#octomic

[oztomic]

I was SO SLOW finishing this lol, but art fight!! Feel free to add me!

Art Fight

An art gifting game

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Stain

@febuwhump Day 6: Soul Bond

Teen | 416 words

Fandom: Original Writing (ymad)

Tags: Nonhuman Character, Introspective, Missing Scene

TWs: Nonconsensual Body Modification, References to Manipulation

AN: They make me so sad. I love them. Aris, my beloved. @alojzy-art, more spud angst for you

Febuwhump Masterlist

The stain on their hands lingered in the corner of their vision as they tapped their pen absently at the journal on their desk. Despite the intention to write, nothing was coming. Instead, the haunting visage of the Bond Mark lurked.

Where once, the sky blue splotch had felt like gentle hands easing tense and aching muscles, it not sizzled and burned. It felt right at home amongst the alchemical burns that littered the skin of their arms.

Because that was what it was: a scar. The remnants of a wound that refused to heal, but weren't quite in a state to fester and necrotize. Just when Aris thought they could ignore it, it would rear its ugly head and remind them of their failures.

They felt a sharp crack as the pen in their hand broke due to a particularly sharp jab at the journal, spilling ink all over the pages, the desk, and their own person.

"Shit!"

Aris leaped up and—wings fluttering wildly—tried to stem the worst of the ink. The journal was a lost cause now, and they just closed it to try and prevent the ink from seeping free. It went into a basket to be dealt with later, as well as a variety of the papers and other knickknacks scattered around the desk. Maybe some of them could be salvaged, but most would be disposed of.

They sighed as they started to shed their clothing, now stained and dark. Most of their body had luckily been missed, but their hands were soaked in the deep black ink.

With the offending garments off, Aris moved to the small sink in their kitchen. The faucet was turned on and they started to scrub away at their skin. Even as the ink slowly faded away—leaving a faint stain in the creases and small spaces of their fingers and nails—they kept scrubbing. Their arm was halfway into the sink, as they struggled to force the pale blue mark off their body. But it was no ink. So long as Kieran saw fit, it would not leave them.

Finally, when their skin was raw and red, they forced themself away. There was cleaning to be done. They slipped on their alchemy gloves to prevent more mess and got to work. It was a soothing distraction, and they found the familiar shape and color of the glove a much more welcome sight than their bare skin.

Perhaps they should invest in more gloves.

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Just A Nightmare

@febuwhump Day 19: "I didn't mean to"

Teen | 330 words

Fandom: Original Writing (ymad)

Tags: Hurt Comfort but the character doesn't believe the comfort, She/They Character, They/Them Character, Nonhuman characters, Dream Sequence

TWs: Psychological Manipulation, Trauma

AN: I'm so bad at this recently. I'll try to be better for the rest of the month lol

Febuwhump Masterlist

Everything was dark; not in the way that a room without light was, but in the way an all consuming void was. Hesper's body shook, though she wasn't sure whether it was fear or cold that caused it. Regardless, her eyes tried to scan the nothingness to no avail. She could hear distant voices, but their words were lost to her. At the end of the day, it didn't really matter. They never talked to her, anyway.

"Well, you're hardly worth it, are you?"

The researchers never talked to them. Other things, however, did.

"Shut up," they murmured.

"Why?" She felt its form—not quite physical, but present—curl around her. "Why should I listen to anything you have to say? The experiment. The mutt."

Hesper's tail lashed as they spun, trying to track the immaterial presence.

"Shut up!"

A feeling of air brushing against her shoulder, and she lashed out at it. She felt something crush under her hands and she grinned with sharp, predatory teeth.

"I do love our little games, pet."

As the spirit spoke those words, they felt the world rush at them all at once. Eyes opened and air filled their lungs, but the feeling of something in their grip didn't fade like the void had.

A test squeeze resulted in a quiet whimper to her side. She glanced over and felt the pit of her stomach drop. Oh, Fates…

They hand ripped away like it was burned, and they curled in on themself. They tried to make themself smaller and less threatening. Their tail curled around their legs.

"I— I'm sorry! I didn't… didn't mean to…"

The words felt numb on their tongue. She didn't deserve Aris's forgiveness. She could have hurt them!

Aris rolled their wrist with a faint grimace. But, they didn't run away, or hit them. Instead, Aris settled down beside Hesper's borrowed bed.

"It's alright, Hesper. I'm alright, and you're alright. It was just a nightmare."

"Yeah… just a nightmare…"

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Fractured

@ailesswhumptober Day 8 Alt 7: Memory Trigger

Teen | 584 words

Fandom: D&D (Original Writing)

Tags: Instrospection, Missing Scene, Scene Rewrite

TWs: Bugs, Allusions to gore, Depersonalization

AN: The best part about Vio is that she's so ripe for whump. I do such terrible things to her. Well, me and @impriceless. They're just as guilty as I am.

Vio's memory had always been… strange. She was built in the image of another, and had matching memories of a sort. They were strange, cobbled together things; mixing Viola's perspective with Virnan's recollection of events. But there had always been the lingering phantom of Viola. Yet, never as literal as it had become in recent days.

The revelation that Viola had been hard, but what was even harder were the sudden bursts of memories she knew were not hers, yet felt so real. They had started simple enough: memories of books she had never read, flashes of horrifying events that had never happened, feelings she had never felt towards people she both knew and had never met.

But then the more insidious ones began to emerge. The traumas she never went through, but now haunted her. The fear and anger she had never experienced, but now ached deep in her core. She just wanted it to stop.

Vio tried her best to push them away, but there was only so much she could do to fight against her own body, her own mind. Throwing herself into her work helped, but sometimes, it just left her more vulnerable.

In the druid camp, Vio knelt down beside the door, trying to figure out a way to open it. When Kasamir offered his Knock spell, she glared at him—mostly playfully, with just a bit of bite for not mentioning it earlier—and moved aside for him to cast it. Then, she swung the door open carefully.

Her body reacted before she could think. She was stumbling back from the room, which to the untrained observer was just a dark room. But she could see it.

Her vision blurred, shifting rapidly between two realities she couldn't discern from each other.

A room full of roiling insects, buzzing with decay and rot. A hidden camp full of magicless druids in a frozen hellscape.

A severed hand, calloused with years of musical experience, resting on a bed. Buzzing flies circling it. It had been there a while, waiting for her.

Vio didn't need to breathe, but some latent instinct drove her to the point of hyperventilation. Her chest heaved with every shaking breath she took. She could hear Kasamir's concerned voice and Sera's murmuring—feel the delightful, warm presence of Annie beside her—but none of it registered. She was still thrown between times, between identities.

One second, she was Vio, a warforged adventurer desperate to escape who she was made to be. The other, she was Viola, a young artist trying to avoid the shadow of her past. They were so similar, and yet so different.

And Vio hated her.

She had already had very complicated feelings about Viola before all of this, back when the woman just haunted her in a metaphorical sense. But now… she was haunted in a literal sense by the woman's spirit.

As the visions started to clear and she was left staring at the dark doorway of the cabin, Vio glanced around her at the gathered crowd. Sera was confused, Kasamir was worried, and Annie… Annie was knelt at her side, waiting for her to return. It was hardly the first time this had happened, though Vio had never properly explained. She knew she would need to, but she just… couldn't bring herself to, yet.

She took a quick breath and pushed herself up.

"I'm… I'm alright."

Vio didn't need to look at the others to know that they didn't believe her.

[oztomic]

Clip Its Wings

@ailesswhumptober Day 2: Amputation, "It's not worth your life!"

Mature | 962 words

Fandom: Original Work (ymad)

Tags: Pre-Canon, Main Character Death, Worldbuilding, Friends to Enemies

TWs: Non-consensual Amputation, Torture, Murder

AN: Day 2! Did a little prequel thing for my current wip. Thanks, btw, to @alojzy-art for being the #1 ymad fan. (And if you like cool original work stuff, check him out, her worldbuilding is amazing!!)

Cleia whimpered as harsh fingers dug into her scalp and yanked her head back by the short of her hairs. She stared back at the face of Giraud—once comforting and familiar, now darkened with shadow and malice—as a familiar blade hovered next to her throat. She could feel her own magic reaching out to her from the blade, but there was nothing she could do. She was at his mercy.

"Cleia, dear, you've been awfully helpful through all this. But now, we're at an impasse."

"This isn't the sort of thing I'd call an impasse."

He chuckled, the sound sinister and unnerving. The man Cleia had once known as an idealistic young noble had become a despot who would have his way no matter what he needed to do to achieve it.

"Well, you see, it is. Because you've done such a good job for me that I don't think I can risk you doing as good a job for anyone else."

His hand released her hair, though it didn't mean much when there was a blade at her throat. However, it was much less reassuring when it found purchase again at the place where her wings met her back. The autumnal limbs—which had been previously folded and wrapped up against her back to keep them out of the way of flames and irons and hammers—were pinned against her back and simultaneously kept her from moving. Any attempts to struggle and flail them free were met with a bruising, bone crushing grip.

And then the blade moved. It released her neck, sparing her a humiliating death of beheading by her own blade, but found it's way—hauntingly, chillingly—to rest against her back, tauntingly hovering above her wings like a vulture circling a creature yet to be dead.

She couldn't stop the faint whine coming from her throat, instinctive and animalistic.

"Giraud…"

"Really, don't be such a baby. It's not like I'm going to kill you, not if you don't force my hand. I just need to… clip your wings."

Cleia's breath caught in her throat. Giraud spoke like he was discussing the weather, and not the utter mutilation of Cleia as a person. And while her world was spinning, he kept talking.

"Like a bird in a cage, to make sure you don't fly off where you shouldn't. So, really, stop being dramatic."

"No… No, no, nonononono…" Cleia started to struggle harder, ignoring the feeling of feathers ripping from their follicles. She could handle her wings being a mess, so long as they were still attached to her.

"Please, you can't—! Just kill me! Kill me so I can't do anything else, don't— don't take my wings!"

Giraud scoffed. "It's not that big a deal. Certainly not worth your life."

But it was. If not to him, then to her. To him, they were strange appendages—pretty baubles—but to her? They were her connection to magic, to the fabric of the world around her. It was akin to telling her he planned to bore her eyes out of her skull, and expecting her to be okay with it.

"I need them," she murmured, her tone insistent and desperate. She spoke her words more like a prayer than a statement. "I need them."

Giraud scoffed, leaning over to shift his face closer to hers, over her shoulder. "Honestly, what's the big deal? They're wings. You wouldn't be flying anyways. You'd be lucky to simply have a chain on one ankle."

He glanced back towards them, where they twitched and spasmed.

"They're pretty, sure, but they're hardly the prettiest thing about you."

He moved a hand—the one holding the blade, carefully—and ran a finger down her cheek. She flinched away, glaring at him.

"Fine," he finally sighed, pulling his hand away. "I've learned plenty in the time since I first met you. And the number one thing I've learned is that people can be replaced. If you wish to die, who am I to deny you?"

He went to shift the sword, but paused.

"But I'll be the first to say that I am a sentimental sap."

Cleia didn't understand what he meant until she felt skin and muscle tearing on her back—on her wings. Worst of all, it didn't go cleanly. Through no fault of the blade—how sick was it, to still be concerned about the regard of her blade, at a time like this—the man wielding it could find no clean swing. Instead, he hacked and sawed at the tender flesh where her wings met her back.

In a desperate attempt, she threw her magic out wildly, hoping to have some effect. She felt the magic of her creations crying out—the sword that mutilated her and the crown that gave him the freedom to do so. She hissed and screamed with every inch of progress he made.

Just as the blade finally severed her wings from her body, she felt her magic cling to the crown, powered by her agony and anger.

She dropped forward, no longer held by the grip on her wings. She turned her head weakly to look back at him. She could see him as the bloody butcher he was now, drenched in her blood, wielding the sword she had forged. She saw the crown she had made for him—for his bloody rule—and let the last magic that had collected weave its way in.

"I hope that others see you for who you are… I hope that your kingdom never escapes the blood that created it."

Giraud just smiled.

"Oh, Cleia… You won't even make a footnote."

The blade lunged forward and pierced through her chest and into the ground. And she was gone.

[oztomic]

Intro Post

Hello! I'm Oz, or Erin if you like. (Any/All Pronouns)

This is my blog, and I'm trying to make it more fandom/art/writing focused (though I'm sure there'll still be plenty of random stuff). I did have an old blog by this same name (now oztomic-moved-to-main), but—as the name suggests—I moved my stuff back to main. So yes, that is me. Feel free to stick around, if you'd like!

Check out my Linktree!

(More Details below the cut)

My fandoms rotate in interest constantly, but here are a few regulars you're sure to see:

D&D and other TTRPGs

Doctor Who

Dimension 20

Shoot/Roll From the Hip

Dresden Files

My OCs and original writing

I'm gonna try and keep things organized going forward, so here are a few tags:

#artomic — my art

#writomic — my writing

Fic Masterlist

#always the dm — ttrpg stuff

#octomic — my OC stuff

Individual ocs are tagged as oc: [name] Notable OCs: - aris (wip mc) - vio (dnd character) - nele (bg3 tav)

#resozes — resources and useful information

#rebloz — what it says, reblogs

#oz's atoms — my thoughts and ramblings

#oztomic reaction — asks

#ballot box — polls

#misque — posts without a good category tag

#k!nk tag — my musings on kink and other stuff like that (not usually nsft, but feel free to block just in case)

#oz is queer — all my queer stuff, esp stuff related to me (aroace agender/nonbinary)

#q-uarks — queued posts

Fandom stuff will always be reblogged with the appropriate tags (maybe not all of them, but at least an umbrella fandom tag) to more easily find stuff on here.

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I'm very proud of these, so shout out to the vtt tokens I made for our party before this arc's bbeg fight. I love the girlies. (In order: Vio [me], Annie, and Sera)

[oztomic]

What You Deserve

@ailesswhumptober Day 5: Torture, Withholding Aid

Teen | 461 words

Fandom: Original Work (ymad)

Tags: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Imprisonment, He/They Pronoun Character

TWs: References to Torture, Vague Descriptions of Injury

AN: I need to get better at coming up with titles for these. Also, @alojzy-art I can't believe this is your first introduction to Marion. I'll have to tell you more about them to contextualize this. He's very fun. For everyone else, uh... make something fun up!

Marion ached as they roughly hit the floor of the cell. They held their arm against their body, shielding it from any more harm. Every nerve was on fire, and they couldn't feel any of the bones in the appendage. If they were lucky, some shards still remained after hours of it slowly and methodically being broken apart and ground down into nothing.

Kieran had long since abandoned the mess of a person he had rendered Marion into, so he was left with just the guard responsible for transporting him to and from his cell.

Somehow, it was worse with them. Kieran was angry and aggressive, but it came from a place of hurt and betrayal, which required some level of care to still be there. He was cruel, but Marion could lie to himself that it was just a bad dream, because it was still almost his friend.

But the guard just wanted to cause pain, and Marion was an ample target. The mage could do nothing to stop them, and looked pathetic all the while. No matter how they tried to hide away in their own mind, they could never fully escape the horrible treatment they were given.

They stared at the guard, waiting for the drops of healing potion that were usually doled out after one of their sessions with Kieran. And yet… the guard wasn't moving to give anything.

"I… Please… A healing potion…"

Marion considered himself a rather prideful individual; asking for help was not something he did easily. However, his time in captivity found him having to debase himself more than he would have liked.

The guard just laughed. It was sneering and saccharine sweet. It filled Marion with dread. Despite not saying a word, it gave him an answer he didn't like the sound of.

"Well, of course, you're due for one. But, see, I've been thinking… why are we even bothering to give you anything? You're a traitor. If it were up to you, we would still be under Gereon's rule."

Marion thought of a flurry of retorts, but they all died in his mouth and tasted like ash. No one had believed him this far, and he doubted that would change any time soon.

"Please, I… Ozymund wouldn't want you to do this…"

The guard lashed out, striking the bars with their sword. "You have no right to speak their name! You should be glad I don't care to tell the King."

Marion's body shook—some horrid combination of pain, shock, and surprise—and they nodded slowly. They were in no position to argue with the guard. If they were lucky, someone else would come by and provide it. If not… well, the injury wouldn't kill them (hopefully). It would just hurt.