#bishop.

[riversharpe]

where. hakan's rave who. @bishophart

It wouldn't be River's first time at a rave, or a party of such magnitude. But it would be his first time where he wasn't looking for some creature that needed to be put down. Or tailed, or watched with a clear mind. It would be the first time where he could maybe, just maybe, let loose and have a good time. The amount of vampires and demons and other such creatures was alarming enough. Had nearly every nerve on red alert, but maybe a few drinks would ease that. Would calm him down and give him an excuse to not care. A drink was his first thought, and he'd been in the process of getting just that, before another drew his attention.

They hadn't seen much of each other since the nights of the full moon, River's doing. He knew where Bishop would have been at, could have easily gone down to the bar in Dante's. But he'd avoided the place, as if going anywhere near it would get him sick. And maybe it would, because he hadn't quite been able to get that look on Bishop's face out of his mind. But talking about that, or any of it really, wasn't something that River did. So instead, "Didn't exactly take you for the leather type. More of like a skinny jeans type to me."

[fuckyeahalisonblaire]

Todd Nauck

[pensou-blog]

JAMES BISHOP  /   GREENHORN !

his life was never meant to be anything above mundane.   he was raised as the youngest boy in a mostly decent, hard-working family on a mostly decent, hard-working ranch where things were simple and good.   maybe some day he’d head out and marry a nice girl and start a family on a ranch of his own but even that was little more than a fantasy when their ranch was always in need of a good pair of hands as it stood.

he’d always been a dreamer, sure, but he’d never had delusions of climbing above his rank.   there was no reason for it.   maybe his father would live forever and run the ranch indefinitely, maybe the good lord would strike him where he stood some fateful stormy day for some quiet wrongdoing but even were that the case the line of succession would take a while to reach him.   he was happy enough the way things were.   the work was hard and he spent a lot of his time driving cattle through the wilds instead of back home, but it was a good, honest living. 

he woke to gunfire and screaming one night in the late summer.   it was a raid or a robbery or just someone out to ruin someone else’s good fortune because they didn’t have any of their own, maybe.   he shouldn’t have grabbed his gun, shouldn’t have gone out to see—hell, when he thinks back on it there’s a lot he wouldn’t have done if he’d just taken a second to think things through.

they’d slaughtered most of his family, vicious like they’d taken sick, personal joy in it.   it was vindictive and brutal and maybe if he’d spent more time in the real world he’d have realized the reason for it all before he came face to face with his second eldest brother.   maybe the euphoria in his eyes wouldn’t have been quite so jarring.   maybe he would have said something before one of the other ranch hands rounded the corner on them and his brother drove that final nail into what little remained of normalcy that night:   james finally snapped.

of course he wasn’t james then, but he can’t go by that name anymore, not with $500 reward appended to it, dead or alive.   getting off the ranch that night is a blur in his memory: blood on his hands, a tackless ride out into the wilds of the night, stumbling into an icy stream hours later and staring up at the lightening sky as the water rushed the heat and feeling away from his body.   he’s still not sure why he didn’t just give up then.   maybe he should have, maybe not.   maybe there’s still a slow-growing vengeance in his heart, but if there is he’s buried it deep—for now it’s just about doing what it takes to survive.

[singingrass-archive]

as some of you may remember, i’ve been invited to partake in this illustration week exhibition about gay sailors or something along those lines. anyway, figured i could use the opportunity to paint some of my characters with their ships, because why the hell wouldn’t i? so, after that little disclaimer, have some jobishop, sailor style.

[riversharpe]

where. bishop's stinky abode who. @bishophart

The days had slipped into nights, and the phases of the moon had shifted within the darkened sky. Each new night had found his gaze lifted up, to seek out the moon and determine exactly how many nights had remained. The address had been stored in his phone, and for too many days, he had debated deleting it. Removing it from his notes and his messages, and completely from his memory. It couldn't possibly have been a trap, given that Bishop wouldn't need to go to such lengths in order to bring him down. Right? That hadn't stopped River's hesitancy, even on the day of the first night of the full moon.

Four fucking nights he'd have to endure. Each night, he'd have to shift into the beast that even now wanted to tear itself from within him. There was an antsy feeling in his bones, a brutalness that craved some kind of blood. Some kind of destruction. But for the sake of those innocent lives within Rome, he pushed it down, kept it contained as he approached the address that Bishop had given him. His jaw clenched tightly, his fingers curled so cruelly against his palms as nails bit into them. The first time had been the worst, this time had to be easier. Right?

"I'm here, so let's get this fucking over with."

[riversharpe]

where. stinky cage again who. @bishophart

River had made some progress within Lupercal. He had taken note of the wall that surrounded it, of the guards that had been set upon its outposts. He had observed the clinic, in which other species had seemingly been allowed within it. And he had taken note of just how many lycans that found themselves within its enclosure. That had denounced whichever pack they may have come from, all in the name of what was happening just outside of Rome. And in all of that, River had found himself once more at Bishop's little hideout. At the cage that would contain the uncontrollable beast that still scratched from within. The full moon had begun to approach once again, lifting itself higher within the darkening sky.

A voice in the back of his head whispered that he shouldn't have come, that what had happened at the party should have been the last of them. And it had been, with River more or less avoiding any place that he might have run into Bishop at. As he'd found himself more engrossed within Lupercal, and the lycan bar. And then the full moon had loomed in closer, with the knowledge that River had barely any more control than he'd had during the last one. What would happen if he lost control in the middle of Lupercal? While he may have been able to take down a few more lycans, it wouldn't have been the one he wanted. And so he'd come back, to the cage that would ensure he didn't do anything reckless. "Don't worry, I brought sweats this time," his thumb pulled at the waistband, an almost forced grin applied to his lips.

[riversharpe]

where. dante's who. @bishophart notes. ain't no way this binch alive

A month, that was how long River had seemingly had before the night of the full moon. Or rather, just a little under given that he'd woken up in a hospital bed days later. Some odd twenty days to figure out a plan, to make sure that he didn't mess up and hurt someone that didn't deserve it. Or worse, force someone else into this life that was now his own. Nearly thirty days of figuring something out, and it had all gone out the window the moment the full moon had crept in.

There was little that he remembered from the night, but enough that would make the rest of his current night a problem. For in the time that lead up to the moment where every single bone in his body had broken and reformed themselves, River had seen Bishop. The fucker that had once been his friend, or something like that, and who should have had his back those some thirty days ago. While he also didn't remember much of that night, he still remembered the pain when that lycan's jaw closed on his torso. And he remembered laying on the forest floor, with no such help from his friend.

Anger had not been a stranger to the youngest Sharpe, but what he had felt a few nights ago was unlike anything he had experienced before. A feeling that had once crept in slowly, had slammed full force into the new lycan the moment he'd seen the other. And before he knew it, all logic had left him, all sense of control had seemingly slipped from his being. Much of what had happened after that was lost to the full moon, but River had woken with an inkling of an idea. Given that he had seemed to be covered in blood.

The following days had found him holed up in his shitty apartment, trying to wrap his head around how it had gone wrong so fast. Until he had been able to get control of himself, to talk himself off the ledge and back towards the plan that he had devised upon that hospital bed. It was precisely why he had shown up at Dante's, after having heard all the talk of how often lycans showed up for a fight or two. Brawls, drinking, it was the perfect concoction to pull information from another. Which was also his plan, until a familiar smell, and then a familiar face slipped into his view.

"What the actual fuck?"