#blot!reader

[coffeethepuppy]

Is Twisted Blot available 🙁🖤?

Yes he is indeed <3 Twisted Blot would definitely be a lil freaky in my au because of that hand animation his hands does that beckons the player to come closer.

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt. 2

Part 2 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

Steps echoed softly against the snow as you made your way toward Mr. S's Mystery Shop, the sound somehow muted, swallowed by the heavy quiet of the world around you. It felt oddly distant, as if the entire universe had drawn its breath and left you alone with the sound of your footsteps. The fog clouding your thoughts lifted slightly as Grim darted around your legs, animatedly recounting how he and Yuuken had gotten into trouble earlier that day. His enthusiasm was contagious, pulling a chuckle from you despite yourself—a rare flicker of light in the usual gray haze.

The shop door slid open, a warm breeze rushing out to greet you like an old friend. The chill melted from your bones as you stepped inside, the scent of old wood and something faintly spicy filling the air. You followed Grim down the narrow aisles, your eyes wandering across the haphazard stacks of oddities and trinkets. The faint hum of a space heater buzzed in the background, blending with the soft thuds of items being restocked.

Your gaze landed on Grim busy packing away cans of tuna into his own basket. The extra weight of the thaumarks in your pocket served as a gentle reminder of Crowley's recent miscalculation of Ramshackle's weekly allowance. The headmage likely thought himself generous—he wasn't. So none of you bothered to correct his mistake.

A little extra was hardly a sin, and in your eyes, it was long overdue.

Leaving Grim to his own devices—his attention firmly locked on a staff member restocking the vending machine and occasionally eyeing the tuna cans with restrained interest—you made your way to the produce section. Your dormmates had sent you out with a list, and you were determined to fulfill their requests without incident. On your way back, a treat caught your eye. The packaging was flashy, almost comically obnoxious yet charming. The picture on the front was practically begging to be tasted, and you decided it was well-deserved after... well, everything

The sound of beeping filled the store, blending with the hum of quiet conversations and footsteps. At the till, you placed your basket on the counter and waited while the cashier scanned your items. Stifling a yawn into your sleeve, you reminded yourself that dinner would be soon. Briefly wondering if you'd make it back in time. A light brush against your neck jolted you from your thoughts. A hand reached past your shoulder, casually turning one of your items over.

"Ahh.. You got the last, huh? These are so popular on social media these days. Enjoy it for me, 'kay?"

The voice behind you was playful, with a hint of mock disappointment, quickly replaced by cheerful teasing. The arm withdrew just as you turned to find none other than Cater Diamond standing behind you, his signature easy-going smile already in place.

Your lips twitched, an instinct to respond stirring but words failed you. Instead, you gave a polite nod and returned to what you were doing, keeping your attention on the cashier. Cater didn't seem to mind; his light banter shifted toward Grim, who chuckled along with him, occasionally adding his own commentary.

As much as you had once longed for moments like this—to be seen, spoken to, acknowledged, the confidence you'd briefly held earlier had crumbled.

The sun was already setting by the time you left the shop, casting the sky in shades of muted blue and grey. Though the snow had stopped for the day, the cold lingered, biting at your fingertips even through your coat. You buried your hands deep in your hoodie pockets, the weight of the grocery bags straining against your arms.

"Come on, little star. You wanted to shine, didn't you? Why hide now? You're making a waste of me."

The Blot's voice echoed in your head, silken and sweet with a bitter edge. The ring on your finger grew uncomfortably warm, almost burning against your skin—a searing reminder of your contract. Your pulse quickens as guilt crashed over you in relentless waves, tangling with rising panic. You had made a promise to yourself—a cruel, unflinching vow to get your revenge. To make them feel what you had felt. To become so important that losing you would destroy them. And yet here you were, frozen in place, paralyzed at the thought of receiving exactly what you'd wanted for so long: acknowledgement.

Worse still, you found yourself too afraid to even wield the power you had traded so much to obtain, recalling how you foolishly agreed to the Blot's honeyed words that night without asking more. Then again, your time had been running out like an hourglass with a hole in it.

Grim's tug at your pant leg pulled you from your trainwreck of a mind, the words spoken softly by the blot still resonating within your mind, unable to be pushed aside and filling you with some irritation. Blinking, you tried to reorient yourself, offering him a half-formed reassuring response—until a familiar figure caught your attention near the store's exit. Cater.

"Cater.. right?" you said, tilting your head just enough to feign casual curiosity.

His bright green eyes met yours, lighting up with recognition. "Yeah! And you're... uh..." He trailed off, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish laugh, threading his fingers through his orange hair. "One of the Ramshackle prefects, right? You're so hard to get ahold of." His laugh was easygoing, but something about it hinted at familiarity, like he'd been trying to speak to you for some time now. Your jaw tightened at the thought.

You knew who he was, of course. Cater Diamond—the social butterfly, the NRC blog king, the guy who talked to nearly everyone or updates on his fast-paces student-run blog. One of the many who treated you like a nameless voice in the crowd, a background character at best. But something in his words made hope flicker faintly in your chest, a dangerous ember waiting to catch fire. Had he really been trying to reach out all along? Were you just that hard to approach..? Doubt creeped in momentarily before you brushed it off. He's lying.

The doubts clung to you like oil on fabric and your smile almost faltered. Almost. You caught it in time, replacing hesitation with a soft chuckle as you offered your name.

"You said these treats are popular online, right?" you asked, gesturing toward the flashy package. "Why? Some influencer?"

His eyes lit up, and you knew you'd hit the right note. As the two of you walked toward Ramshackle together, Cater launched into a detailed explanation about the trending treat—some influencer's viral snack review had sent demand soaring. You listened, nodding at just the right moments, letting him fill the space with his cheerful energy.

Eight minutes and fifteen seconds. The longest conversation you'd had with anyone outside of Grim or the Yuus since... well, since home.

At the front gate to Ramshackle, you paused and opened a pack of treats. Splitting it nearly in half, you handed one portion to Cater. "Sam's restocking in a whole week. You wouldn't want to miss out on the trend, right?"

For just a moment your usual resolve wavered. You knew what you intended to do—make them all regret forgetting you, bring everything crashing down—but right now... right now, you just wanted to feel a little less lonely.

Cater grinned, his eyes crinkling with the motion. "Our little secret, yeah? Guess that makes us snack buddies now. Next time, my treat—you can totes hold me to that!"

His words sparked a fleeting warmth, a rare feeling of belonging. You nodded, unable to summon a proper response.

Just for a bit... this was okay.

You tighten your grip on the bags as the warmth from the interaction fades, the stinging cold of the winter air nipping at your flesh once again.

It had been a few months since it all began—the Blot, the deal, and your decision to tear everything down. Returning to Ramshackle after parting with some friends, you shut your bedroom door behind you, the warped hinges protesting with a grating scrape against the frame. Your thoughts swirled from the events of the day, seeming vague and hazy even though it happened only a few hours ago.

"I've missed you." A voice crooned from behind—smooth and sweet, yet laced with something razor-sharp. If you could assign an item to a voice, it'd be a sugar cube.

"I was gone for two hours." you replied, setting your bag down and beginning the slow unwinding from your day. You never really knew if the Blot lived in the ring on your finger—whispering its thoughts directly into your mind—or if it was free to roam as its own entity. Tonight, it was lounging on your bed, propped up on one elbow in a mockery of comfort, the picture of lazy contentment. Despite being a humanoid figure of pure shadow, it radiated an unmistakable fondness. If shadows could smile, you knew it was smiling at you now.

"Two hours too long," it purred, with a hint of petulance bleeding into its honeyed tone.

As you sat at your desk, the Blot drifted close, leaning over your figure until both your reflections appeared in the small mirror. Its fingers, dark and lithe, combed slowly through your hair—gentle, almost reverent. Or was it mocking possessiveness?

"Do you think they'd miss you if you left for longer?" it mused softly. "Or would you slip their minds again, like you always used to?"

The question struck a nerve. You averted your gaze from its reflection, unwilling to entertain the thought as your jaw unconsciously clenched, deciding to test the waters, you shot back a reply a little too sharp for your liking. "Are you jealous?"

You turned to try and catch a gleam of its reaction, anything to give you a better understanding of the enigmatic being you've tied yourself to.

"Of them? Never." it whispered, shadowy lithe fingers tracing along your jaw, gently tilting your head back to meet its gaze in the mirror once again. "They don't know you like I do."

A chill crawled down your spine as its grip lingered a moment too long. Silence stretched between you, heavy with words left unsaid—words only the Blot seemed to know.

"How was your day, my little adventurer?" it murmured, its voice dropping to something low and intimate, almost conspiratorial. The way it spoke made it seem as though its words were meant for your ears alone, a secret shared just between the two of you.

You didn't respond immediately, focusing on your homework instead before offhandedly responding. "You're talkative today."

The air shifted subtly, the Blot retreating to your bed once more. It flopped onto your sheets like a restless cat, rolling and twisting the fabric with a peculiar energy, almost playful in its antics. For a creature so powerful, it had a strange, childlike quality in moments like these—unsettling, yet somehow familiar the way it could switch from suave and seductive to childish and pesky.

"Perhaps I'm feeling nostalgic." It mused after a pause. Was that vulnerability bleeding through, or just another calculated lure to pull you in deeper?

"Ask me something," it offered, voice as smooth as silk, "I'll humor you with an answer—a gift for all you've done, my dove."

You hesitated. There were so many questions but one had tumbled from your lips before you could stop it. "What are you?"

"You already know the answer." It interrupted, its voice dripping with mirth. It almost seemed to avoid the question, a moment of lost composure that piqued your interest.

Your disappointment must've shown—your eyes narrowed, brows furrowing and lips pursing just slightly into a pout or protest—as the Blot paused, considering you. Finally, it relented, leaning closer with a softer tone.

"Another. Ask me another. I'll give you more because it's you."

Time stretched as you considered your options once again—more carefully this time to pull back as many layers as you can grasp to reveal just a bit more. The Blot was clearly fond of you for one reason or another, but why?

You asked, your voice steady but curious. "What were you?"

The question hung in the air like a heavy cloth, wet and suffocating. For a moment, the Blot stilled. Then it smiled—a slow, deliberate curve of its shadowy mouth.

"You're so curious," it purred, voice dropping to a velvet murmur. "I love that about you."

Before you could react, it was there, face-to-face with you again, close enough that the air seemed to hum with its presence. Its tone grew lower, softer, yet charged with something deeper. The air had grown heavier. When it spoke, its voice was softer, yet somehow deeper and filled with something ancient and still thrumming with life. "Once... I was something like you. Real. Tangible. Alive."

"Wh-"

"We'd get along. At least I like to think we would" Its voice gained a firmer edge, almost wistful, yet underlined with certainty. "No... I know we would. I've seen what it's like to be forgotten." The Blot sounded firm as if it had substance behind such an egregious claim.

You recoiled slightly at the sureness of its tone as the tension thickened, words caught in your throat as you searched for a response. But the Blot spoke again, its voice growing almost tender.

"Yes. That's how I'd explain it. But it's all in the past. And now... here we are. Together."

Its fingers laced with yours, dark and cold yet strangely warm at the same time. Its thumb gently traced the rim of the ring on your finger—the physical reminder of your contract.

For a moment, it almost felt like an embrace—warm in its own strange way—before the Blot retreated at the sound of a firm knock at your door.

"Human! Come downstairs! We're watching films and consuming takeout!" Sebek's voice rang out, loud and commanding as always. You blinked, suddenly remembering your prior engagements for the evening.

On the other side of the door, Sebek continued his monologue. "Unless you fear the horror genre?" His tone wavered between challenge and care before taking a haughty turn and somehow louder. "Shall I request a film more suited to your frail constitution? I shall do it only to protect you from disgrace!"

His rapid footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving you in a strange quiet once again. Your gaze lingered on the Blot, still stretched lazily across your bed, its head tilted in quiet amusement.

With a sigh, you stood and made your way to the door, half relieved and half-annoyed.

The TV blared whatever movie had been chosen for the night, a tradition at Ramshackle where native members of Twisted Wonderland picked their favorite media to share with the prefects. It had become a cherished cultural exchange, a chance for everyone to gush about their favorite things—though you and the others never had anything to contribute.

Not that any of you wanted to. Any mention of home dampened the mood. The others missed it—their world, their families—while you had long stopped thinking of returning. You're never going home. It's too beautiful in your memories, untouched by everything you had become. Setting foot there would be like introducing flame to the wings of a butterfly.

You sat beside him, finding solace and comfort in each other's quiet presence. There was no need to speak, no need to acknowledge it aloud. He was your own guest for tonight's movie, something you never thought you'd have based on your previous reputation, or lack thereof. And yet, despite everything, you still couldn't forgive him for the way he once ignored you. You couldn't even recall how long ago that time was. It should have been easy to let go, to forget the loneliness, but the ache of it still lingered, a phantom pain of being unseen, unheard, unnoticed.

Everything felt so stagnant back then, so suffocating. In moments like these you couldn't help but be appreciative of the Blot's assistance, even as you both resented yourself and the entity in your bedroom for what it had cost you—even worse, knowing you had willingly accepted the deal. The truth, that claustrophobic reality, felt like a noose around your neck, dragging you deeper with every breath. Without the deal, you would have remained nothing—forgotten, buried in the snow, your name lost to time, your face unrecognizable by all. And when the thaw came, they could have found your body, decayed and nameless. A casualty.

A chill ran down your spine at the thought, the memory of that night creeping back, sharp and biting like frost against your skin. Jack, seated nearby, must have noticed. Without a word, the beastman draped his large, fluffy tail over your lap, a quiet attempt to offer warmth without interrupting the film.

The movie came to an end without you fully understanding the plot, the storyline lost to your distracted mind as you reflected on the whole evening. The lamps flickered back on as everyone began cleaning up, and there was an awkward, unspoken feeling hanging over everyone. The sort of quiet tension that lingered at the end of a gathering—was this goodbye? Was this the end, do they go home? The moment felt too brief.

But how many tomorrows are left?

Everyone knew that the Prefects of Ramshackle didn't belong here no matter how defined of a shape carved into everyone's hearts that only they could fill, they all knew that the Yuus would return home someday, often lamenting about their own world. Whenever the topic came up, you'd catch a fleeting glance from your friends. You'd never mentioned home—not since you'd given up on the idea. But you knew he was silently asking:

Do you plan to stay?

The boys scurried around cleaning up their messes, but their efforts were clumsy, adding new minor messes to clean—small, unnoticed attempts to stretch the moment just a little longer. They didn't want it to end yet. For now, neither did you.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a loud sneeze from Epel—one that would certainly earn him a lecture from Vil. You turn to see what he'd done, spotting a vase tipped over the kitchen counter, water and flowers spilling across the surface. They had been a gift, though the reasoning behind them had been flimsy at best. Not that you cared much. They weren't even your favorites, and flowers never lasted long anyway.

Wilting. Drying. Rotting.

Much like people.

You were slightly startled by the dark thoughts, pushing them away as Yuuken passed Epel a tissue before grabbing a rag to mop the mess before it seeped into the floorboards. Ramshackle already had enough mold; any more would be cruel.

"Did you catch a cold? I told you not to sit out in the rain too late trying to win that bet." Yuuken's tone was exasperated but laced with concern. Yuuka, less patient, flicked Epel's forehead in reprimand.

The mention of illness must have triggered Ortho's health and safety protocols, as he immediately zipped over, offering a full-body scan to check Epel's vitals.

"Uwah? Me next! Scan me!" Ace butted in with a cheeky grin—an obvious attempt to dodge dish duty. You shot him a knowing look but he only grinned wider, brushing it off and receiving his scan.

What started as a routine checkup quickly turned into a competition to see who was the healthiest, with everyone eagerly comparing stats. In the end, it came down to Jack and Sebek, though Jack narrowly took the win. Even Ortho seemed baffled by the results, staring at his screen in genuine confusion.

"I cannot understand how Sebek Zigvolt functions with such high exposure to Lilia Vanrouge's cooking..." he murmured, tilting his head.

Laughter rippled through the group as Sebek loudly protested, but the amusement died down as Ortho turned to you. Unlike the others, you hadn't joined in on their little contest, preferring to avoid the inevitable teasing about your ranking. But now, Ortho's bright yellow eyes scanned you from head to toe, and for a brief moment, his expression flickered with something strange—confusion?

"That's odd," he muttered. "You don't have any health complications, but... your body temperature is significantly lower than normal. By a lot. Please wait a moment while I check something."

Yuuta shot you a concerned glance, setting down a broken shard of the vase and rinsing his hand before reaching out to touch your forehead, only to immediately recoil.

"Woah. You're freezing..! Like wax."

Ortho scrolled through his holographic screens with increasing confusion, while the others hesitated before brushing against you, testing Yuuta's claim. You hadn't noticed before, but now that you thought about it—your skin was cold. Not just cool, but room temperature. Maybe a degree or two above it.

Ace snickered. "Maybe you really are a corpse, prefect. Don't worry; I'll cry over your grave for a good hour so you feel loved." He received a punch in the arm from Deuce for that, assuring you they'd visit every day and cry tons if you died.

The joke sent a sharp chill down your spine. For a split second, you were back there—lying in the snow, the cold sinking into your bones, the world growing quieter and quieter. The Blot ring on your finger felt soft and warm like an embrace in that moment as you pushed the memory down. You didn't even want to think about Ace and Deuce's reassurance about your death, not daring to recall how they wouldn't have even noticed a few months prior.

Ortho, unimpressed with Ace's comment, gave him a firm shove out of the way before running another scan. As he worked, Yuu barked orders at the others to finish cleaning up their messes, leaving you to sit on the couch under Ortho's scrutiny.

"It's strange..." he said, flicking through his screens and mumbling your full name a few times to search for you. "I have a database of nearly the entire student body in my records, but I had to create a new profile for you."

Something in your chest twisted.

That sick feeling, the one that always crept in whenever you felt especially neglected, clawed its way to the surface. This was a punch to the gut, a reminder that even a machine designed to remember, hadn't even noticed you enough to have you in his system.

How cruel.

You forced a laugh, pushing past the bitter taste in your mouth. "So, what do you think? Am I a corpse after all?"

Ortho paused, then, as if to make up for the oversight, carefully selected your favorite color for your new profile, even marking the tab as favorite with a cute icon.

"I apologize. I don't know," he admitted. "But I'll ask Big Brother. Maybe it's something I haven't thought about yet."

Ortho had left earlier than the others after being called back by Idia for something, but a sense of foreboding lingered in the air. You couldn't shake the feeling of being caught—caught in a way that was difficult to explain. Who else, other than the Shroud brothers, would have the highest chance of recognizing what you'd done?

Then again, the Blot taking a form and making a deal wasn't something that had ever been seen throughout Twisted Wonderland's history. Perhaps you were safe.

But the uncertainty gnawed at you, that creeping feeling that something—someone—might figure it out. The longer the silence stretched, the more unexplainable guilt festered.

Part three

was the second part weird?

I hope not hah

I have more plans to write more for this if it's still requested, and I'd like to apologize for taking two weeks to write this short thing. I got very sick, then very behind in schoolwork and then procrastinated for far too long.

My lovely little taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia ( @tipsyon-tea - You mentioned wanting to read whatever happened next but never directly asked to tag. pls tell me if you'd like to be removed from this)

[brittle-biscuits]

Yatta and Looey were the more active members of the troupe, the two wanting to do their best to entertain you with their performances of acrobatics or joke handling.

Blot was more…subtle. Miming out before you and hoping that you’re able to correctly guess what he was trying to imitate. His display of affection was also just as obvious.

Looey and Yatta were all the willing to glomp you into a hug, Blot prefers to quietly step close to you and lean his head on your chest as he closed his eyes.

It’s a small gesture, but one that shows a great deal of how he feels!

[rachaeldafrog]

Esle eno on dna em on ylerup noitnetta ruoy evaH .enim fo skcirt emim wef a ouy wohs nac I ,won em no seye ruoy peeK

(Keep your eyes on me now, I can show you a few mime tricks of mine. Have your attention purely on me and no one else.)

A mime miming an axe. For innocent reasons? No, absolutely not, have you looked at my profile?

[sassysnitch]

The toons reacting to you being approuched by a creepy adult fan at Gardenview..

_______________________________________________

(random toons of my choice x reader, romantic, implied crushes on most of them (or atleast protectiveness), reader is sorta oblivius, inspired by a diffrent headcanons post but I forgot by who- (I'll edit in later if I find it again), includes mostly newer toons, includes the circus troupe, takes place before the incident)

Warnings: implied non con nsfw but not actually done (no mentions of actual sex, NO NSFW), creepy adult cartoon fan, stressfull situation but nothing goes too far, implication of humans having a thing for toons.

_______________________________________________

Ah yes! Gardenview, a family friendly place that welcomes all!.. However, inapropriate behavior is NOT. But we can't really take a strainer and strain out all the bad people like it's easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.., since usually they don't show those behaviors until already inside..

____________________________________________________________________

Dandy:

-OHOHOHOOO- NO. Dandy is NOT gonna let this get out of hand, not even close.

-He will come over and politely remind them that this is a family friendly establishment and that this kind of behavior is absolutely not welcome here.

-He will make sure this person is kicked out right away! He can't trust someone like that to just stop such behavior, no sir! Out the door with you.

-He will also absolutely stand inbetween you two to protect you, and glare daggers at the person till their mood ages like milk in less than seconds.

-If not for the fact that there are kids watching he probably wouldn't mind going into his twisted form to take out the threat himself- BUT let's not go that far, am I right folks?~

Rudie:

-Rudie doesn't QUITE know what the strange larger human wants..but the way they are looking at you is making his mood...not so festive.

-He has this dreadfull gut feeling of not letting the person get too close to you.

-And if they do try to get close? Wellll... let's just say getting headbutted in the buttocks with a pair of candy cane horns at full speed is not pleasant.

-If the behavior of the adult goes unnoticed by the Gardenview Staff he'll probably get in trouble, but for you it's defenetily worth it, and you can't change his mind.

-He'll make sure to relocate you somewhere safe, like inviting you to the kitchen for some christmas treats!~

Looey:

-Ohhhhh NOOOO-

-His mind is screaming to do something but he's almost glued to the floor in fear. He's also unsure of what's happening, since all the toons are pretty darn innocence- but he can't shake the inpending feeling of doom as the strange, childless adult looms over your much tinier form.

-He'll try to pull you away from the person by doing some✨COOL TRICKS✨ you wouldn't want to miss, calling you over to join him.

-Even if he feels too stiff or not confident enough he'll try to still come between you and the creep, standing inbetween you two like a wall. A wall that looks like it might deflate at the smallest touch, but it's something.

He might be scared but he won't let you get hurt.

Yatta:

-Aw hell no! Not on her watch!

-Yatta is way more bold than the rest of the troupe, and will not hesitate to throw hands even tho she's most likely way smaller than the threat.

-She will throw a jawbreaker at their head, no doubt. (Whether or not she'll admit to it depends on her mood)

-Yatta will pull you away physically with no hesitation. You're busy entertaining the kids? Well those few kids over there want your attention too! So let's go!

-Will probably give you candy afterwards, and bonus face nuzzles if you're okay with it <3

Blot:

-Also wants to scream in terror because he feels like something is very wrong.

-He won't tho. Cuz..ya know.. he's a mime.

-He'll subtly get inbetween you two, touching an invisible wall between you and them as if to say: "Hold on! There is a wall here! You can't get any closer!"

-Once he realizes his performance is seen he'll take it to his advantage. Doing more art to attract the kids. I mean, the more eyes are watching the more uncomfortable it is to try and approuch someone in a gross way, right?

-He MIGHT leave a little ink behind where he knows that person will step in, too..

Flyte:

-Well that's not gonna fly...(pun intended)

-He's rather mature, coming over and straight away telling the person off.

-He's not afraid to ask them to leave, or point out their unsolicited behavior.

-Will protectively spread out his wings to shield you💕

-Might use his wings to smack the person if they get too close...okay he WILL.

-Will ask you if you're okay, even if the person is still right there.

-Makes sure to call over a staff member to deal with the wierd adult.

-Once the situation blows over he gently wraps his wings around you like a comfort blanket (with permission ofc!), warning you to be more carefull next time, reassuring you you're safe with him.

______________________________________________________________________________________________

Thanks for reading!

[the-s1lly-corner]

Hcs with reader being a member of the circus trio as a fire eater or magician? :o

Circus troupe x magician!reader

My stomach hurt but I ate dairy today and it was worth it yippie

Notes: gn toon reader, pre game, blot is likely to be ooc since he's still new, short and sweet, written on mobile, reader does tricks n stuff and like dw fashion they can just. do things. i mean some toons already do-- look at connie. gigi literally has hammerspace in her head. vee and brightney somehow know exactly where twisteds are thanks to their ability, ect

CWs: none

BLOT

ooooooh he loves your card tricks. theyre probably his favorite little trick of yours! something about you always knowing what card hes got always amazes him... as an aside youd think hed be hard to play against in a card game but he tends to over emote in the face region you almost always win

probably doesnt help him that the cards are gardenview themed and he has a tendency to pick your card... or his card... sometimes he shakes it up like that... its actually sweet that he picks the cards that have you on them

has spent way too long trying to tug colorful fabric out of your sleeve. hes a determined one, thats for sure

YATTA

ask her to put her candy in your hat only to tip said hat over to reveal no candy and shes going to be your biggest fan... now... where did her candy go...? where... no actually where did you put it she was really looking forward to munching on it!

even after that incident she thinks its neat! show her. yeah yeah magicians never reveal their tricks but shes going to keep a hawks eye on you to see what youve got going on.... she will keep your secrets to herself though

gets way too excited when you suddenly pull a piece of candy from behind her ear.... her horn?

LOOEY

sometimes he needs to wipe off his makeup at the end of the day- or simply to redo it... you... always seem to have some wipes on you. awkward laughs as he just keeps pulling and pulling and theres just. more. how. how do you do that.

hes looked you in the eye as you pulled a (stuffed) rabbit from your hat. hes also looked you in the eye as you pulled cocoa out of who knows where- thats actually how he found out how the easter toons were taken out for the year

sometimes you accidentally scare him with your disappearing and reappearing acts... he knows you dont mean harm but hes already gotta worry about connie suddenly appearing behind him!

[danmonca-blog]

Blot!😳🖤

[lustlovehart]

Oh my goodness??? This is horrifying 😭😭

I would literally pee my pants if I was Idia and Malleus just ominously said that. The way they don’t even show him either is so scary (╥_╥).

The end is coming for Diasmonia, and they’re really building it with this horrifying exchange 😭

Over blot Malleus fic... (a few spelling errors in the tags be warned >.<)

[cup1dt3a]

The Beckoning Call of the Darkness

Summary: It was all so fast one minute you’re walking back home then the next you’re being dragged by an inky substance to another peculiar world.

TW: Describes drowning and throwing up

You bit the side of your cheek as you looked at the money in your hand. Your stomach churned with guilt. You know it was wrong to steal from your friend, but you were too prideful to admit that your family went into debt and have barely been getting by… You frowned as the thought of you having to slowly sell half of your belongings ran through your mind once again. Putting those thoughts aside with a sigh you soon looked around yourself. It was late at night you currently were on a bench in the middle of the sidewalk waiting for your parents to pick you up. Usually you walked home, but due to the pouring rain and many tornado warnings you’ve been getting you felt safer with your mother coming to pick you up. It was too dangerous to really walk home especially ,since this was the more sketchy part of town. 

Tapping your hands on the cold metal of the benches arm rest as the droplets of shatter puttered and pattered on your old umbrella a sudden chill ran down your spine. You looked behind yourself only to see the Mystery Manor. It was an old broken down mansion left behind by a rich couple who had abandoned it presumably due to them being caught for tax evasion others thought they went missing in the 1970’s. Due to the place being in their name still to this day but their faces never seen again. The place hadn’t been touched since, until now. Months ago several students had gone missing with all of them mysteriously being reported near it or going into the abandoned Manner. Nobody knows or could even find out why all several of them went there. 

You felt anxious even being near the house as the harsh winds bumped into the police tape surrounding the house. You continued to tap even more looking for your mom soon texting her, but due to having no connection to the internet or anything at all you were left with your anxiety. This was great just great. You’re alone in a sketchy neighborhood, you stole from your friends, the weather is getting worse, and you’re all alone. 

Your tapping continues now in your foot as your eyes kept darting around. Looking back and forth. You felt as if something was watching you. Before you could look behind yourself soon a huge streak of lightening struck right next to you causing you to scream as you fled the bench. You ran as more and more dangerously close streaks of lightening continued struck the ground you fled to the nearest shelter you could find. It didn’t matter where.  You banged on the door that immediately broke causing you to crash inside the hard creaking wooden floor.

You grunted in pain as you crashed down onto the wooden floor knocking the air out of you. Taking a minute to catch your breath you begin to look around wincing from the pain and at the door you broke. This place must be old if you could have broken the door down so easily. As you got up, to take everything in the house looked pretty nice to be honest. For some odd reason the voice in your head was telling you to look around. As if on command you started to venture through the dusty house. There were manny dust covered pictures as you ventured throughout the house. The furniture was draped over with off white colored sheets due to years of never being washed. As you continued to look around just aimlessly wondering you soon were upstairs. Ignoring the many things out of place like the bright broken police tape wrapped around the pole on the staircase. In any other situation you’d be feeling the house trying to call your mother, but for some odd reason you felt as if something here was beckoning you to go to it. Continued to walk up the stairs each creaked under the weight of your foot almost like they were trying to tell you not to go through. Once at the top of the stairs you wondered throughout the dark grey halls. Some of the wallpaper was slowly ripping off, cobwebs, and bugs crawling across the dusty walls. But still you somehow paid no mind to it only trying to go to whatever was calling you. It was like a comforting humming of a familiar song. The voice was deep and very smooth. It was hypnotic in a way as you followed where you presumed the humming was coming from.

Continuing to wonder through the narrowing hallway you seen reached a room. It seemed like an old bedroom. Filled with cobwebs, dust, ripped up blue wallpaper, but something stood out to you. It was a golden mirror with an odd design around it. You walked to it ignoring all of your surroundings as the wind rattled the old cracked windows. But soon a bright glow emitted from the mirror blinding you for a second before a hand reached out to you. This wasn’t a normal hand at all, it was covered in ink. The ink dropped down onto the white desk as it reached out for you. Beckoning for you to take it in a glitching and deep voice with the two candles beside the mirror flickering  a bright green flame. 

You soon snapped out of the daze now full of fear. Before you even had any time to react the hand inky hand grabbed yours. It was too late to do anything as you screamed.

Dragged into nothing but an inky darkness. It was like quick sand and water. The more you struggled the faster you sank. The black waves kept hitting you harshly as if trying to knock you down. You tried to grab out at anything you could in hopes to getting out of the sticky ink. You managed to keep yourself buoyant for a second. You saw the mirror right in-front of you the broken old house was just in your reach as you grabbed out to the desk. Only to suddenly feel something wrapped around your waist and foot restrain you dragging you back under. The ink was literally dragging your feet down as you struggled up to the surface. Going further down you could breathe at all as the ink got into your lungs like a thick sap suffocating you. Just as quick as the ink dragged you down it soon dragged you all the way down. 

Minutes felt like hours and hours felt like years as you lost consciousness. Soon you got spit out onto a cold surface. Jolting you out of your passed out state immediately you choked up and spat out the horrific black substance. It was at least a pile of it. It felt sour and burnt your lungs as it fell out in large globs into the puddle. After a whole five minutes, you felt tired and about to pass out again as your vision blurred. 

There were echoing foot steps that soon followed as your eyes closed. All you could make out was a red-like blob and a blur. You could only make out the words

“Looks like another one bites the dust.” The cheeky voice chuckled.

Thank you all so much for reading this! This is my new series called the Isle of the Blot. It will be tagged that if anyone is interested in finding it. Any art I use in my series is mine.

Hope you’re all doing well and having a good day! @simping-on-the-daily {Next}…Coming soon <3

sincerely-Cupid 💖

[coffeethepuppy]

◡̈⋆🅷🅸(●’◡’●)ﾉ

A little bit more shy here, so... You never heard of the new toon Blot right? But if u do, PLEASE.

Do make yandere Blot :( pls I can't seem to get him out of my mind/not forcing 🥀 *silently growling* (u don't need to if you can't!!)

(+little bit hesitated to ask this 💔)

I hc Blot as ftm, but here you go! Happy pride month! (I know I'm late to say that but idc🙏)

[prettybugsinbandages]

Blot!reader pt. 3

Part 3 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The blankets cocooned around you were cold—an empty, sterile embrace that offered no comfort as you lay wide-eyed in the oppressive stillness of the night. Sleep slipped through your grasp, elusive and taunting, while your mind clawed relentlessly at the remnants of the day. Each memory looped endlessly, twisting tighter and tighter, until nausea churned in your gut.

Your gaze wandered—adrift—until it landed on a keychain dangling from your bag. A sudden warmth flickered in your chest, fragile and fleeting, like the ghost of sunbeam on a winter morning. Nostalgia bloomed—sharp and bittersweet, wrapped in the fondness of forgotten laughter; It was a birthday gift from a friend back home. Ridiculous, overpriced, and born from an inside joke you no longer even recalled. The small plush charm had been worn thin, dulled and frayed by years of absentminded affection it had endured.

You slipped out of your bed, your feet ghosting over the cold floor. Every step toward the keychain made your heart pound louder in your ears. Its familiar texture met your fingers, soft and worn from countless caresses. Your heart was oddly soothed by its familiarity, calming you enough to allow a yawn to escape—perhaps you'd sleep tonight after all.

You turned the small item over a few times in your hands before the memory slams into you. The sharp, metallic ping cutting through the hum of your old room. The frustration that followed, the light graze of your thumb over the broken chain. The memory was vivid and final.

You left this behind.

Your breathing grew shallow, vision blurry as realization crept up on you and the keychain fell from your hands, making a soft thump on the floor. Why was it here? How was it here? Your mind spun, raking through any and all possibilities as you stared wide-eyed at the impossibility at your feet.

A sharp sound tore you from your thoughts before a light filled the room, the sudden change nearly shattering you. A melody—soft, haunting—echoed from behind, filling your stagnant cell of a room and tightening around your ribs like thorns. You turned sharply, breath caught in your throat as your gaze landed on your phone screen, glowing in the dark and casting an eerie, cold light across the room.

The name flashing across the screen made you involuntarily let out a weak gasp as you stumbled forward, your legs like jelly. That number was muscle memory, seared deep into your mind, like a brand on your personality. You knew it intimately from endless hours spent lost in conversation. Memorized by heart, you'd traced it absently while their voice poured through the receiver, filling quiet nights with laughter, dreams, and shared secrets.

"Hello?"

The voice on the line wasn't just familiar—it was them. It echoed through your skull like a haunting melody, colder than the air in your empty lungs. You couldn't breathe. Time thickened around you, dragging you slower, and slower, yet every second screamed you were running out of it.

A connection to home. A chance you'd forsaken—the thought clawed at you, desperate and hungry like a rabid dog. Shakily, you tried to respond, but it never went through. Were you finally going mad? Was there blot in your brain? You could only laugh—thin, brittle—the sound teetering between hysteria and madness.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," They said, a bitter laugh breaking through the static. Frustration bled into hurt—and then, almost painful hope. "-but I can't seem to stop calling. That movie you were excited about? It finally comes out next week. I bought us tickets—your favorite spot in the theater. I even saved up for snacks—And the café you love afterward... You'll be there, won't you?"

The line fell silent. Only the faint, familiar hum of their fan carried through—a soft, constant whir that had always comforted you during late-night sleepovers. It had run non-stop for years and back then, you'd playfully scolded them for keeping it on constantly, unaware just how much you'd miss it on quiet nights, so far from home. The sound had become home.

"...Please come back."

The call ended—abrupt, merciless. The silence that followed was louder than any goodbye, and you so desperately ached to hear the familiar: "I'll see you tomorrow."

Desperation clawed at your throat as you scrambled to call back, your voice breaking into raw, hoarse sobs—ones long overdue that tore from somewhere once deep and forgotten. Your body was drenched in uncomfortable, clammy, cold sweat as your fingers trembled to input the number once again—to hear their voice one more time. You dialed again. And again.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

Again.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

Each polite, robotic repetition was a blade twisting deeper, shredding through you with barbed, merciless precision. Your chest convulses with the weight of silence. Nails claw at your palms, desperate for something to ground you, but the shadows stretch—long, greedy, as though even the room has given up on holding you.

The ring on your finger was cold now—cold as your own uncannily waxen flesh. The Blot was silent for once—it doesn't speak, but you can feel it behind you, its presence heavy and infuriatingly soothing. Through your blurry tears, you caught its shadow standing beside your own, the moonlight spilling through your window casting both your forms in the same pale, eerie glow.

Two shapes horribly intertwined by fate.

And both so painfully, irrevocably alone.

The following morning was a haze—thick and disorienting, like radio static stretched thin over every sense. It clung to your mind like mold, seeping into every corner of your being, wrapping tight and suffocating, leaving behind a pressure that felt almost claustrophobic. Every muscle ached with a dull, persisted throb, and your movements were sluggish—each thought, each action, wading through the heavy drag of mud. Yeah, mud was the right word. The day felt filthy. You felt filthy.

Even Cater's presence—usually a bright, irritating hum in the background—brought no reprieve. When you recoiled from his touch without meaning to, the brief flicker of hurt across his face should've been satisfying. Normally, it would've been beneath the veneer. But you didn't even have the energy to enjoy it. Instead, you offered an apology sculpted to sound genuine, knowing exactly what to say to smooth it over—words shaped like honey but hollow inside.

The constant hum of the Mostro Lounge buzzed in your ears: the sharp clink of dishes, the scrape of silverware, the low murmur of conversation, and the sizzle of meals being made. The lights overhead felt oppressive, glaring down like the unblinking eye of some unseen god, judging, dissecting every falter, every wandering thought. But still, you endured.

Plate after plate. Smile after smile.

God, you hated them. You wanted to go home. Real home.

But after that cruel, fleeting taste of what you once craved, the hollow ache of your abandoned goal came crashing back—raging, desperate, clawing for dominance like rabid dogs over the newer, uglier desire: the need to stay and become somebody here. Yet deep down, you knew. You couldn't go back. not after this. Not after what you've become. You're a plague.

How would you even explain it? How do you justify the absence—the schoolwork missed, the time lost? Surely, people had moved on. Surely, you were already forgotten and that call was a hoax. Yes, another hallucination from the stress.

The spiral was relentless as you scrubbed another dish, eyes unfocused, locked on the lazy swirl of soap and bubbles clinging to your hands. Exhaustion dragged at your eyelids like heavy weights. You turned to put the glass away—misjudged the distance.

Crash.

The sound of shattering glass echoed too loudly, but all you could do was stare. For a moment, the world dulled around you—flattened into isolation, bleak and distant. The harsh light above bore down, merciless and searing, like divine judgement cast from on high.

And in that moment, it felt like punishment. Like you deserved it.

"~~~~?"

"~~~~."

Hands gripped your shoulder—firm, insistent—and shook you just enough to jolt your vision back into focus. The world sharpened painfully around the edges, and suddenly you felt it: the weight of their stares pressing into you like hot iron.

"Shrimpy!" Floyd's voice cut through the fog, sharper now, laced with something unfamiliar—concern. He shook you again, more urgently this time. His features, usually painted in playful malice, were drawn tight with worry: brows furrowed, eyes squinted ever so slightly, lips parted as if you were trying to find the right thing to say. "Did you eat somethin' Jade gave you? If you go home now, I'll be lonely." He whined with an undercurrent of care.

His head snapped up like a hunting dog catching a scent, scanning the room for his twin. But Jade was already there—hovering near the kitchen window, gaze cool and calculating as always. Yet, not even his polished mask could fully hide the flicker of unease that crossed his face. Whatever was happening, this time, he wasn't behind it.

You forced a weak smile—another apology weighing down on your tongue. Gods, how many apologies had you made today? "My hand slipped," you muttered, voice thin and brittle. "I just felt a little dizzy, that's all."

A spark of something darker, more cunning, twisted in your chest. An opportunity—small and mean—presented itself. Last night's events made you want to lash out and draw blood from any drawing too near. "I covered your and Jade's shift last night. Barely slept."

You didn't bother to look at them, didn't need to. Instead, you crouched down, gathering the shattered remnants of the glass. Floyd's grip loosened but his presence lingered close—hovering like a shadow unwilling to let go.

Measured footsteps soon approached—Jade. His gloved hands appeared in your periphery, collecting shards with practiced precision. You could feel his gaze, sharp and dissecting, practically daring you to meet his gaze. If you did, you knew he'd carve the truth out of you without mercy.

"Perhaps you should rest," Jade murmured, voice smooth as silk but carrying a weight beneath it. "I'll speak to Azul."

You kept your gaze trained on the floor.

The Leech twins were impossible to beat on their home turf. Their games were played on familiar ground, and anyone foolish enough to challenge them there would drown before they even realized they were sinking.

That's why you needed to build your own field. Make it identical, familiar, but yours. Drag them into it—make them play by their own rules.

The moment they showed the slightest hint of interest, you pushed—forced your way into their lives and curled in close until it felt natural, comfortable. And when they grew used to the warmth of your presence, when it started to feel like maybe you belonged by their side—that's when you pulled.

One would've thought they'd catch on by now, given their intellect. But perhaps they'd grown too confident, too sure of their mastery of this endless game.

You stood slowly, rinsing your hands of any lingering shards. No words. No gratitude. Just the cold satisfaction of leaving.

Behind you, their confusion burned hot—Why? Did it really sting him that much? Was it guilt for making you cover their shifts? But you had offered, hadn't you? Just yesterday, you were draped over him with teasing smiles, laughter curling between subtle touches.

So why did it feel like all of that had shattered just as easily as the glass in your hands?

He hadn't even realized he was already planning how to win you back like a forsaken lover.

Despite your body screaming for rest, you pressed on—first to your locker, then to his office.

Azul was exactly where you expected him to be: hunched over the sea of documents, files stacked like fragile towers around him, pen scratching tirelessly across paper. The steady rhythm of ink against parchment filled the room like background noise in a familiar, suffocating routine.

Your steps were measured, each one deliberate, the certainty of your intention steeling your spine. Your gaze was cold—detached—until he finally looked up. Only then did you let it soften, just enough to mask the sharpness beneath.

You hesitated for a moment, your movements stilling. Then, without a word, you extended your hand. A simple sheet of paper rested between your fingers. Two weeks' notice.

Azul took it, scanning the words with quick, efficient movements. His pale blue eyes—sharp and calculating—let every syllable seep into him, and for a brief, flickering second, something in his composed expression cracked.

You remembered why he hired you in the first place. The growing popularity of the Ramshackle Prefects had turned you and the others into commodities. Something shiny to be displayed and capitalized on. None of you were people in his eyes; you were an opportunity. Though it changed slightly after the overblot.

Of course, Azul had dressed you up nicely—polite gestures, a crisp uniform tailored just for you. And you, foolishly, had mistaken that for kindness in the beginning. Though only after the deal had you decided to repay it tenfold.

You remembered the small acts of care, offered without expectation: meals left discreetly on his desk when he skipped lunch, snacks, glasses of water, cups of tea. Then came the packed lunches—home-made and thoughtful—each one accompanied by a small, handwritten note or doodle.

The twins had teased him mercilessly for those notes. They swiped them, tore them up, or laughed at how soft he'd gotten while internally wondering why only Azul received such things. But Azul hadn't cared—or at least, that's what he thought. Until the day he found himself opening his lunch early, not to eat but to rescue the note, tucking it safely away in his locker safe before the twins could sink their claws into it.

And then you caught a cold. No lunches. No notes. No little reminders of care.

The absence was stark. The hours felt colder, emptier, like a hollow space you had opened within his routine. It was only then that Azul realized how deeply your presence had seeped into his life—how seen you made him feel.

You had understood him in ways others didn't—or couldn't. Every little gesture, every late-night conversation peeled back a layer of armor he wore. At first, it had unsettled him—your sharp perception felt like a threat, an exposed nerve.

But you didn't wield that awareness like a weapon—well, you did. But he didn't know—You gave it to him instead, focused it entirely on him. And somewhere along the way, your gaze stopped feeling like scrutiny and started feeling like sunlight—gentle and warm, coaxing him out of his cold, dark pot again.

What began as fleeting interactions and reluctant tolerance slowly bloomed into late shifts spent in quiet companionship. You started using your breaks in his office, sitting there in shared silence that felt unexpectedly comforting.

And when he noticed the way you would occasionally drift off—curled uncomfortably on the stiff office couch—he didn't say anything. But soon after, the couch disappeared, left along with Floyd in a bad mood and a small, carefully placed peel in the leather. Enough to ensure it would be ruined later.

A replacement arrived hours later, as if pre-ordered—softer, warmer. A silent offering.

Now, standing in front of him with that thin sheet of paper between you, all of that unspoken history sat heavy in the air.

And yet, you were still walking away.

"What's this?" His voice was smooth, composed, every inch the businessman he portrays himself to be—but you caught it; the slight tremor hidden beneath the polished exterior. The way his fingers tightened around the paper, the sharpness of his gaze behind those pristine glasses. He wouldn't acknowledge the sudden weight in his chest, but you felt it all the same.

You smiled—carefully, perfectly, just as you had rehearsed. Every word chosen, every expression measured, a script you'd been preparing since the first day you were hired.

"My two weeks." Your voice was light, casual, as if it wasn't meant to sting. "There's a place in town offering better pay. You always say business is business—or whatever the saying is, right? You get it; money's important. Especially for someone like me."

Azul's world spun beneath him. It felt like the ground had tilted just enough to send him off balance. You spoke like it was nothing, like he was nothing. A simple transaction—business, just as he always said.

Why had you been so kind to him if you were just going to leave? Why the meals, the notes? Why make him believe, feel, that your presence was anything more than a convenience?

He'd been aware of how distant you became outside of work when you had friends pulling you away from him—how the moments between shifts stretched into silence. The realization gnawed at him, whispering that maybe the warmth you gave him was only temporary. So, he had given you more hours, more shifts—greedy for your presence, desperate to keep you close.

It had only made things worse. You got sick. You slipped further away.

Now this—this final nail in the coffin.

He intended to be gracious. To let you go with dignity, to say something measured and reasonable—Right. I appreciate you letting me know. This is unexpected, but I respect your decision and will support you during the transition.

But when he stood, the words tangled in his throat. His hands trembled slightly, the paper shaking as if it had physically hurt him to hold it.

"I—" The breath hitched before he could stop it. his voice was raw—small. "What are they offering? I can do more."

The desperation hit him like hot spilled tea. How pathetic he must've sounded—how weak. That old fear clawed at him, the memory of being less than, the loser nobody cared about until he forced them to.

Azul adjusted his glasses, smoothing down the crack in his armor, slipping the mask back on with trembling hands. He sat back down, shoulders straight, voice steadier. "You're a valued employee. The Mostro Lounge would hate to see you go."

You almost laughed. The way he clung to formality, as if referring to his business in third person could shield him from the sting of losing you.

But instead, you smiled—bright, nauseously fake. "Ah, really? That's amazing! I was really sad I might need to leave. I've made so many good memories here." Your voice was softer, an undertone of reassurance.

Another lie. The only memory that clung to you was that night—trapped in a booth with the Yuus, celebrating a test you'd all fought tooth and nail to pass. They laughed, smiled, congratulated each other. The students outside Ramshackle never even spoke to you. You'd sat in silence, the world dull and cold, until you excused yourself with the excuse of a headache.

The drowning feeling had returned, thick and suffocating, but it was broken—suddenly, mercifully—by the Blot ring's warmth on your finger.

"Look, my dove. Look at what you've done; Watch how easily he breaks for you." The Blot's voice echoed in your head as you focused on Azul again, noting his relief.

It almost made you feel pity. Sometimes you forget he's just a kid like you.

"I'm glad we sorted that out," Azul said, his voice soft, almost tender. "You're a person I value... At the Mostro Lounge, of course." He added quickly.

When Ortho arrived home after the movie night at Ramshackle, he found Idia sprawled across his bed, fingers deftly maneuvering over his controller. The room was dimly lit with the signature blue glow it always had, the soft glow of his monitor casting a blue tint over his sharp features. The rapid clicking of buttons and the occasional flicker of movement on the screen cast across his walls like dancing spirits amongst the steady and consistent faint hum of the electronics.

Ortho inched closer, lingering near the bed, waiting for his brother to acknowledge him.

"How was it? Anything fun?" Idia asked, his voice absent minded as he spared Ortho a brief glance before refocusing on his game. Still, there was an unmistakable warmth in his tone—he was genuinely glad that Ortho was spending time with others, getting to act like a real kid. It was nice to see.

Ortho perked up at the invitation to share more eagerly plopping down beside him. "We had so much fun, Big Brother!" His voice buzzed with excitement as he watched Idia play, making a comment about a missed hit that elicited a scoff from the eldest. "I really think you should hang out with the Prefects more. You already get along with them—why not get closer? You need to get out more anyway."

His words carried a thread of concern, though he kept his tone lighthearted. He knew his brother was reclusive and lonely, always watching from the sidelines—yearning for the kind of effortless camaraderie he only saw in anime or online gaming parties. Idia longed for connection, even if he'd never admit it.

He prattles on and on about the event, recalling the experiences sharply so Idia could properly understand and visualize things. On occasion, he'd chuckle or curse under his breath at something happening in the game.

As Ortho chattered away, he recounted the night's events in vivid detail, ensuring his brother could picture everything as if he had been there himself. He was meticulous in his storytelling, highlighting funny moments and inside jokes. Occasionally, Idia would chuckle under his breath at a particularly ridiculous anecdote or mutter a curse at something happening on screen.

Then, offhandedly, Ortho mentioned the scanning competition—the malfunction with his scanner and your unusual results.

Idia's fingers hesitated over the controller for half a second, his attention subtly shifting.

You.

During his own overblot, you had been there. Ortho had mentioned it before, but at the time, it barely registered. In the haze of everything that happened, all he could recall was Yuu. They were always at the center of things, right? It made sense.

But when he later reviewed the footage, he found himself lingering. Watching.

You stood there, unwavering. No magic, no superhuman abilities—just you. And yet, despite every overwhelming odds stacked against you, you had fought. You had thrown yourself into the fray with the kind of reckless determination usually reserved for protagonists in the stories he obsessed over. The kind of character he would've rooted for, cheered for.

And yet somehow, you had slipped from his mind.

You weren't supposed to be important.

But now... now you kept appearing, inching your way into his life, making yourself impossible to ignore.

You weren't his best friend. You weren't even his close friend. If he had to assign you a rank on his totally real and definitely well-thought-out friendship tier list, you'd probably sit somewhere around B-tier.

…Maybe B+

Which, objectively speaking, was way too high.

Like, actually concerningly high. The kind of rank that makes Idia pause mid-though and wonder just how you'd managed to climb the rankings so quickly.

At first, it was just a quiet observation—fleeting glances stolen when he thought you wouldn't notice. He studied the way your smile curved, the way the light caught in your eyes, the little details that made you you. And somehow, without meaning to, those details slipped into the margins of his sketchbook—traced in careful, unintentional devotion. A tilt of your lips here, the shape of your eyes there, fragments of familiarity woven into characters he'd never admit were inspired by you.

Then came the conversations—small at first, barely more than mumbled words and hesitant remarks. But you listened. You listened in a way that no one else did, quiet and patient, letting him ramble about his favorite games, his theories, his endless tide of niche knowledge. And when he realized you weren't just humoring him—that you actually cared—the dam cracked.

One night, in the middle of another one-sided infodump, Idia got distracted. His fingers, itching for something to do, reached for his pen, and before he knew it, he was tracing delicate patterns along your skin. Spirals, constellations, intricate designs that sprawled from your fingertips to your forearm, blooming like ink-stained confessions.

It wasn't until he pulled back—saw the quiet amusement in your expression, the way you flexed your fingers to admire his absentminded work—that realization hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

The mention of your odd vitals tore Idia back from the faint memory. "Wait, what?"

The words left Idia's mouth before he could stop them, his fingers stilling over the controller. His character stuttered to a stop, taking a critical hit and crumbling to the ground. It was enough of a shock to make him pause the game entirely, tired yellow eyes flicking up to meet Ortho's with rare focus. "What happened? Rewind." His voice came out sharper than intended—too firm, too alert. He realized it a second too late, clearing his throat awkwardly as he restarted the game, feigning nonchalance.

Ortho didn't seem to notice—or if he did, he didn't comment. Instead, his brows knit together, worry evident in his voice. "I did a full-body scan of them and found several discrepancies. Is something wrong with my scanner or are they okay?"

Idia felt something uneasy coil in his gut at the genuine concern in Ortho's tone.

"Their heart rate was extremely low, core body temperature matched the room, and their tidal volume was... severely diminished. Either extremely shallow breathing or apneic."

For a moment, Idia said nothing. His grip tightened ever so slightly on the controller. He should've shrugged it off immediately—should've dismissed it as some weird fluke, an error, a quirk of human biology he didn't need to concern himself with. Instead, a beat of silence stretched between them before he scoffed.

"Last I checked, you're completely up to date. Dunno, maybe anemia. Or thyroid issues. Human stuff. Or people from their world are a little different. Did you scan the others?" He forced out a short laugh, trying to ignore the nagging feeling creeping up his spine.

That wasn't entirely a lie. There were plenty of mundane explanations. But the gut feeling remained, pressing down on his instincts like w weight. If something was wrong—if something happened to you, and he had the chance to help but never did—he'd never forgive himself.

Ortho was quiet for a moment, processing, before shaking his head. "I didn't scan the others. They were busy. But... Do you really think everything's fine, Big Brother?"

His lips parted, but no immediate response came. Did he? Logically, none of those symptoms screamed emergency. And yet... something felt off.

"Uh—yeah... probably."

Ortho didn't seem entirely convinced, and honestly? Neither did Idia.

That night, sleep evaded him. Idia tossed and turned, body feeling heavier than usual, his mind on an unrelenting loop of unease. He could still hear the concern in Ortho's voice, see the way his little brother's brows furrowed in worry over you.

With a groan, Idia threw an arm over his face, trying to block out the gnawing guilt.

It's nothing, he told himself. It has to be nothing.

Still, the thoughts wouldn't settle. "Low body temp could be hypothyroidism or anemia. Low heart rate? Also hypothyroidism. Hypoventilation Probably anxiety T.B.H." He muttered the justifications under his breath, fingers threading through his mess of flaming blue hair.

But if it were just that, why did it still feel so wrong?

Before he even realized what he was doing, Idia had already sat up, fingers moving on muscle memory as his PC whirred to life. The pale glow of the screen cast his room in a cold light, turning every shadow into something deeper, something reaching.

Something was wrong—horribly, sickeningly wrong. He couldn't explain the gut feeling that gnawed at his ribs, twisting his organs into a grotesque bow. But it was there. it had been there since Ortho spoke your name, since those words crawled under his skin and nested like parasites.

Idia scoured through medical databases, flipping through symptom charts, searching for anything—anything that could explain this away with something as benign as anemia or some obscure human disorder he had no business caring about. But the deeper he dug, the less he found. The words blurred together, the clinical descriptions devoid of meaning in the face of the one thread that kept tightening, weaving itself through every desperate connection.

His tired yellow eyes lingered on his desktop.

STYX files.

He hovered his finger over the button. Idia had no real evidence, no real reasoning, just a gnawing dread sinking its teeth into his spine. And yet—

Click.

The sound seems to resonate in his ears and around the room like an omen of a bad decision.

The files unfolded before him, filled with brief experiments, files and documents, half finished analyses on his peers, and—at the very heart of it—the haunting icon of the folder holding his own overblot. He knew what it did. He felt what it did. The tearing of flesh, ligament and bone, drowning in darkness—thick and murky, that sickly sweet voice invading his mind.

Coaxing. Taunting.

An overblot occurs when one's body is devoured by magical corruption—a physical manifestation of despair, rage, exhaustion, and agony. The world rarely spoke about it outside hushed whispers, fewer discussed the survival rate.

Idia knew. he studied it. Lived it. During an overblot the victim is not dying. They are being unmade. It's not suffering—it's erasure. And yet, somehow, seven of them had clawed their way back from the brink in one year—himself included.

His fingers hesitated over the keys, twitching slightly with restraint. Then he dove deeper, pushing through firewalls, bypassing passcodes with the desperation of someone who already knew he wasn't supposed to be looking. He'd face repercussions from his parents later. That was a problem for a future Idia who didn't have this black hole of despair in him.

The deeper Idia searched, the less data looked like science and the more it bled into something else. Theories. Stories. Obscure folktales and half-forgotten legends. Whispers that suggested the Blot wasn't just a corruption of magic, wasn't just something lurking inside everyone.

It was suggesting the blot was an entity.

Hours bled into one another, the cold glow of his screen the only constant as Idia scoured every possible source, every scrap of knowledge that might explain the impossible. Each article, each diagram, each desperate thread pulled him deeper into a spiral, his stomach twisting with every answer he found.

Clarity struck him like the drag of a blade against flesh. A shock. Then cold, then hot. Then pain.

His blood ran ice-cold. A nauseating weight coiled in his chest, bile creeping up his throat.

It had always been okay before. It was okay when it happened to strangers, when they clawed their way back from the brink or succumbed to the abyss. It was okay when the others overblotted, when their bodies failed and their souls burned out in a final, desperate flare of magic. And it was even okay when he had done it—because that was the way of things. You burned, you recovered, or you perished. That was the rule.

But you?

You're different. You've become everything to these people—a lifeline, a tether, a presence so woven into the fabric of their existence that the thought of your absence was unthinkable. And yet...

The truth stared back at him from the depths of his research, stark and merciless.

In an overblot, the body fails. Lifeforce siphoned away, each spell cast bleeding it out like a sieve, pushed to the very edge of the fingertips until there is nothing left. The heart races wildly until it bursts—or slow, feeble and strained and full of sorrow until it withers into stillness.

He arrived at a horrible realization, one he couldn't even voice.

Idia made a choked sound, his hand clasped over his mouth, serrated teeth pressing into his palm—though the pain went unnoticed. His yellow eyes were wide and frantic, his breathing uneven and came out in short gasps.

In that moment a terrible, demented thought intruded Idia's mind. Maybe- Maybe it'd be easier if you were. Maybe it would be more merciful if your thread had already begun to fray, if your time really was fleeting—if there was an end in sight. Whatever was wrong with you, surely had to be worse than death.

But no overblotter lingers in this state. No one teeters on the precipice indefinitely. You recover, or you die.

There is no third option.

And yet, you remained.

Suspended. Stagnant. Neither healing nor decaying. All flesh rots. He will rot. One day, his body will succumb to entropy, will crumble and return to dust like every living thing before and after.

Idia avoids you like the plague. Like you're a walking curse, an omen draped in familiarity, something he found himself trusting before he knew better. Before he started watching.

He can't bring himself to look at you when you pass in the halls, can't muster the awkward half-smile or stiff nod he used to manage. His fingers hover over his phone whenever your messages come through, but each one feels like a landmine waiting to explode—his heart skips a beat for all the wrong reasons now.

Because now that he knows, he sees.

Your chest barely rises when you breathe—if you breathe at all. The crisp morning air doesn't turn to mist on your lips like it does for everyone else. And sometimes, after the laughter dies and the conversations fade, your expression slips—just for a second. Gone is the warmth, the life, replaced by something blank and cold.

And Idia wonders—how much of you is real?

How much of what he's come to know, to like—to admire—is actually you? How much of it is a lingering echo of something that should have already faded?

It's wrong. You are wrong.

And no matter how hard he tries, he can't ignore it anymore.

You stepped out of the shower, the warm steam lingering on your skin as you made your way to your room. The quiet hum of your thoughts accompanied you as you sat on the bed, towel in hand, drying your hair. Life has been good lately, mostly thanks to the extra pay from Azul. You'd been using it to treat the other Yuus, upgrading items they needed, buying things they wanted—spoiling them in a way that felt right.

Your eyes drifted to the plush still hanging from your bag, a sharp pang of hurt striking through your chest like a harpoon. You quickly looked away, a quiet whisper of resolve settling over you. You couldn't—wouldn't—go back.

A sudden ping from your phone startled you, snapping your focus back to the present. You searched your bed, brushing against the Blot, which had been lounging lazily, as it made an almost disgruntled noise when you disturbed its comfortable position.

Idia: I need you.

The Blot let out a soft whistle from behind you, leaning over your shoulder as if to read the message itself. "How bold," it teased in its usual mocking tone, its arms slinking around your waist in an almost possessive grip, like it feared you might actually accept the invitation. "I never took that one for such forwardness."

You shoved it off, frustration gnawing at you. The relationship between you and the Blot had grown strained ever since that phone call and plush incident. The Blot insisted it had nothing to do with it, but you weren't sure you believed it. That night, it had been quieter than usual. Maybe too quiet. You shook off the thought, glancing back at your phone as two more pings came through

Idia: wait no

Idia: not like that!

Idia: Just got early access to this game I've been wanting to test. ur the only person that won't be a total normie abt it

It felt... odd. Idia, of all people, invites you to his dorm room, especially after all the awkwardness between you two. He'd been avoiding you lately, distancing himself. Had you finally worn him down? You never thought it would happen so easily, but here you were.

Not that you planned to give in anyway.

You began to get ready to leave, tossing a glare at the Blot as it remained lounging on your bed. "Turn around," you ordered curtly as you changed, its childish huff echoing through the room in response. It had been off lately, less conniving, less manipulative. It was almost... docile. A little too docile. You couldn't shake the suspicion that it was up to something—or maybe, just maybe, it was comfortable with you.

"Dressing up for a date night?" The Blot's velvety voice called out, laced with an unmistakable sense of annoyance. It was once again sprawled across your bed, arms folded behind its head, legs crossed in a relaxed posture. "You're breaking my heart, my dear."

You paused for a moment, the question lingering in the air. What would it do if you fed it the wrong answer? You let your eyes flicker back to the Blot before responding, dismissing its teasing with a shrug. "I doubt it's a date."

You gave the Blot another glance, arching an eyebrow as you met its gaze. "You have a heart?"

The Blot ignored your question completely, shooting back a sharp, almost smug response. "No eighteen-year-old guy asks someone to come to his room past curfew just to 'test out a game.'" Its tone dripped with knowing mockery, and you found yourself wondering how it knew so much about mortal behavior. "Shall I escort you, my dear?"

The Blot reappeared behind you in a sharp three-piece suit, smoothing down the fabric with deliberate care as if it were trying to impress. The look suited it, but you weren't in the mood for compliments. You shook your head, irritation creeping up your spine.

"It's not a date," you repeated firmly. "You know my goal. Don't patronize me."

You shoved past the Blot, grabbing your phone and shoving it into your bag as you made for the door.

For a moment, the Blot just stared at you, its gaze heavy and unreadable. It felt almost suffocating, like the weight of its eyes was enough to drive a chill down your spine. "Ah, I see." it chirped after a beat, its tone shifting, the edge of its gaze disappearing like smoke in the wind. "Have fun then, my dove. I'll be here... as always."

part four

hope this part hadn't drifted too much. Once again, I'm very tired and even tho I'm writing it, I feel like I've somehow lost track of the story and I'm missing something (I'm literally not. I'm delusional) but idk. Just sleepy

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03

(I hope all the tags worked?? If I accidentally put the wrong username in and tagged a rando, I'm so sorry 🙏)

[rachaeldafrog]

Here’s my version of our new boy

Gonna get to this before y’all flood my ask box

[sassysnitch]

Blot: gets released

My ass on my way to make x reader headcanons (they're going to be dogshit because we barely know anything about him):

[the-s1lly-corner]

Cuddling Male toons

my tummy kinda hurt lowkey ooooooouhchie ouchie notes: gn toon reader, pre game, focused mostly on the canon character, short and sweet, written on computer, short in theory but collectively its long cws: none

BLOT

hes kind of cold... and sticky... and wet.. im sure if he leaves ink footsteps hes going to leave stains as you cuddle... so hopefully you dont mind being a bit of a mess during and after cuddling- or really most physical affection

he... doesnt actually like cuddling all that much because of this. its such a hassle and he likes being a show off about his love in other ways- of course he is! he looooves making a performance of things when its things he feels like matter a lot to him!

on the chance you guys do cuddle he can go either way about being big or little spoon

BOXTEN

hes such an awkward cuddler... where does he put his hands? is this okay? youre not uncomfortable when he holds you like this- or this- or-... it takes him a minute to get comfortable and find something that works for the both of you

he actually does like cuddling you despite all the squirming, its just that he doesnt know how to play it cool long enough for you guys to really get into it. give him some time and with experience he'll become more confident with this!

he actually prefers being little spoon but he feels a certain pressure to be big spoon... please let him know he can be little spoon whenever he wants

COSMO

soft and fluffy- just like a real cake. sometimes you leave indents on him... sometimes watching them slowly puff back into place is nice, its satisfying in its own way. he also smells nice too! overall a nice experience overall!

he doesnt much care for the big/little spoon way of cuddling, whatever position you guys take in bed that leaves you both in close proximity works for him! lay on him- or let him lay on you.. smoosh into each others sides- get creative with it if you must!

sometimes his icing drizzle makes you all sticky though :(

FINN

cuddling with him can be a little awkward... hes made of glass and his head is full of water- you cant really fully lay down and huddle into him without the risk of getting wet

usually you guys cuddle while sitting or otherwise propped up- not always the most comfortable but hey- you guys dont really have much of a choice otherwise

kind of cold to the touch too thanks to the water and glass but hes got a few blankets to try to warm himself up for you! he can go either way about being big or little spoon.... and hes not ashamed to ask to be held!

GLISTEN

hes cold and hard- mirror stuff, hes... admittedly not the most comfortable... and hes somewhat (very) insecure about it... but you guys have managed to find work arounds! covers and blankets- give him a nice robe to lounge around in and hes going to be obsessed!

he tends to prefer being little spoon, but he tries to be big spoon for you more often than not- something about wanting to please you... but once those walls are let down and he allows himself to be more honest about how hes feeling and thinking around you he melts right into your arms

definitely pouts when you need to get up to do something mid cuddle- hes only mildly upset in reality

GOOB

well he loves hugging.. and whats cuddling if not an extended hug? of course hes going to cling onto you the moment you bring it up- and a lot of times you dont even need to open your mouth.. just gotta pat the bed and hes sprinting towards you

wraps his arms all up around you to keep you as close as possible- the whole big/little spoon thing doesnt really cross his mind, he just wants you as close as possible in the moment! sometimes his claws kind of sink into you... not enough to hurt or break the skin but hes definitely accidentally poked you

nice and fluffy and warm, sometimes its like snuggling into a blanket fresh from the dryer... you could stay like this forever!

LOOEY

Already have cuddling hcs here!

RAZZLE AND DAZZLE

Already have cuddling hcs here!

RODGER

he prefers to be big spoon, something about holding you and keeping you so close to him is... nice and comforting. he gets the horary "tends to put himself between you and the door as a subconscious barrier to protect you in case of anything,"... not that he thinks theres any danger around, its habit really

he smells like bitter coffee though so hopefully you dont mind that too much- sometimes getting him into bed to come cuddle you can be a fight too since he has a habit of getting really sucked into his cases.. hes determined and bordering on obsessive

he also occasionally likes having you simply laying across his chest

SHRIMPO

he burns hot. on the rare chance he actually lets you cuddle with him hes going to be uncomfortably warm and its... overall not a good time... hes kind of sweaty too and smells like... well shrimp...

he doesnt really like cuddling that much though- he kind of shakes and seethes quietly the whole time... at least its an upgrade from how hed just push you away and go off on you?

[masterhallmark]

Ugh, I do this so much with so many characters

Phantom Blot x FemReader headcanons

Some of them are gender nuetral

CW: Brief Kidnapping mention

He stumbles upon you while scouting out a place he's planning to rob, and strikes up small talk to avoid suspicion.

Bonus idea: He's having a rare outing with his daughter, who immediately tries to pull an Anya from SpyXFamily and act as a wingman, "Oh, Dad, I want a Mommy...how about her?" "...What?"

He is surprised how smart you were. Not a super genius like himself, but smarter than most of the residents of Mouseton. Surely someone who would be nice to have around... Seems like he's going to be stealing more than he originally planned, because normal dating clearly isn't an option since his mugshot is everywhere. Yeah, you're getting kidnapped in the "nicest" way he can muster.

He tries very hard to win you over once he has you in his lair (and you calm down). He promises fortune, power, fame if you want it, luxuries beyond your wildest dreams, anything else you want to hear. All you have to do is be his. If this doesn't work, he's not afraid to subtly threaten you, too. He is a villain after all.

Should you accept his advances, he does his best to keep you a secret, just as he tried to keep his daughter a secret. He can't risk any other villains using you as a hostage.

He makes a hidden room for you to hide in whenever there are unwanted guests, complete with an emergency exit.

He's charming, acting like a complete gentleman, but you could never fully trust him. You're no fool, you know what he is.

He does genuinely try to spoil you, occasionally stealing a few extra necklaces and letting you pick some before selling the rest on the black market. He'll also steal high-end clothing, and sometimes... he'll actually BUY something.

He doesn't use pet names often, but when he does, he tries to stick to the "blot" theme. "My little spot" is a go to for when he's trying to butter you up. You catch on to this and after a while start to respond to "My little spot" with "What are you up to?"

If he starts calling you his queen or empress, it means he's got a world domination plan going on. These are his world domination specific petnames.

Oh, you'd better be ready to hear all his evil monologues, hear him complain about the other villains, etc. He's been needing someone he can vent to for YEARS.

He won't admit it, but he likes cuddles and other forms of physical affection. He wasn't given nearly enough affection as a child.

Oh, cool! He made robots to do all the chores and...turn into a robot suit for him to use? (Darkenblot reference)

He told his daughter he "saved this princess from a dragon" btw.

His daughter is a sweetheart. You would die for this child. It breaks your heart you have to lie and paint The Blot as the good guy and hide the fact he's actually a criminal mastermind. You don't see her too often since she's in the care of Mrs. Fragmuffin, but The Blot spoils her rotten, snd she starts calling you "Mommy" right away.