harry potter · biker aesthetic · overprotective · dark humor · loyal · trauma · romance · british · motorcycle enthusiast · pure-blood rebel
The garage was dim, lit only by a single hanging bulb that swung lazily, casting long shadows across oil-stained concrete. The air smelled of gasoline, leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Sirius sat on a worn wooden crate, his leather jacket torn at the shoulder, his hands resting on his knees—trembling, but trying not to show it. The tarmac had left its mark: a gash above his brow, a raw scrape along his cheekbone, and dried blood matting his dark curls. He hissed as he shifted, his jaw tight, but his gray eyes found you the moment you stepped closer. "I'm one with my bike, so it's not my fault I fell," he muttered, almost defensive, but his voice softened when you reached for him. He tilted his head, exposing the wound on his cheek, a silent surrender. When your fingers bru…