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mighty-ant · 2 years

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Lab Rat

The best way to describe Alador’s personal laboratory, in his personal opinion, is ‘organized chaos.’

Darius prefers ‘greasy chip-bag infested hovel that wouldn’t look out of place in the deepest corner of Latissa, honestly, darling, don’t you know what Hex Mix does to your cholesterol?’

Alador’s alway been a man of few words, so he’s more inclined to use his name for it.

On that subject, he can’t remember the last time he spoke today. To another person, that is.

Mittens popped her head in for a moment, didn’t she?

Yes, to remind him not to expect her back until tomorrow afternoon because she and Hunter were having dinner at Camila’s, and would be staying the night.

And Edric, he’d shouted something down the stairs–which was a terrible habit Alador really should try to get them to break, as someone who was learning to be a responsible parent, but he remembers the choking silence of his ancestral home all too well, the pressure to perform and achieve and connive like a noose that tightened and loosened but could never be ripped away, so maybe his children deserved to be loud and disruptive without the fear of what punishment would follow–something about…dinner?

Elbow deep in the guts and inner mechanisms of his 35th Abomaton of the day, Alador lost track of time 34 Abomatons ago.

He does good work, unfortunately–hack or otherwise. His creations are legion, and very difficult to destroy. Rather than force a responsible group of volunteers to waste the energy in destroying every single Abomaton with whatever magic at their disposal, Alador petitioned the newly formed Bonesborough Council of Witches and Demons for permission to manually deactivate however many Abomatons they saw fit to send his way.

He’s certain that they only agreed because Darius is a councilmember–why else would they trust the very witch responsible for handing Belos an indestructible, unfeeling army in the first place? An army that imprisoned thousands to die in the Emperor's coliseum, writhing in agony as their sigils burned them alive from the inside out. An army that fired on children and almost killed his youngest daughter.

None of this was his intent when he was churning out Abomatons under Odalia’s punishing deadlines, but intent hardly matters. It happened, and they all have the scars to show for it.

The four months he spent locked away, shuttled between his personal laboratory beneath the manor and the one attached to the factory, surviving off cold coffee and Hex Mix, developing a permanent tremor in his left hand, and collapsing from exhaustion on the floor only to be prodded awake by the toe of Odalia’s boot–it was supposed to be worth it, in the end. By supplying the Emperor with enforcers, they were securing their children’s futures and Alador was able to keep them from joining the family business for just a little bit longer. They’d be able to continue living their lives like the teenagers they are, even if he couldn't be a part of it.

Of course, that was all supposed to change. The Bonesborough Brawl had been a wakeup call.

Alador remembers summoning abominations for his children to ride on when they were small, giggling as they raced through the garden. While Edric and Emira would goad their abominations to trip the other, Mittens always hurried back to him, eager to leap off the abomination’s back and into his arms. “Catch me, Daddy! Catch me!” she would trill, and Alador always did. Back when her hair was still the same shade of brown as his own and the bags under his eyes weren’t yet permanently etched into his skin.

At the Bonesborough Brawl, Amity would rather shake his hand than allow him to hug her. And it hit him then; when was the last time he had hugged his youngest daughter? Or Emira and Edric for that matter? It was chilling, realizing he couldn’t recall.

But Alador was too busy to do anything about it then. Odalia’s threats were like a finely sharpened blade pricking at his skin, a hundred individual nicks poised to bleed him dry. After the Day of Unity, he’d resolved. The Day of Unity was meant to be a respite. A break, at long last.

He thought that maybe he and the children could go away for a while. His mother had kept a summer home on the Knee for when the weather in Bonesborough turned stifling with boiling humidity. In the early years of his marriage, when Mittens was barely walking, they had visited often. He found himself missing those days of quiet leisure, when Odalia’s hand on the small of his back was a comfort rather than a warning.

Alador had never been the sort to entertain running away from anything, even as a child–there was the Blight family name to uphold, after all. But he had begun to realize that maybe none of them were happy with their lives. None except Odalia, who was the only one getting what she wanted. Two of his children wore concealment stones to hide their true, dear faces and their youngest changing her hair color was treated like an insidious betrayal. Alador and his wife hadn’t even slept in the same bed for the last five years.

The cracks were there, concealing a far deadlier rot. The empty husk of his marriage. The true purpose of the Day of Unity. Odalia’s eager and willing complicity with the deaths of thousands.

Odalia might have been poison for their children, but Alador wasn’t any better for keeping the antidote from them. He’s learning, again, how to be a father. As much as they will allow him to, and it’s slow going. It makes hiding that much easier, that much more deserved. Down here, deep in his new laboratory that’s gaining the same stains as the old one but holds none of the bad memories, he can put one of his few skills to use and do something tangible to fix one out of a long list of mistakes.

With a satisfying crunch, the control circuit for Abomaton #37 gives way under Alador’s hand. Without it, the abombination’s bipedal form loses shape and slumps into a purple and gold mass of goo, spilling out over his lab table and splattering onto his smock and boots. Alador lets out a breath, relief sending a momentary but heady rush through his body. The dark clouds in his mind clear with the physical reminder that he is doing good work. Finally.

A warm, heavy weight drapes itself over Alador’s back, startling him with its newness as much as its unexpectedness. Two broad arms wind themselves around his shoulders, and a hand splays over his heart with a palm that warms even through his layers.

In the past, when Alador slacked off in the lab as he’s doing now, Odalia would sometimes grip the back of his neck. It wasn’t painful, usually. She didn’t leave bruises. Perhaps because they would be difficult to hide with his pale skin, but it’s not like he went out in public much anyway. But she would grip him by the back of the neck with five icy fingers, like a disobedient pet, and force his head down. A slave to his work.

“Focus, dear. Our next board meeting is already in another six weeks.”

In the present, Darius drops his forehead onto the back of Alador’s neck, his breath fanning across his skin and beneath his collar. Alador shivers, though he’s never felt warmer/from scorching heat, rather than cold.

“Darling,” Darius mumbles. “Dearest. Do you know what time it is?”

Alador reaches up, squeezes Darius’ wrist. His eyes burn and he’s having difficulty blinking. He wonders how long that’s been going on. “Ah. It’s…late?” he ventures.

“Alador.” He winces at Darius’ dry tone. “You know, you have windows in here for a reason. So that you know when the sun has set.”

Alador doesn’t bother looking out the aforementioned windows now. It’s been a few hours at least since the encroaching dark put too much of a strain on his eyes and he activated a handful of light glyphs.

“Sorry, honey,” he sighs, leaning back into the sturdy expanse of Darius’ chest. The circle of his arms tightens and he takes Alador’s weight without complaint, adjusting his stance so that neither of them is sent toppling. “I appreciate the windows. I just lost track of time.” Alador closes his eyes, almost instinctively at this point, as Darius raises his head from Alador’s shoulder to kiss a line along the back of his neck, up behind his ear. The ministrations have Alador’s knees threatening to buckle, and his next words stutter out of him on a sigh. “I just…need another hour or so to…to finish up.”

Darius bites the shell of his ear in reprimand, not too hard, but also not hard enough. “What you need is a shower, love. And about twenty hours of sleep,” he mutters.

Alador huffs a laugh, too tired to be aroused, but comforted by Darius’ undemanding nearness, their easy intimacy. It wasn’t always so, fraught at the start by the years of scorn after their painful parting at graduation and the cruelties they hurled at each other under Odalia’s watchful eye. It took slow, halting steps to master the dance they have now, the give and take, the gentle reciprocity. Love, of a sort Alador had once forgotten existed.

Darius’ arms slip down to wrap around Alador’s waist, molding his chest to Alador’s back until there’s scant space left between their bodies. Darius is taller and broader than him by several degrees, but instead of feeling trapped by the embrace, Alador feels secure in a way he seldom has in the last few years. There’s no threat or price attached to Darius’ affection—it is freely given, to himself and to their brood of teenage witchlings. He takes Alador’s hand, drops a kiss on the back of his scarred knuckles, because he wants to. Because Alador welcomes him.

Alador doesn’t deserve him, or this new lab with windows that let in the sun, or this second chance at fatherhood. He doesn’t deserve it, but he’ll be thrice damned before he lets it go. Even if it means, sometimes, leaving his work incomplete.

“Okay,” Alador sighs, admitting defeat. “Take me to bed.”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Darius tightens his grip before teleporting them to their bedroom.

#the promised dalador fic #from like several weeks ago #post-king's tide #like happily ever after nobody dies #alador in his divorce era #dalador #ant writes #owl house #the owl house #toh #alador blight #darius deamonne #toh fic #toh spoilers

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thetrashiestbaby · 1 year

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This picture kills me every single time I see it, because you can tell so much from each character just based on how they’re holding themselves,

Willow hunched over, trying to make herself look as small as possible. Every insecurity she’s ever felt has just come back in tenfold and she wants to disappear, make herself look as small as she fells, take up as little space possible. She feels vulnerable and useless.

Amity stands posit and perfect, trying to hold herself respectfully and gracefully. No doubt how she would have been expected to act at every fancy party, with every one of her families clients. She’s been trained how to treat adults and in her moment of fear and uncertainty it’s all she can fall back on, she doesn’t know what’s she’s feeling or what they’re going to do next but she knows how to politely greet an adult.

Gus is holding himself as tightly as possible, his fingers are probably digging into his skin to keep himself grounded, he’s absolutely terrified and unlike the others he has no defence, he can’t hope to hid himself or fall back into old manners, he’s 12 and simply forced to feel his emotions. He’s 12 and he’s been around kids older than him for so long that he’s forgotten, but now he feels unbelievably young.

Hunter holds himself tall, almost glaring at Camilla. While everyone else looks at her with sad but hopeful eyes, he looks like he’s daring her. The only adult he’s ever trusted has just completely betrayed him and he filled with nothing but rage. But he’s never been one to put himself first and Gus is hurt and it’s easier to comfort Gus than to even try and comfort himself.

And Luz, Luz is so conflicted. Her arms are tense and only slightly raised, rather than instantly throwing her self at her mom, arms wide open, she’s hesitant because as happy as she knows she should be in this moment, even though she’s gained her mom back she’s lost everything else.

These five are scared and cold and wet, they’re so unbelievably vulnerable in this moment and they’re trying to focus on something, anything other than what just happened and it’s crazy how you can tell so much from each of them just based on how they stand at their lowest

#I could ramble on about their mannerisms forever #long post #the owl house #toh #kings tide #toh s2 #toh s3 #the owl house theory #the owl house textposts

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