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[brazenbonehead]

On cue he slipped off the stool and took a step forward to grasp Bucky’s hand. “We have ourselves a deal.” The words came out easier than he was comfortable with and had a weird feeling about them, but the firm grip the other man reciprocated was more than enough to convince Johnny that he could rest easy at least for a while.

His shoulders slouched as he snaked his hands into his jacket pockets and mindlessly trailed Bucky out of the pub. Johnny twisted around to cast a final glance at the door- which was surprisingly still mounted on the crooked doorframe that encased it- and staggered forward once he decided that no one was paying more attention than they had the right to be.

“Truthfully? I haven’t used one since the carnival as a kid. Only thing I’ve handled recently is a shotgun,” Johnny admitted, taking to mind to keep his voice low. “I’m more of a close-range kinda guy. I hope it doesn’t fuck over your plans too badly, but I swear that I can hold my own. I'm way sturdier than I look.”

"You’re tellin’ me."  Bucky lays out his agreement in a whisky-charred laugh that husks somewhere between sigh and groan.  He twists his glass up from the clammy bar top and spills out another swallow onto his tongue. It smokes and burns like cheap liquor does, spinning down his throat and landing hot in his belly.  Breath chasing out too sweet for sobriety, he plunks the drained tumbler back in its place with a hollow landing.  "Had enough experience with that to last me a lifetime or three." 

A pause hangs in the dank air. 

"Literally." 

Hoisting himself off the bar stool to land on weaving feet, Bucky shucks a couple of dollars free from his wallet and lays them beneath his empty drink.  By the time he turns, the money is already swelling with spilled beer and sogging back to stick at wood long bleached by the hazards of a public house.  

"Bucky Barnes," he offers in an outstretch of his hand.  "Trust that you’ll do the same if we find ourselves in a pickle."  

Long, lanky steps take him back to the door.  His hip skims a billiards table, foot leaping over a beer bottle rolling across the floor.  

"So, Mr. Blaze, how are you with a rifle?" 

[brazenbonehead]

A clunk of protest was heard from the bar as Johnny set his glass to rest upon its surface.

He had had too much drink to be entirely reasonable and not enough to drown out his problems, but it didn't even really make a difference anyways. Alcohol burned from his system as quickly as paper giving its existence to the hungry maw of a burning hearth. Johnny drank to try to forget for at least a little while…and now it had done nothing but get him in a little trouble.

Regardless, he wasn't about to change his mind. Johnny lived for a little trouble.

“I can handle just fine.” Johnny chuckled and shot Bucky a dirty grin. “Whatever you’re plannin’ on gettin’ me into can’t be nearly as bad as the shit I’ve dealt with this week."

"The name's Johnny Blaze, if you were wonderin'...not that I don't trust a complete stranger, but do me a favor and forget it if shit goes awry. It's hard enough comin' back from the dead as it is."

The rind of his smile pares back.  His teeth all flash, sharp and interested. 

"You sound like a fella after my own heart."  Bucky takes note.  His new partner ( would be ) in crime looks back at him as though he’s reading a blueprint.  So he does the same, takes in the shag of blond hair sweeping over his new pal’s eyes, the stubble cropped up on his jaw.  It’s too rough, uneven for a intentional look and his shelved shoulders have the kind of coarse cant of a patched pot hole, forged from convenience and not of deliberation.  

It only takes Bucky one tip of his drink to decide that this guy would be handy in a pinch.  

But his lupine smile unwinds further.  Wily, he shifts an elbow across the counter to avoid a spill.

"Just one thing—- "

"I never told you what I do for a living.  You so sure it’s gonna be in your wheelhouse?"  

[brazenbonehead]

messing around in SAI and praying for a good movie remake

[brazenbonehead]

Just watching the creature even get close to his motorcycle was enough to cause Johnny's emotion to go from a simmer to a goddamn boil. "Don't touch that!" His hand flung out as if to protect the bike, and it took his own hallowed voice reverberating through the wildlife to realize his overreaction.

He immediately retracted his hand and stepped back from the scene.

"It's hot," Johnny's voice was quieter now, in hopes that the thing wouldn't become agitated at his fit of anger. "You understand that, don't you? Don't get too close."

If only everyone could see him now- no face, head alive with flame, and trying to reason with a muddy plant-man with the mannerisms and intelligence of a toddler- at best.

Like a reflex, Man-Thing stopped almost immediately after the new arrival had.  It was a natural response, one that faded almost as quickly as it had kicked in as Manny slouched to the man’s eye level and burbled something that could be interpreted any number of ways besides threatening. 

Standing in front of the fellow could only hold the swamp guardian’s attention for so long as his filmy, vermillion eyes caught sight of the two-wheeled contraption parked a few strides behind the man.  It, too, possessed traces of energy that Manny identified as otherworldly.  More engaging than that, however, was how brilliantly it shone.  Disregarding his acquaintance, Manny leaned towards the vehicle, consumed by his own grotesque reflection in the polished chrome. 

[brazenbonehead]

"Ha-ha." In this state his words lack the typical intonations of emotion, but for once the bony stare doesn't betray Johnny's sarcasm. "Using my own joke against me. I'm wounded- really."

For a moment Johnny wonders if he should even confide his information with the other man. Hero-types were exactly like dogs. Over-friendly, house-trained, and bound to stick their noses in places that piss you off.

Sure, he'd had his brief team-ups with them, but the more he had the more he embraced the fact that his true calling was to be a cat person.

"It might have somethin' to do with Satan-worshipping teenagers and the potential sacrifice of the entirety of New York." He leans back in the saddle of his bike, wiggling his fingers mockingly. "Or maybe I just missed your smooth-talkin' self and I'm puttin' everyone's life on the line just to hear your voice. We both know you wish for the latter."

“You don’t have guts, if I really want you to be specific.”

Clint’s arms fold over the helm of his bike. They’re as well-built as their definition suggests, and faster than the eye can follow should he need to make use of the quiver strung to his back. Clint and Johnny’s friendship is as turbulent as the flames weeping hot off the latter’s skull. 

“So what’s the Ghost Rider doing in New York?      I don’t validate parking for Ziggy Stardust rip-offs.”

[brazenbonehead]

On a whim he braced himself for an attack...but the monster didn't seem to be posing any real threat. Johnny was unsure if he wanted to call the creature "docile" or not, because it certainly looked like it could hit him hard if it wanted to.

It was curious, as all living things were, and curiosity was no reason for violence.

"Um, hi? Are there any more of you I should be worried about orrrr..."

He threw questions at it, but no reply. Even if the creature was incapable of speech it made him feel better-- it was like talking to a tall, bubbly, tentacled dog minus the cute factor.

Drawn to the area like an obscene moth to an mystical flame, the Man-Thing didn’t verbally respond but was well at work processing what to make of the being opposite him.  Whatever it was bound to the man was not of this earth, causing the swamp walker’s leafy hackles to quiver.

This one, however, didn’t display any immediate aggression and the conflicting wills were starting to give Man-Thing a kind of headache.  While supernatural in appearance, there was an undeniably human nature to the stranger.  Not one to betray his investigative urges, the creature shambled forward, gnarled tendrils lapping at the air charged with equal amounts of curiosity and defensiveness.

[brazenbonehead]

"It's me alright. In the flesh...or bone, if you really want me to be specific."

"Who, Ale? Who knows?" Johnny shrugs. "Probably off somewhere hatin' my guts and accidentally joinin' another cult."

“Blaze, you glam-rock-loving sunuvabitch.”

“That is, if it is you this time. Where’s your lady-friend?”

[brazenbonehead]

Johnny shook his head. "Hardly. I just kinda wander around, do my thing, and get out of town."

He stopped focusing on his drink to actually look at Bucky. His haircut, his face, his build- he looked more like hired muscle than a business man. Johnny hadn't really been interested before, just looking for small talk after a couple days alone. But now--

"...but," he paused to clear his throat and take another deep drink from his mug. "If you want I'd be more than willin' to help you. I've also got nothin' good to do tonight, anyways."

"Barely even needed to shave back then."  Tendons stretch, curving around his throat to lift his chin.  His palm cups, scrubbing at the bristles sprouting up his neck to shade his jaw and cheeks.  "If that tells you how long it’s been."  

Bucky’s mouth turns up to shuffle his stubble.  Teeth peering out, his hand falls open to hold the other man’s point.  

"I’m here on business."  

"Wish I had a couple chips to toss in at the poker table, but I’m on the hunt.  Like you said… workaholic.  You a native? Might be you could help me out." 

[brazenbonehead]

"You look like a demon, but you definitely have a soul..." He tilted his head, intrigued. Johnny had seen all sorts of monsters, but this one was different in ways he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Th' hell are you?"

[brazenbonehead]

"Sounds like a long-ass time ago," Johnny chuckles. He passed the statement off as nothing more than a joke- he'd had enough strange for one day. "Makes the two of us out to be workaholics."

"What brings ya to these parts, anyways? Closest attraction is Vegas and that's still a couple hours to the south."

"Cripes, buddy."  His palm apes up the back of his neck to bury in his hair. Fingertips pushing at his scalp, Bucky blows out an easy breath, mouth nudging up into a slow curve.  

"Think the last time I took a vacation was durin’ the Great Depression." 

[brazenbonehead]

"I know that it's weird timin' and all but I gotta say..."

"That is a really, really nice Harley."

[brazenbonehead]

"'scuse me if I'm bein' rude."

"But you don't exactly look like you're here on vacation."

[brazenbonehead]

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

Universe 616

Willing to RP with any canon OR original characters.

Four years of RP experience, but just now returning.

Mun is 18 AND vaccinated for rabies.

[brazenbonehead]

It's the jacket that gave me away, isn't it? It's harder than you'd think to get charred bits out of leather.

brimstonebiker

You’re that one guy. I know too many blonde guys that smell too much like they’ve got burning skin.

[brazenbonehead]

American Idol is awful, I'm just terrible.

… That’s awful.

[brazenbonehead]

I beg to differ. I've done my share of ding-dong ditchin'.

People say such nice things 'bout burnin' poop.

Aw, but you’re on fire.

No one — and I repeat, no one — likes burnt poop.

[brazenbonehead]

Ooh, I like that one. Put me down as "Party Pooper" on the official supers roster.

Party pooper.