#i have two modes: either ridiculous humor or complete pain; there is no in between

[hirazuki]

It’s his Yule gift to himself ^^ 

Mairon: Sir, for the the last time, we are not calling it Melkortopia! Gothmog: Mairon, calm down, your blood pressure.

Look, it took exactly 21.4 meetings to settle on a name for the new place and now that it’s decided, Mairon is not going through that again.

(I don’t celebrate anything, but Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to those who do!)

Bonus:

Also, this is kind of like. headcanon central here, so some notes for anyone who cares below the cut! 

I’m very partial to the whole “corrupted” elves as the first orcs deal, but I also find the idea of Melkor Mairon (because let’s be honest, who would it be) enacting a subtler corruption and having some Avari as spies acting for him very appealing, and think that these two ideas can and should coexist.

I like to think that Mairon tried for years to get Melkor to see the merit in winning the Avari to their side in general but Melkor was disinterested and didn’t even try, constantly worsening their relations, and eventually he just threw his hands up and went, FINE. NEVERMIND. DESTROY THEM OR WHATEVER.

Even though Melkor does have associations with heat, volcanoes, etc., I think of him as primarily ice/cold/darkness (especially since that contrasts nicely with Mairon’s fire element aspect), so while Utumno would probably need some kind of light source indoors for (at least) his more mundane servants to be able to see what they’re doing, I headcanon that it’s more in the sense of ice crystals or rock/gem lights or something (i.e. light with no heat) plus because that’s also +200 misery points to Mairon because I interpret him as hating the cold ♡. (Whereas Angband is all torches and firelight; once Mairon ends up running things, he’s like, Melkor is away; this is the perfect opportunity to install CENTRAL HEATING.)

I headcanon that, prior to his crown with the silmarils, Melkor didn’t wear one; felt he didn’t need one, his power alone was enough for everyone to recognize his might, and he went without the trappings of rulership in general, being more characterized by his unconventionality, chaos, and freedom. All that changes with the taking of the silmarils, when he starts wearing a crown, staying within his fortress with few exceptions, etc., becoming more weighed down by such things, and he suffers a fundamental change in character. 

Mairon, however, does wear a circlet. As a relative latecomer to Utumno, compared to some other beings, and rising through the ranks to become Melkor’s right-hand man, I like to think he faced some challenges to his authority (from outright opposition to some low-key grumbling), so he made himself a physical indicator of his position. (I also like to think that this attitude resurfaced a bit once Utumno fell and Mairon got put in charge, making his early days of leadership very rocky; but eventually, everyone came to respect him as a leader in his own right... making Melkor’s eventual return also a bit awkward ^^;).

I went back and forth on so many Avari color schemes, but, as usual, ended up defaulting to my favorite dark elf palette, which is Morrowind’s Dunmer XD

[randomnoteforfuturereference]

It’s the Little Things: II

ForFutureReference

Words: 1800

Summary:  It’s common knowledge that Dex has a multitude of skills tucked away. That doesn’t mean there aren’t times when he brings out a skill that catches Nursey off-guard. Especially when Dex helps Nursey with said skill.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | ...

Author’s Note: So yep, I’ve decided to make this multi-chapter. This takes place only a week or so after Part I. In fact, installment for this story will only be in the fall semester of 2016 (Year 4 for Bitty; Year 3 for the Frogs), and it’s all going to be pre-romance. Also warning that to those who are uncomfortable at the sight of blood or extreme displays of anger. Thanks to @kleeklutch for beta-ing.

Um… remember that time when Dex grumbled about needing to fix a certain spot by the stairs lest someone cut themselves open on it?

Well…

“Gah!” The gasp leaves my lungs the same time that a searing sting rips into my forearm and my hand clasps over it.  

Well this is embarrassing. Hopefully it doesn’t get any undue attention.

“Oh for FUCK’S SAKE!”  

… Chill.

The exclamation distracts me from the pain, and I look up to see a half-naked Dex frozen in the process of exiting the ground floor bathroom.

Normally the sight of an ever-reddening him in a bath towel, with his still-damp hair sticking out at haphazard angles, would be laugh-worthy.

I’m not amused now at the sight of his tight jaw and clenched fists, nor the dilation of his pupils intensifying the fiery coronas around them.

Those coronas flick between two spots: the fucked-up basement stair railing segment that he’s ranted about periodically for the past couple years… and my arm.

Oh. Yeah. My arm.

The throbbing wave of heat blossoming out from my forearm and steady patter forces me to look down.

Despite my hand clamped on my forearm, sluggish rivulets of crimson continue to dribble out between my fingers to drip onto the wooden floor. The sight releases a surge of nausea that clouds my vision and makes the surroundings wobble.

At least I didn’t wear my cardigan today.

Maybe Dex’s ruckus will attract the attention of someone who can take me to the hospital.

A muffled groan drifts up from downstairs: “Keep it down will you…”

Or not. People can be so supportive…

Dex storms forward while glaring daggers in my general direction.

I’ve always wondered if I’d go out in a crime of passion.

However, when Dex reaches me, he exhibits a surprising level of gentleness in grabbing my shoulder firmly and maneuvering me towards the bathroom. All while speaking in that quiet collected manner whenever he’s gone past pissed-off: “We need to get that fixed.”

With my wits beginning to get back to normal, I nod and follow Dex’s lead into the still-steamy bathroom. He turns on the faucet and instructs me to wave my arm under the running water. I try not to pass out at the sting of the tap water or sight of my own blood blossoming out in the sink bowl.

“Nursey, what’s going o—oh.”

As I continue to rinse my arm, I glance up at a wide-eyed Chowder. Still in his boxers and peering in from his room, he looks a bit green in the gills while glancing between me and Dex.

“Fucking banister. Have it handled, C.” If Dex is trying to be reassuring, the still-present tightness and monotony of his speech undercuts any attempt.

“You’re telling me that I shouldn’t worry about all… this?” Chowder supplements that question with a wild gesture towards me. “Bullshit.”

“I have it handled,” Dex repeats while removing the first aid kit from under the sink. As if to mock his statement, the opened kit reveals itself to be pitifully empty, and a frustrated snarl makes it obvious that he wants to bash the box against the wall.

After turning off the water and handing a cloth to me, Dex asks Chowder play caretaker. “Will take a few minutes. Keep pressure on until I get back,” he mutters with a hardened expression before exiting the room and closing the door behind him.

As Chowder kneels next to me, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m…” I’m in pain. I’m a clumsy mess. I’m concerned for my roommate. “Chi—”

“Nursey, if you say ‘chill’ this one time,” Chowder warns, “I’m going to channel Dex.”

Despite the movement sending a fresh burst of pain though my arm, I still can’t help but chuckle at the image of Chowder in flannel, Mainer accent, and a bad attitude. He must be thinking the same thing as he perks up with light laughter of his own.

Our good humor ends abruptly with both of us jumping at the sound of a massive splintering crash. Followed by another. And another.

“What the…” Chowder breathes while getting up. As he opens the door a crack and peers out, all the color drains from his face.

“Dex?” I assume, which just gets a nod in return. I thought him going on a rampage would be accompanied by screaming and obscenities. Instead the attacks are accompanied by silence.

I think I’d prefer the obscenities.

“Fuck, I said keep it—holy shit.” Speaking of obscenities… While I can’t place the voice — they may not even be SMH — I do peg it as being from the same person who was so helpful earlier. Envisioning the poor schmuck being fried on the spot under the gaze of a rudely-interrupted Dex buoys my disposition. “Uh… carry on.”

With the interruption likely gone, the crashing continues.

Chowder sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose while asking me, “You think you got that handled?”

“Holding this in place?” I note with a nod to the towel. “Haven’t screwed that up so far.”

“Fair enough,” he acknowledges before striding out of view. Seconds later, I hear his voice: “What the hell are you doing?”

Dex’s response is quiet and mumbled enough that I can’t tell what being said.  

“You’re supposed to look after Nursey.”

More mumbling.

Whatever Dex just said, it makes Chowder release another sigh. “Well, I don’t think you can destroy it any further.” There’s something in his voice that I can’t pinpoint but am bugged by. Maybe I’m just getting woozy. “So how about you tend to him now, and I’ll clean up this mess and play damage control with Bitty. Agreed?”

Silence.

“Agreed?” Now that quality in Chowder’s voice is instantly recognizable. It’s his goalie mode, and the way it demands zero dissent raises my hairs on end even though I’m not even the target. “‘Swawesome. I think this is yours.”

Barely a few seconds pass before Dex sheepishly shuffles into the bathroom with a hammer clutched in one hand and an old heavy-duty box in the other. He sets the items down to the side, opens up the box, and begins methodically washing his hands with each scrubbing motion accompanied by repetitive counting under his breath. Each opposing hand and digit getting an equal number of respective motions. I decide it best not to make note of the continued stiffness in his shoulders or how he doesn’t move his jaw with the count.

I also decide not to note that he’s still only wearing a towel.

When Dex crouches next to me, I half-expect him to snatch my hand up and forcefully rip off the towel. Instead, he takes my arm in a grasp so soft that it takes me a moment to register his touch. When he moves his hands, my arm moves with them as if without prompting or resistance. When he lifts the towel away, I barely feel the fabric becoming unstuck. And even though his callouses may be rock-hard, I don’t feel them pushing into or scraping at my skin at all as he guides me back to the sink and gently washes my arm again under warm water.

Of course, a lot of that could just be the pain masking things. And despite his care, my arm spasms and I bite back a hiss with each sting.

Still, between his gentle motions and frigid hands, I don’t doubt that Dex could handle a snowflake without breaking it. And even with the dull roar of pain, something about the contact of his skin on mine stimulates a sensation that I can’t place and never remember getting while in close proximity with him before.

Mentally shaking away the surreality, I decide to inject some levity: “Yo, I’m supposed to be the Nurse.”

Dex just gives me a look — one suggests how stupid it is to chirp the guy who’s working on your wound — before turning his attention back on the arm.

“No yellow, which is good. No large fragments or severe ragged edges either,” Dex mutters while closely examining the tear. He then makes eye contact with me for the first time today. “Probably don’t need stitches, but it’s still a fucking mess.”

“Oh.”

My response garners a snort. Still, he continues on: “It’s a Sunday, so you only have two options. I can take you to the hospital. Or I can patch this up right now. If you choose Option B, you should still go to Student Health asap for them to take another look and write up a note for the coaches. So—”

“B.”

Dex’s eyes widen. Even I’m a bit surprised at the speed of my response.

“Are you sure?” he asks with an intense gaze as if he expects me to take back my answer.

It’s at this point I realize that there’s one other emotion accompanying Dex’s anger:

Guilt.

Instead of acknowledging that though, I firmly state, “I’m sure.”

Dex’s ears darken for a couple seconds before he mutters a quick affirmation and gets to work.

After he physically removes any pieces of debris and washes the wound again — each consecutive wash doesn’t make it sting any less — Dex applies some ointment. It’s then that he murmurs, “I shouldn’t have waited.”

I’m not going to say it’s alright — I’m clearly not alright — but I still counter, “These things happen. Can’t fix everything.”

“But I could have fixed that. I already knew there was a problem. But instead, I—”

“— focused on your schoolwork. How terrible,” I deadpan with a roll of my eyes. “I don’t get what a lot of it meant, but even I could tell you got a ridiculous workload. Look me in the eye and say that you don’t.”

Dex’s face twists in frustration again, but he doesn’t argue with me as he holds the wound closed while applying steri strips. After placing the last strip and wrapping my arm, Dex grunts that the job’s complete and reminds me to check in with Student Health tommorow.

The pain isn’t gone, but it’s definitely minimized and no longer comes in waves that leave me trembling and short of breath. The way my arm’s been patched up also allows me movement with minimal expected discomfort.

I thank Dex, which just gets another grunt as he motions me out but stays where he is.

When I exit the bathroom, I see Chowder sweeping at the obliterated remains of what used to be the banister segment. He pauses to wave me on while staring at me in a way that alternates between unreadable and unnervingly knowing.

It’s probably best that I ignore that last part.

Continue onto Part III