tzu, Hypatia, Jacques Derrida, Jacques Lacan, Voltaire, Max Scheler, John Stuart Mill, Babe Ruth, Denzel Washington, Neil Armstrong, Carl Sagan, Chris Rock, Theodore Roosevelt, Abraham Lincoln, Nostradamus, Angelina Jolie, Noah (Ark), Ernest Hemingway, Michael Jordan, Robin Williams, Pablo Picasso, Charles Darwin, Robert Downey Jr, Galileo Galilei, Albert Einstein, Aristotle, Amelia Earhart, Alexander the Great, Harry Houdini, Bruce Lee, C. S. Lewis, Nikola Tesla, Leonardo da Vinci, Unatural things: TBD.

Physical Characteristics

Addictions: Alcohol Bad Habits:

Seems to "zone out" when music is playing Taps fingers on surfaces Biting fingernails Overthinking Popping/snapping bubble gum in public Pacing Maintains intense eye contact Shows up unannounced

Color of Eyes: Deep Dark Brown. The color of Hair: Dark Brown. Type of hair: When not tamed with product or such, his hair can be curly. 3b type. It's pretty thick and usually appears styled/gelled/other, Or soft when left in a cleaned natural state. Hairstyle: Used to have hair long, very long, almost has never had his hair cut his entire life. Will fight tooth and nail if someone tries. More because he doesn't like to be touched, and such. So his hair has just grown to be incredibly long, and with that, he spends a lot of time working on keeping it out of his way, and the way of others. Examples. Upon his return from his assumed death, it is cut much shorter, initially a buzzcut when he came back, now a little longer. The color of Skin: Cold Golden Brown. That's now a lot paler. Fashion style: Prefers wearing elegant clothing, practical clothing, and respectable clothing. All with cool colors, winter colors, or light colors. Often wearing hats, scarves, gloves, belts, and some jewelry. Favorite outfits: Here. Accessories: A book, A pocket watch, A whistle, A bookmark, a Bottle of pills, a Chain, A Fork, A Harmonica, Pistol, A bottle of glue, an Umbrella, Silencer, a Skateboard, a Kitchen knife, Handheld game systems, a Laptop, Journal, all in his backpack interchangeably. Cleanliness/Grooming: He is often good at keeping up his hygienic habits but can be messy. Posture/Gait: Takes a knee when he kneels, Sleeps/rests in the fetal position, When he crouches he squats fully, Stands with arms akimbo, that is with hands on hips, elbows pointing outward. Coordination (or lack thereof): Most of the time he has excellent coordination. But not all of the time. Does the character drink regularly? Yes. Does the character have any disabilities/conditions? Yes

Asthma [mild persistent] ADHD [impulsive/hyperactive type] Sleepwalking Undiagnosed illness Paranoia Generally Low Tolerance for everything Dissociative Amnesia CPTSD Misophonia Anemia Narcolepsy

Does the character smoke? Yes. Good Habits:

Can literally fall asleep anywhere Strong convictions Thrives in hot weather, hates cold weather Prone to singing, whistling, or humming quietly Brutally honest in most conversations Likes to file their fingernails to sharp points because it makes them feel more dangerous Fantastic chef, but hates to cook Wears long sleeves with thumb holes to cover the lower part of the palm Loves to walk in the rain Restless/constantly needing to move/fidget [Dispersing energy]

Height: 5'10” Weight: 137 Body type: Lean/Toned. Fitness level: Intermediate Tattoos: Has five tattoos. Scars/Birthmarks: Has eight scars. Has eighteen birthmarks that look more like freckles, dotted across his body. Hobbies:

Woodworking Metalworking Learning Crafting Gardening/other Coloring Astronomy Antiquing Mathematics Experimenting Parkour Chess Painting Playing board/tabletop games

Is he/she wearing glasses? No. Is the character healthy or does he have any diseases? No. What’s the style of the character? (modern, outmoded): Practical and elegant.

Mental Characteristics

Education: Attended University. IQ: 180. Skills/talents: Hiding, Palm objects, Giving advice, Nature lore, Climbing, Personal productivity. Fears: Abandonment/Loss of identity. Optimist or pessimist?: Pessimist. Daredevil or cautious?: A bit of both, given a situation, more so a daredevil, however. Logical or emotional?: Logical. Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat?: Probably a disordered, yet methodical and clean mess. Prefers working or relaxing?: Relaxing. Confident or unsure of himself/herself?: Confident. Animal lover?: Yes. Self-perception: That he is an omen of bad luck or something like that.. Assumed external perception: Winning. Self-Confidence: Strong. Rational Or Emotional: Rational. Personality traits: Eccentric/Brutal/Ambitious/Dependable/Principled/Deceitful/Impersonal/Complex/Secretive/Charming/Tense/Compassionate/Precise/Well-read/Chummy/Honorable/Distractable/Surprising/Casual/Steely/Crafty/Aloof Personality type: INTJ. Enneagram: 8w7. Character archetype: Ruler. Zodiac: Scorpio. Moral Alignment: True Neutral most of the time, but will to jump alignments from Good to evil, given what the situations call for. Temperament: Phlegmatic. Animal Types: Owl Aura: Honeysuckle Chakra: Third Eye (Imbalanced) Hogwarts House: Ravenclaw. Patronus: Great Grey Owl, Bat or Buzzard. Ilvermorny House: Horned Serpent. Introvert/Extrovert: Introvert. Holland Code: ICA: Investigative, Conventional, Artistic. Morals/Virtues: Chastity, Patience. Sins/Vices: Sloth, Gluttony. Dark Triad: Machiavellian-ism. Elemental: Fire (Electricity) or Air. Avatar Element: Earth. Divergent: Erudite. Loves: Clutter, Horror movies, Trips, Toys, Running, Animals, Puzzles, Spicy food, Art, Fall, Organizing, Blue, Rugby, Meditation. Angered by/Pet peeves: Humming, Over apologizing, Telemarketers, Line cutters. Obsessed with: Zoomania, Methomania, Ergasiomania, Klopemania, Technomania, Bibliomania, Infomania. More Secrets: Makes up stories since he thinks he's boring. Shot someone. Regrets: His seemingly stubborn and odd behavior made other children avoid him when he was growing up. Feeling like he's missing out. Unknowingly helped a friend do something that hurt other people, finding out afterward. Not accepting being friends with someone who would have had a better impact on his life as he grew up. Wrote a best-selling novel, that was stolen and put under another person's name. Not liking some foods. One of his musician friends invited him to join their band, but he left the opportunity because of a trivial matter he had with himself. Preferred communication methods: Listening and visual communication. Style and pacing of speech: Casual style, pace is normal, understandable when not excited. He pauses a little more than regularly to think. Pitch: His pitch can be low-mid to mid-high. Laughter: Pigeon laughter. Smile: Warm smile. Use of gestures: Nodding, Shaka sign, Manipulator gestures, and Iconic gestures. Facial expressions: Ecstatic, Pitying, Impassive, Stolid, Sanguine, Vacant, Scornful, Glancing, Straight-faced, Chagrined, Cheeky, Hopeless, Bleak, Blinking, Wry, Wary, Bilious, Somber, Tight, Glaring, Darkly. Verbal expressions: Bloviation, Mutterings, Utterances, Whispering, Talking through.

Emotional Characteristics

How does the character cope with fury and rage? Probably go and work on one of his interests. Or he may just argue/fight the person who put him in this state of mind. … with unhappiness? Certainly, go away to focus on a project/interest till he feels better. … with rivalry? Ignore them. Or Antagonize them. … with new situations? They are fine. … with trouble? Handle it. What’s his or her meaning of life? Hasn't decided yet. What makes this character happy? Be able to do his hobbies or invest in his interests. Is the character often biased? Here and there. Probably. Depends on that topic. Does the character prefer to give or to take? He leans more toward giving. But he's not ashamed of just taking, either. Character Questions

Here

Sammy is almost always the first to throw the punch. It’s a fight or flight instilled in him - gifted even, by his father. And when his anxiety levels are already high, so are the rest of his emotions. He’s barely slept, bags under his eyes from a four-day stand-off with his dad, so when a couple of older men that used to tease him in school make a snide comment about his mother, he’s the first to throw the punch. Every ounce of frustration that has built up goes straight to his fists as he swings, ‘‘ Fuckin’ say it again ! ’’ He’s spitting like some feral animal, barely registering the hands that grab him from behind and pull him away ‘‘ No - let me fuckin’ at ‘em, I can take them. ’’ the heel of his hands press into his eyes as he tries to bring himself back down. ‘‘ they’re always fuckin’ pickin’ at me, that group of fucking pratts are. They called the fuckin’ cops on my brother last week as well ! ’’

I DREW SCOTT WITH A METAL PIPE AND HE IS ABOUT TO BEAT KYLE!!!!

Content Warning: Graphic Violence

Content Warning: Hate Symbols

Content Warning: Abuse/Violence Themes

Content Warning: Dark Themes, Sensitive Topics

Content Warning: Mentions of Nazism/Swastikas

This is a fictional AU with sensitive themes. It includes dark humor, violence, and references to historical events. Please proceed with caution if you’re sensitive to these topics.

Scott is a Nazi in my SIAN(Scott is a Nazi) au because Cartman is a jew so he beats up Kyle with his gang and he carves two swastikas to Kyle's body

You better not have skipped over reading a single name on that list

Never thought that BabyNames.com would make me cry like this.

Say their names!