Ain’t the Rider making the joke. No 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣𝙚𝙙 souls around right now, unless she has something rotten to confess.
If not, she’s dealing directly with 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣𝙣𝙮 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙯𝙚 — unkempt blonde hair and all.
Scared of a little 𝙛𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚, huh?
The skull does have its charm, save for the taste of ash after a bad night.
But she’s right — it’s a 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 face. Wouldn’t want the Spirit Of Vengeance messing up the eyeliner.
It ain’t that 𝙗𝙖𝙙 once you get past the fire and brimstone of it all. First ride down’ll shake you. Burn you from the inside out. Every other time after that?
Just another road. Loses its 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙚 once you seen it a few times.
“You stain this place with death and call it a trick.”
The voice is no longer Johnny’s, but something deeper, hollow and booming, echoing with damnation. Flames lick at the ground as he steps forward.
The heat bursts through Johnny’s chest before he can choke it back. His hand clenches around the chain, but it’s no longer his. Fire erupts along his arms, skin blistering, burning away until bone shines through.
She stares at him for a moment, perplexed. He marched in here with all this gumption and all this heat and now he seems stagnant. If he’s going to do something, he should do something. She hates people who dawdle.
She steps from the ceiling, drifting down almost elegantly but >
His head tips back, a ragged breath tearing out as it becomes a roar, and when it lowers again, the skull is ablaze — empty sockets searing with hellfire.
The Rider rises where Johnny sat still, the stench of brimstone flooding the air.
“Happy?” he echoes, his voice rough, almost a growl. “Don’t think I remember what that feels like.” His gaze doesn’t leave her, steady and sharp. “You wanna wipe the slate clean, do it. But don’t pretend to do it for me. Do it for whatever conscious you have.”
“You must go to some awfully boring parties, then.”
She says with a small nod. The woman stands on the ceiling face nearer to his. The spooky glow in her eyes fades and reveals a pair of big, brown eyes. They’re odd too. Empty, nearly devoid of emotion, maybe worse than >
The coffee between them steams, sharp and bitter, and he wraps a hand around the mug without drinking.
“It’s been awhile,” he says simply, his voice low and gruff. “Since the last time we ended up knee-deep in hellspawn together.”
how does he know they’re nice folks .ᐣ they could all be raging assholes for all he knows.
but if it means getting some fresh coffee——she’ll bite her tongue as she sits across from him.