(Ā archieĀ renauxĀ .Ā cisĀ manĀ .Ā heĀ /Ā himĀ )Ā .Ā Ā āø»Ā Ā zavianĀ blackwood,Ā aĀ Ā twenty-sevenĀ yearĀ old,Ā hasĀ survivedĀ anotherĀ dayĀ inĀ Ā redĀ creekĀ whereĀ theyĀ haveĀ livedĀ forĀ Ā tenĀ years. Ā Ā theĀ loneĀ wolfĀ Ā isĀ knownĀ forĀ beingĀ Ā resilientĀ Ā andĀ Ā guardedĀ andĀ isĀ oftenĀ associatedĀ withĀ Ā aĀ laughterĀ thatĀ doesn'tĀ soundĀ likeĀ yours.Ā aĀ dogĀ withĀ hungryĀ eyesĀ followsĀ youĀ homeĀ āĀ ribsĀ sharp,Ā tailĀ lowāĀ andĀ youĀ feedĀ itĀ anyway.Ā inkĀ stains,Ā bruisedĀ knuckles,Ā andĀ yourĀ father'sĀ bikerĀ jacketĀ hiddenĀ inĀ theĀ back of your closet,Ā hauntedĀ byĀ theĀ road,Ā stillĀ heavierĀ thanĀ youĀ remember.Ā Ā inĀ aĀ smallĀ townĀ whereĀ theyĀ workĀ asĀ aĀ Ā tattooĀ artistĀ atĀ devil'sĀ inkĀ Ā wordĀ travelsĀ fast.Ā itāsĀ hardĀ toĀ keepĀ aĀ secret,Ā andĀ itĀ looksĀ likeĀ Ā theĀ boogeymanĀ knowsĀ thatĀ Ā āāāā ā.Ā
i.ā BASIC INFORMATION.
full name: ā zavian blackwood. ā nickname(s): ā zav, only to those close to him.ā birthdate: ā twenty-seven; 22 april, 1972. ā aries sun, taurus rising and pisces moon.ā gender + pronouns: ā cis man + he/him. ā orientation:ā bisexual.ā place of birth:ā detroit, michigan. ā occupation: tattoo artist at devil's ink.ā education level: high school diploma from red creek high; dropped out of community college.ā traits: self-reliant, impulsive, resilient, guarded, sensitive, proud, stubborn, and cynical. living arrangement: a small house on saber street, a leftover from someone who used to ride with the gravehounds, now rented under the table and shared with a roommate ( wc ). mother:ā ria acharya, current status unknown; once the lead guitarist of an alt-rock band.ā father:ā ray blackwood, former vice president of the gravehounds motorcycle gang ( deceased ).ā guardian:ā dolly keene, owner of dolly's diner.ā pet(s): he's got a kitten named mitra. a little stray he found behind white pine. faceclaim:ā archie renaux.ā tattoos:ā a lean greyhound mid-sprint inked in stark black along his shoulder blade.ā not a club patch, but a tribute. the line work is worn; he'd done it at sixteen, before he was old enough to know better. scars:ā he's got aĀ burnĀ markĀ onĀ hisĀ forearm,Ā theĀ ghostĀ ofĀ aĀ hotĀ exhaustĀ pipeĀ heĀ brushedĀ asĀ aĀ kidĀ tryingĀ toĀ reachĀ forĀ hisĀ fatherāsĀ bike.Ā aĀ cleanĀ sliceĀ throughĀ hisĀ eyebrow,Ā a souvenir fromĀ aĀ teenageĀ fight that left more pride than pain.Ā knifeĀ nicksĀ scatteredĀ alongĀ hisĀ hands,Ā reminders of when he learned to use a bladeĀ tooĀ early.
ii.ā BACKGROUND.
trigger warning: brief mentions of gang violence, gunfire, and death.
love hasĀ alwaysĀ beenĀ aĀ strangeĀ topic.Ā hisĀ parentsĀ wereĀ neverĀ inĀ love.Ā it was aĀ sparkĀ thatĀ burnedĀ tooĀ fast,Ā born in the back of a bar and gone before it ever learned to speak. they were young, wild, alreadyĀ pullingĀ inĀ oppositeĀ directions by the time he was born. hisĀ motherĀ leftĀ beforeĀ zavianĀ couldĀ formĀ aĀ memoryĀ ofĀ herĀ chasingĀ aĀ stageĀ somewhereĀ pastĀ stateĀ lines,Ā aĀ guitarĀ slungĀ overĀ herĀ backĀ andĀ aĀ voiceĀ thatĀ couldĀ fillĀ aĀ roomĀ butĀ neverĀ aĀ home.Ā sheĀ playedĀ diveĀ bars,Ā maybeĀ aĀ collegeĀ radioĀ once,Ā writingĀ songsĀ aboutĀ theĀ kindĀ ofĀ loveĀ sheĀ neverĀ stayedĀ longĀ enoughĀ toĀ feel.Ā sometimesĀ sheĀ called.Ā sometimesĀ sheĀ sentĀ postcardsĀ fromĀ townsĀ heĀ hadĀ toĀ findĀ onĀ aĀ map.Ā mostĀ ofĀ theĀ time,Ā sheĀ forgot.
his father raised him, not because he was built for fatherhood or knew how to be soft, but because the club was the only kind of family he understood. ray blackwood, loudmouthed, leather-backed, always half-drunk on adrenaline and bourbon, was the kind of man who could fill a room just by walking into it. vice president of the gravehounds, a name that carried weight on every bar wall and backroad from ohio to kentucky. he kept a pistol under the seat and a bottle under the sink and swore the road was the only god worth kneeling to.
zavianĀ grewĀ upĀ inĀ thatĀ garage inĀ theĀ rustĀ andĀ oilĀ ofĀ itĀ all,Ā tattooĀ gunsĀ hummingĀ besideĀ theĀ roarĀ ofĀ engines,Ā emptyĀ bottlesĀ rollingĀ acrossĀ theĀ concrete,Ā and menĀ whoĀ sworeĀ likeĀ preachersĀ andĀ laughedĀ withĀ theirĀ fists.Ā theyĀ calledĀ himĀ wolfcubĀ whenĀ heĀ wasĀ little. the kid who ran errands, fetched beers, handed wrenches too heavy for his arms. Ā they letĀ himĀ sitĀ onĀ bikesĀ heĀ couldnātĀ start and taughtĀ himĀ howĀ toĀ holdĀ aĀ bladeĀ beforeĀ theyĀ ever taughtĀ himĀ howĀ toĀ shave. he learned quickly. he was as stubborn as his father but quieter. byĀ twelve,Ā he'dĀ learnedĀ toĀ swingĀ back.Ā byĀ fifteen,Ā theĀ nicknameĀ didnātĀ stickĀ anymore.
ray never talked about love. he talked about loyalty, about keeping your word, about brothers who'd bleed before they broke an oath, about the road owning you if you ever stopped moving. he wasn't gentle, but he was there. he was reliable, and zavian loved him for it, evenĀ ifĀ mostĀ ofĀ thatĀ loveĀ cameĀ tangledĀ withĀ resentment.Ā heĀ didnātĀ sayĀ it,Ā butĀ heĀ triedĀ toĀ earnĀ itĀ āĀ everyĀ bruise,Ā everyĀ longĀ ride,Ā everyĀ timeĀ heĀ pickedĀ himselfĀ upĀ withoutĀ crying. and for a long time, that was enough. until the night it wasn't. itĀ wasĀ anĀ ambushĀ onĀ someĀ nowhereĀ stretchĀ ofĀ roadĀ betweenĀ counties,Ā theĀ kindĀ ofĀ placeĀ theĀ mapĀ forgetsĀ andĀ theĀ lawĀ doesnātĀ botherĀ with.Ā threeĀ rivalĀ bikersĀ cameĀ upĀ fast,Ā noĀ warning,Ā noĀ words,Ā justĀ theĀ crackĀ ofĀ gunfireĀ swallowedĀ byĀ wind.Ā rayĀ blackwoodĀ diedĀ beforeĀ sunrise. the story passed through bars and trucks stops: the vpĀ ofĀ theĀ gravehoundsĀ was takenĀ outĀ clean,Ā with noĀ witnesses andĀ noĀ survivors.Ā theĀ clubĀ buriedĀ himĀ likeĀ aĀ kingĀ āĀ enginesĀ revvingĀ throughĀ theĀ service,Ā bottlesĀ smashedĀ againstĀ theĀ dirt,Ā menĀ swearingĀ revengeĀ theyādĀ neverĀ get.Ā afterĀ that,Ā theĀ gravehoundsĀ rodeĀ quieter,Ā harder. andĀ zavianĀ stoppedĀ ridingĀ atĀ all.Ā heĀ packedĀ whatĀ littleĀ heĀ had:Ā hisĀ father's jacket,Ā aĀ lighter,Ā a handful of sketches, and a Ā nameĀ thatĀ didnātĀ openĀ doorsĀ anymore. zavianĀ leftĀ beforeĀ anyoneĀ couldĀ stopĀ him.Ā theĀ clubĀ wantedĀ himĀ toĀ stay,Ā toĀ ācarryĀ onĀ theĀ blood,āĀ butĀ heādĀ alreadyĀ seenĀ whatĀ thatĀ loyaltyĀ cost. he wasn't looking for revenge; he just wanted distance.
he ended up in red creek, a town he used to pass through on the way to better places, opposite of everything he'd known, but it had a diner that never closed and a woman behind the counter who remembered faces. dolly keene has always been kind to him, even when he was just ray's shadow. the first to call him kid without meaning it like an insult. she slippedĀ himĀ freeĀ pancakesĀ whenĀ rayĀ wasĀ tooĀ hungoverĀ toĀ rememberĀ breakfast. as the mother figure of the town, dolly never asked questions, and took care of the kids who didn't have anywhere else to land. sheĀ fedĀ himĀ whenĀ heĀ couldnātĀ affordĀ it,Ā slippedĀ himĀ cocoaĀ refillsĀ whenĀ theĀ nightsĀ gotĀ tooĀ cold. sheĀ madeĀ sureĀ zavianĀ hadĀ somewhereĀ toĀ goĀ whenĀ theĀ nightsĀ gotĀ tooĀ long.
and zavian, he stayed longer than he meant to. long enough that the gravehounds stopped calling and maybe enough to stop forgetting what happened that night. iii.ā HEADCANONS. 1. ) he still helps out a dolly's. not as often as he used to when he was younger, but enough that it's noticed. after eating he lingers when it's closing time. collects empty mugs, wipes down tables, and takes out the trash with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. 2. ) he has half-finished postcards inside his dresser. they've never been mailed, addressed to cities his mother once mentioned. some start with āhey it's me,ā othersĀ withĀ nothingĀ atĀ all.Ā theĀ wordsĀ trailĀ offĀ halfwayĀ through,Ā likeĀ heĀ ranĀ outĀ ofĀ courageĀ orĀ faith.Ā heĀ keepsĀ themĀ tuckedĀ underĀ oldĀ shirts,Ā asĀ ifĀ oneĀ dayĀ heĀ mightĀ finishĀ aĀ sentenceĀ andĀ finallyĀ sendĀ one. 3. )Ā whatĀ startedĀ asĀ aĀ wayĀ toĀ killĀ timeĀ inĀ highĀ school āmatch-and-stickĀ tattoosĀ tradedĀ forĀ cigarettesĀ orĀ beerĀ money, turnedĀ intoĀ somethingĀ thatĀ stuck.Ā theĀ kidsĀ heĀ inkedĀ didnātĀ careĀ aboutĀ shakyĀ linesĀ orĀ unevenĀ shading,Ā butĀ heĀ did.Ā afterĀ hisĀ fatherĀ died,Ā tattooingĀ becameĀ theĀ onlyĀ thingĀ thatĀ quietedĀ himĀ down. he started sketching more, teaching himself, and by the time he turned twenty, he was doing real work at devil's ink. 4. ) his father's leather jacket hangs untouched in the back of his closet, out of sight but never far enough. heĀ canātĀ throwĀ itĀ out andĀ canātĀ wearĀ itĀ either.Ā everyĀ timeĀ heĀ looksĀ atĀ it,Ā itāsĀ likeĀ beingĀ seventeenĀ again,Ā standingĀ besideĀ aĀ coffin.
