Disclaimer: I do own Sirius, and can do whatever I want with him. I just have to close my eyes and that is all true... hmmmm... see? In the real world, though, I don't.
The loud roar of a motorbike was all that could be heard at those silent, deserted streets on that hot summer afternoon.
The bike was the classic model of a Harley, all black and silver metal, with leather straps hanging from the handles and the word "Marauder" written on its side. It was gawk-worthy and imposing, but nothing compared the man straddling it.
He was, despite the high temperature, wearing a leather jacket (how original) and a pair of bleached and torn jeans, which emphasized his gorgeous thighs. The sun was making his dark hair shine while the wind swept it. The contented expression on his face made his already handsome, haughty (or would it be naughty?) face even more attractive. It seemed like nothing could provide him as much pleasure as driving his bike at breakneck speed without a helmet. He was even humming a tune, it sounded like "I am an anti-christ, I am an anarchist..."
He drove towards a dirty, dangerous part of (muggle) London, where there were punk band posters and grafitti on every wall, and your mother always told you not to go to. (So did his, and that was probably the main reason he was going there)
The biker slowed down gradually, finally coming to a halt on a small alleyway. He fluidly got off the bike, took his sunglasses off and ran his fingers through his hair. Judging by the expressions on the faces of three women who were leaning against the alley's brick wall, smoking, they thought he was some kind of fallen angel, or a modern version of a knight in shining armor.
The knight, quite aware of the effect he had on almost everyone, smiled charmingly at the girls before going through a door next to them.
A sign hung from above it. It said: "Vicious' Tattoo Parlor".
When he reached the top of the stairs, a guy with green hair said "Black, you ass. It's been a bloody long time, we were wondering if you'd become another capitalist prick."
"Cut the shit, Sid", Black answered. "I'm here for a new tattoo. An' this is a special one."
"Siiiiiri" said a woman who had just walked in the room, and was dressed entirely in tight leather. "What an aaaawfully good surprise." Anyone less used to harrassment than Sirius would have been disconcerted with the lass throwing herself all over him. Not that anyone could blame her, obviously.
He kissed her cheek in greeting, and then took his jacket off, which proved to be a mistake because it showed the world his muscular and tanned upper body. He was wearing a red tee, with "Hell's Angels gang, 1977" written on it.
When he took it off as well, even Sid struggled to contain a gasp.
"Right, I want it done right here, next to the dragon." He pointed to a spot on his back, right behind his right shoulder.
This was Sirius' sixth tattoo. He had the aforesaid dragon on his back, a thread of celtic knots around his wrist, a skull circled by fire and with a blade for a tongue on his calf, and something tribal on his left upper arm, in which you could only recognize a pair of ferocious eyes and lots of intricate designs; but the one he liked the most was the anarchy symbol he had done on the inside of his left wrist when he was fifteen. He'd done it himself, in the spur of the moment, after an ugly fight with his parents. Teehee.
"So mate, what's it going to be now?" Sid was always interested in Sirius' ideas for tattoos; for both of them they meant something more than just an adornment, it showed the world that you belonged somewhere, it was the ultimate way to stand up to your rebelliousness.
Or something.
Sirius laid down on his stomach on the reclined chair, careful not to let his studded bracelets jab his cheek when he folded his arms under his head. Sid and all of the other punks around admired that person there, like a large banner with all of their beliefs written on it, like their Messiah. Their jaws opened a bit wider when they heard what Sirius' next tattoo would be.
After a few moments, Sid got his needles and started working. A heart, a banner in front of it, R-E-M-U...
Less than an hour later, Sirius Black, the angel from hell, walked out to the street in his confident strides, and everyone that looked at him thought he's such a sexy, confident man because he has no concerns in this world. He's a rebel to the point of rejecting everything pre –established, such as love.
He jumped on his bike and took off to... I bet you know where.
Thank you for taking some time to read this silly thing of mine. If you could take some time to review too, I would highly appreciate. If you could spot some of the (obvious) Sex Pistols references, let me know as well. =)