#oc sharing

Working on a movie poster for a campaign I play in and I’m having so much fun with it!!

✨️Tw for violence, abuse, abusive behavior, domestic violence, injuries, breakdowns.✨️

Someone, maybe gaz, finding sharps crying alone in a little closed off corner of medbay, trying to clean herself up after getting the shit kicked out of her from her now ex, the bastard. Too many figures cloaked in fatigues and camo get away with the shit they pull, it isn't a secret. This wasn't one. The man had a grip on her that bruised and broke, the slight woman clinging to false coos murmured after rough hands hit, hard words spat, tears spilt.

But now...

Maybe it was Gaz who got in her head, all but begging her to please, please leave him. He, they, would help, that she didn't deserve - "he loves me," a choked whisper. A question. A lie they both knew. He'd crept into that lonely place that held her isolated, quiet and alone for too long.

Before she knew it, Sharps had friends in the form of cheery, blinding smiles and constant kindness, check ins and late nights spent on worn in sofas or creaky wooden chairs, a pot of tea growing cold between conversation. Cigars and spiced tea becoming a soothing aroma, a near pavlovian response that was drawn out when their captians large hand clapped down on a shoulder, the smell of smoke and Chai simmering down the swell of growing anxieties. The hulking, brooding figure haunting just in the background, a silent but firm protector. Ghost, Simon, who Sharps had grown to understand are two very different people; a mask for the quiet, hurting man Ghost kept locked away in a box somewhere deep behind his ribcage. Simon still crept out, clawed his away to the surface like digging out of a grave, all blonde curls and murmured words, dry jokes spoken to a mussed up mohawk through the crackle of comms. It had thrown Sharps off when Simons gentle voice began to dust her poor eardrums with medical quips, clearly pleased with himself when the jokes drew a soft splutter or giggle from split lips. Soon enough, the brit had joined Johnny in leaving an offering or tea, or a sweet on her desk, the medcart, disappearing before she could catch and thank the phantom. It still made her heart swell, and stomach churn in a strange way. Soap had his own way of drawing heat to her cheeks, a flush of pink staining fair skin and causing a flurry of commotion in her chest. John was committed, relentless in his affection and flirting, despite the fact that she was nearly certain Johnny and the LT were more than just partners on the field. And besides, through Sharps didn't have a ring as Soap liked to point out -"ah'll get ya one, one day, bonnie-", she was by all means in a relationship of nearly three years.

A man on base who had caught and snagged her heart those years ago with charming smiles, lips on knuckles, scratchy swrawled notes that proclaimed love, adoration, dedication... She often wracked her brain wondering where it all went wrong. When things had changed from kissed pressed to her hand, to knuckles on her skin, blooming purple over fractured cheekbones, welts and marks placed by the brutality of anger and violence where love once was promised.

The 141 had been gently trying to coax her away from this guy who she's been with for a couple years, prior to being assigned to the chaotic men of the task force. Maybe it was then that the abuse got worse, intensifying in its art.

There was little to no regard to the bruised that pained fair skin, not bothered to be placed hidden. But this? This is what it takes to make her leave, run. Things had gotten bad before, creeping towards the threat of this violent break, but had not crossed the line before tonight. The threats spat at her had always been promises, and she had been stupid not to heed their warning.

So here she stood, pressed into the corner of her own medbay, dark bruising creeping around her throat in the shape of hands that aimed to kill. To finish the promised job.

The sight of them makes Gaz want to be sick.

The purple shade darkening cheekbones, snaking across swollen skin. Tears that run pink, mixing with the mess of blood seeping out from under her hair, hands trembling from where they clutch a stained gauze pad, failing in its attempt to swipe away the evidence of events a mere forty five minutes ago. Too late for Gaz, for anyone to have pried the fingers from her throat, to block punches and kicks. She could still hear the screaming. Choking on the fresh memory, more salt dripped down swollen cheeks, dark hands drifting over hunched shoulders, trembling under the weight of sobs poorly consealed. Sharps felt as if she were breaking apart from the inside out. The tender flesh hidden under skin and bone matching the bruises decorating her body. Finally, they match.

"Kyle -" she didnt know what she was asking for, the mans name falling broken from iron tinged teeth.

Plucking the bloody mess of gauze from her fingers, Gaz tempered down his own distress after a soft, pained noise, Vaguely, sharps managed to realize her fruends shirt was going to bw ruined between tears and crimson that lazily soaked into the fabric, her cheek pressed over a steady heartbeat, a gentle hand over her hair, arms around her sore body.

Finally broken, the woman allowed herself to sag into the comfort that had been wrapped around her, nearly unaware of concerned voices that approached, the rise of concussion drowning out anything but the pain, and Gaz's steady warmth. The white flag of surrender waved, giving way to exhaustion. Footsteps approached, paused, before the lilt of another thicker accent barely registered in her ringing skull, another hand at the small of her back, sticky hair tucked behind her ear. Her own hands clung to the man whose shirt she had ruined, not needing to open her eyes to know it belonged to sergeant Mactavish. Simon would be along any moment now.

Somehow, Sharps was beginning to feel more relaxed than she had in months. The vague memory of close combat training reminding her of the education that had long since been instilled in her. Tension buildup, release, reduction. Everything has to break. Push past that point and things had to begin to wear down and settle. The realization that the abuse was finally over, that the handprints bruised around her neck would never mark her body again, that she had been found this time, that this was not the end of her... story?

My girl is below the cut for anyone interested!