Could I please request house wardens catching they're s/o threwing up overblot ink and they're just like 'It's fine' but the ink is slowly taking over and tearing apart their insides? Like, they're not overbloting cuz they're magicless but when they fought off the house wardens, the blot got into their system, and it's not pretty.
Housewarden catching their s/o throwing up blot ink
It happened after the fight. After the dust settled, the roses stopped bleeding, and Riddle returned to himself,confused, breathless, horrified.
You were the first to run to him, ignoring the warnings, the lingering sparks of magic still fizzing in the air. You had touched his face, still streaked with blot, and smiled shakily.
“It’s over,” you whispered. “You’re okay now.”
But he hadn’t noticed your hands trembling. He hadn’t seen the ink beneath your fingernails.
The first time you coughed up ink, it was just a droplet. Small. Easy to hide. You wiped it with your sleeve, heart hammering. You told yourself it was a fluke.
Then came the second time. The third.
You started avoiding mirrors because you didn’t want to see the veins blackening faintly beneath your skin.
The corruption wasn’t magical,it couldn’t be. You were magicless. That was the rule. You couldn’t overblot. You shouldn’t be able to.
But maybe… maybe the rules didn’t apply to whatever the blot had become inside you.
And then, one day, Riddle walked into your shared study and found you hunched over the wastebasket, coughing violently.
“Y/N—?” His voice pitched up in panic. He was at your side in seconds, kneeling, grabbing your shoulders,only to freeze as he saw what you’d expelled.
Thick, black ink. Unmistakable.
It clung to your lips. Coated your hand. Pooled at your knees like tar.
You looked up at him with a pale smile. “It’s… fine.”
His heart stopped. “No. No, it isn’t.” His voice was shaking. “You’re not a mage, you—this shouldn't even be possible !”
You tried to stand, but your legs gave out, a fresh stream of ink spilling from your lips. It hissed faintly as it hit the floor, like it was alive.
Riddle caught you before you collapsed, his gloves smearing against the substance as he cradled you. His hands were trembling.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How long?”
“Since the fight,” you mumbled, barely conscious. “I thought it would pass. I'm not like you… I didn’t think it could overtake me…”
“You’re not overblotting,” he said in disbelief, eyes wide as he looked at your body. “But it’s inside you. It’s killing you.”
You gave a weak laugh. “Guess I'm breaking a few rules, huh?”
“Don’t joke,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You didn’t break rules. I did. And you’re paying the price.”
Tears welled in his eyes.
“I won’t let this stand. I won’t lose you. Even if I have to rewrite the rules of magic itself.”
And for the first time in a long while, Riddle Rosehearts broke a rule,he left your side only to begin researching forbidden magics, his pristine record forgotten.
Because if the system allowed this… then it didn’t deserve his obedience.
He finds you behind the botanical garden, hunched over, your hand pressed against your mouth as thick, viscous ink drips through your fingers.
You don’t hear him at first.
You’re too busy trying not to throw up again, trying to breathe, trying to pretend this isn’t as bad as it feels.
But Leona sees. And he freezes.
His voice is low, almost too quiet. Not angry. Not yet. Just… stunned.
You turn your head slightly, weakly, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Hey…”
His eyes narrow at the blot staining your lips and chin.
You try to wipe it away. “It’s just… a little leftover blot. From the fights. I guess it got in me somehow—”
“You guess?” He cuts you off, but there’s no venom in it. Just a sharp edge of disbelief. “You’re throwing it up.”
You glance away, embarrassed. “I didn’t think it’d get this bad.”
Leona steps forward, slowly. His expression isn’t scowling or pissed—it’s something worse.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve already got enough going on.”
A long silence stretches between you.
Then, softly,so softly it almost doesn’t sound like him,he mutters, “Don’t do that.”
You blink up at him. “Do what?”
“Decide for me.” He looks at you now, and there’s a tightness in his voice that pulls something deep in your chest. “If you’re hurting—especially because of me—I want to know. You don’t get to protect me by putting yourself through hell.”
You try to make a joke, to lighten the moment. “Wow. That sounded dangerously close to sentiment.”
But he doesn’t smile. He just exhales and crouches in front of you, eye-level now.
“You look like your insides are fucking breaking apart.”
He tenses, jaw clenching, but he doesn’t lash out. He just reaches out and rests his hand behind your back, steadying you as you tremble.
“You’re magicless. You shouldn't even be able to survive it.” His voice is low, rough. His grip on you tightens slightly,anger, panic, frustration, all twisted into his jaw. “Do you have any idea what this’ll do to you?”
You manage a laugh. “Think I’m finding out.”
His ears flatten. His tail lashes behind him. But his hands don’t leave you.
“I’m taking you to someone who can help,” he says, his voice firm but careful. “You don’t argue. You don’t pretend. You let me take care of it this time.”
You’re too tired to fight. You lean into him, and he lifts you without complaint, one arm around your shoulders, the other under your knees.
His brow stays furrowed the entire time.
He doesn’t say much else. But the way he holds you,secure, protective, just a little too tight,says enough.
And just before you slip into unconsciousness, you hear him murmur something into your hair.
“You saved my damn life. So don’t think I’m letting you throw yours away.”
He thought it was a joke at first.
You were always trying to hide things from him, especially when it came to your injuries. You were proud, and he admired that,even if it made him worry. But when he caught you stumbling out of the Mostro Lounge’s back hallway, one hand gripping the wall, the other pressed against your lips, he didn’t smile.
Then you collapsed to your knees.
And the ink came spilling out.
Thick, black, vile. It hit the floor in splatters, sticky and alive, like it didn’t want to leave your body. Your back arched with the force of it, and you coughed so hard it sounded like something inside you cracked.
Azul dropped the clipboard he’d been holding.
His shoes echoed across the polished floor as he rushed to you, faster than he’d ever let himself move in public. “Y/N—!”
You waved a shaky hand, still hunched over. “It’s okay, it’s just—just a little blot..”
“That,”kneeled beside you, “is not a little blot!”
You were tired. Your eyes were glassy. And the ink,gods, the ink was boiling. Like it was trying to crawl its way back down your throat.
He tried to reach for you, but paused, hesitating. What if touching you made it worse? What if his magic triggered something else?
You noticed. Even through the haze, you gave him a soft, crooked smile. “Don’t look so scared… I’m magicless, remember? I can’t overblot.”
“You don’t need magic to be consumed by it,” he snapped, voice cracking. “You were exposed. Weren’t you? During the fights—against me—”
He closed his eyes for just a moment. His chest hurt.
Azul’s hands trembled, just slightly. He never trembled.
“I could’ve helped you,” he whispered.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
A bitter, strangled sound left his throat,something between a scoff and a gasp.
“You think I’d care about appearances when you’re dying in front of me?”
You leaned into him, your strength fading fast. He caught you this time, arms curling around your form as the ink soaked into his sleeves. He didn’t flinch.
“Stay with me,” he said softly, his voice lower than it had ever been. “I don’t care what it takes. I’ll find a way. I don’t need a contract. I don’t need payment. I just—"
Pressed his forehead to yours, eyes wide and shining.
“…Please,” he breathed. “Don’t leave me alone again.”
You managed to whisper his name before everything went dark.
And Azul stayed there, holding you, ink pooling around him like a curse he couldn’t bargain his way out of.
You didn’t want him to see it.
You’d been hiding it for days, shivers, the way you sometimes gripped your stomach like something was tearing through you. You kept smiling, waving off his concern, calling it a cold, stress, anything to keep his eyes off the truth.
But Kalim was nothing if not persistent.
He followed you when you left the party early, weaving through the celebration in Scarabia with apologies and excuses. You’d said you needed air. But he found you behind the dorm, bent over and gasping, your hand trembling as it caught the wall to steady yourself.
“Y/N?” His voice was light at first. Confused.
You turned to him too late.
The ink was already pouring from your mouth.
Thick, black, and writhing,like it was fighting to stay inside. It hit the sand like tar, steaming in the desert air. Kalim froze. His breath caught in his throat.
You coughed again, nearly collapsing, but he caught you just before you hit the ground. His hands were on your shoulders, then your back, his jewelry clinking as he tried to support you.
“I—I’m fine—” you gasped, barely able to lift your head.
“No, no you’re not! That’s blot! That’s overblot ink, what—what’s happening?!”
You looked up at him with eyes too tired to lie. “It got in me. During the fight..with Jamil..”
Then he shook his head, violently. “No. No, no, no—that’s impossible, you’re not even a mage, you can’t—”
“I know. I can’t overblot.” You gave a hollow laugh that turned into a rasping cough. “But it’s inside me. It’s still killing me, just… slower.”
You expected panic. You expected fear.
What you didn’t expect was Kalim to wrap his arms around you and hold on like he’d drown without you.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your shoulder, voice shaking. “I didn’t know. I should’ve known. I—”
“It is,” he said, louder now. “It is, because I would’ve never let you near him if I knew this could happen! I would’ve protected you-I would’ve done something—!”
You coughed again, ink dribbling past your lips. Kalim wiped it away with a shaking thumb.
“…Why didn’t you tell me?”
You couldn’t answer. Not with the way the pain twisted inside you.
But your silence said enough.
Kalim pressed his forehead against yours, holding you close even as the ink stained his white and gold sleeves.
“I’m going to fix this,” he whispered. “I don’t care how long it takes, or what I have to give up. You’re my light, Y/N. And I won’t let you go out.”
He pulled you closer still.
Kalim Al-Asim felt helpless in the face of something he couldn’t fix with love alone.
Vil had always prided himself on control.
Poise. Discipline. Perfection. His life was a routine of polished movements, carefully chosen words, and flawless performances. Emotions were something to be harnessed, not shown. Mess was something to be cleaned up not lived through.
He found you doubled over in the pristine bathroom of Pomefiore, retching up a substance that didn’t belong in any world where things made sense.
It was black. Viscous. Blot.
It clung to your mouth like tar, trailing in thin strings from your lips as you spat the rest into the sink. Your hands were shaking, gripping the edges of the porcelain like you might fall apart if you let go.
Vil stopped in the doorway. Time seemed to catch its breath.
Your eyes flicked to him through the mirror.Hollow.
“…Hey,” you said hoarsely. “You’re not supposed to be back yet.”
He didn’t respond. He walked forward, slowly, carefully,as if any sudden move would break you entirely. His reflection stood beside yours, immaculate as always, but you,you looked like death.
“I told you I was fine,” you whispered, voice cracking.
Vil reached for your chin, tilting your face toward his with the gentlest touch he’d ever given anyone. His hand didn’t shake but his breath did.
“That,” he said coolly, “is not fine.”
You tried to smile, but it slipped before it even formed. “It’s… from the SDC. I didn’t notice at first. But the ink,it’s been in me since then.”
His eyes flickered, sharp and calculating, but you could see the fracture behind them.
“You knew,” he said, voice dangerously low. “And you kept it from me.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
Vil laughed,humorless, bitter. “You didn’t want to worry me? Y/N, you are coughing up blot. That’s not a worry, it’s a nightmare.”
You tried to sit up straighter, but the movement sent a violent spasm through your chest, and more ink spilled out of you. Vil caught you as you crumpled, holding you upright against him, not caring that the blot was staining his gloves, his robe,him.
“I didn’t think it’d get this bad,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I thought it would go away.”
“Things like this don’t just go away,” he snapped, but his arms were steady around you. “It festers. It spreads. And now—” He cut himself off. His breath hitched.
And then softer, almost pleading: “Why didn’t you let me help you?”
You looked up at him, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Because I knew you'd look at me like this. Like I’m broken. Like I ruined something.”
His expression shattered.
“I don’t care if it’s broken,” he said, voice thick. “We fix broken things. We heal them. But I can’t do that if you keep hiding it.”
You tried to protest, but he pulled you closer.
“From this moment on,” he murmured, voice fierce and low, “you are not hiding another thing from me. Not your pain. Not your fear. Nothing.”
He brushed the hair from your face, cradling you like something fragile, precious. For once, he didn’t care about his appearance, or who might see him kneeling on the bathroom floor, covered in ink. All he cared about was keeping you here.
“You are not dying from this,” Vil said, not a hope but a command. “I won’t allow it.”
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
You’d promised. You told him it was just a scratch,that when the fight was over, you’d be fine. He’d seen you tired, bruised but still standing. Still smiling.
So why were you now curled up on the floor of his room in Ignihyde, your back pressed to the side of his bed, trembling as you violently coughed up black blot like your lungs were trying to reject your own insides?
“Wh-What the hell?!” Idia dropped the tablet in his hands. The clatter echoed too loud in the silence.
You wiped at your mouth, slowly turning your head to look at him with dull, glassy eyes. “It’s fine,” you muttered. “It’s just… leftover. From the overblot. I must’ve absorbed some of it.”
“‘Just’—??” Idia’s voice cracked, his hair flaring in jagged bursts. “That’s blot, Y/N. Not a nosebleed. Not a cold. That’s corrupted magic and pure suffering in liquid form!”
You tried to stand, but your legs gave out, and Idia was at your side before you hit the ground.
His hands hovered, twitching nervously. “Okay. Okayokayokay. This is—this is fine. Not fine fine, obviously, this is nightmare fuel tier, but like—okay, okay, I can fix this. Maybe.”
You leaned against him, breathing shallow. “Idia…”
“No. Don’t ‘Idia’ me right now,” he said, breath quick. “Why didn’t you say something?! I have monitoring programs—scans—serums—okay, mostly for Ortho, but still. I could’ve done something..!”
You rested your head on his shoulder. “Didn’t want to bother you.”
“…Bother me?” he repeated in a whisper. “You really think you’d ever be a bother?”
Your silence said it all.
His voice cracked. “You’re the only person who makes this dumb room feel like something more than a digital grave. You show up, and suddenly it’s like I’m not just a spooky background character anymore. You make me feel like I matter. And you thought this wasn’t important enough to tell me?”
You didn’t mean to cry. You hadn’t even noticed it until the ink mixed with tears on your cheeks.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
He pulled you into his chest not with elegance, not with a dramatic speech, but with desperation. “I see you,” he whispered. “Not the ink. Not the breaking down part. Just… you.”
His fingers curled into your shirt as his voice went quiet.
He nodded, shakily. “Then we’re scared together.”
He adjusted your weight against him, wrapping his arms around you tighter,awkward, too warm, a little sweaty, but real.
“You’re not allowed to die,” he muttered. “I didn’t install a save point. Don’t make me invent necromancy.”
You gave a tiny, painful laugh.
And for once, it didn’t sound like a game anymore.
The storm was still raging when you stumbled through the doors of Diasomnia.
Lightning cracked above the towers, thunder rolling across the moors, but the sound of it couldn’t drown out your gasps or the slick, wet sound of black ink splattering onto the cold floor beneath your feet.
You barely made it three steps before you collapsed to your knees, one hand bracing yourself while the other gripped your stomach. It felt like fire. Like something inside you was trying to rot its way out.
He appeared beside you in the blink of an eye, his presence nearly making the air vibrate with how quickly his magic reacted to your pain.
You looked up, vision swimming, lips trembling. “I—I’m fine.”
You were coughing up tar-black blot like your lungs were lined with it, like your very soul had been stained by it. No magical signature, no spell. Just residue,something left behind after fighting too many overblots made of sorrow and rage.
Malleus knelt in front of you, his hands hovering at first, not daring to touch until you looked at him and gave the smallest nod.
The moment you did, he reached out and pulled you close, cradling you as if your body were made of glass.
“You’re not fine,” he said, voice lower than usual. There was a storm brewing inside him now, too. You could feel it.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, breath hitching. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
Malleus’ grip tightened slightly, his forehead resting against yours.
“I am always worried,” he murmured. “But I would rather be frightened by your truth than soothed by your silence.”
You flinched as another wave of pain struck, your spine arching as you coughed up more of the ink. It burned your throat. It felt like it was eating you alive.
And still—still—you clutched at his sleeve, as if asking him not to leave.
“I’m here,” he whispered immediately. “I will not leave. Not now. Not ever.”
You barely noticed the flickering green glow wrapping around you until you felt it seep into your bones. Gentle, ancient magic,dragged from deep within Malleus himself. Not offensive, not protective. Restorative.
Because the blot wasn’t a spell. It wasn’t something that could be undone by fae power or reversed by time-honored rites. It was corruption,infectious,cruel and it was already far too deep inside.
He kept one hand against your chest, the other against your cheek, murmuring in an old tongue that only the fae still remembered. His words weren’t spells,they were promises.
The ink didn’t vanish, but it slowed. Your shaking eased. The agony remained, but Malleus' magic acted like a shield,like a steady breath amid the smoke.
“I failed you,” you whispered weakly. “I should’ve been stronger.”
He shook his head, his voice tight. “No. You were braver than I ever deserved. You fought battles we could not see. You bore a weight alone that should have crushed you and still, you stood.”
“You were never meant to burn alone.”
He pressed his forehead to yours again, his next words barely audible:
“If this ink dares to take you from me… then I shall walk into the dark and bring you back myself.”
You shuddered, tears slipping free at last.
And under Malleus’ trembling hands, you felt the same truth written in his every touch:
English is not my first language !
