lalochezia

Lalochezia

Well, I thought my plot bunnies were working on a prompt for @glorfindelsbitch from that word list thing I posted yesterday, but it turns out I looked at the wrong word.  So… you all get a bonus Russingon fic.

lalochezia - noun.  Emotional relief gained by using indecent or vulgar language.

Note: No, I don’t think Fingon would actually swear like this, but I will admit it was kinda fun to write.

It happened again.  It had happened so many times already, it seemed, each exchange more heated than the last.  But Fingon could never stop himself from asking.  Even though he knew Maedhros’ answer would not change, even though he knew his cousin’s stubbornness would continue to frustrate him, this was not something Fingon could let go.  And now, as Maedhros again refused to listen to reason, Fingon found himself completely fed up.

“We can’t,” Maedhros insisted, an edge of weariness upon his voice, as if he had grown tired of repeating himself.  “You know we can’t.”

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Lalochezia

F**k you


She screamed with all the strength

she had left inside


F**k you and the piece of shit

ship you rode in on


She turned her back

exposing the rigidity of her spine


Lifted her head

one notch higher and

stomped away any hint of vulnerability


As she marched to her freedom

lalochezia set in -


A grin lit her face

and she knew


His hold was being decimated -

scorched by the fire of her words

charred by the flame of her soul


Yes.

His hold was being obliterated by her…

and lalochezia felt good
– © askeetedavis –

Lalochezia || Boone and Eloise

Send me a word and I will write a drabble with our characters: Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.

“You are an imbecile,” Eloise took a step towards the young man, anger radiating from every inch of her body. “No beyond that. A trained lifeguard who can’t even properly swim without drowning himself. You’re pathetic and fickle and not worth the attention, let alone the affection of my son!”

{ sacrificialboone }

Lalochezia

The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain. - Devon

*

Frankenstein.

That was the cruelest word William had ever used. The cruelest thing he’d ever called Devon. And he’d paid with a long scar on his chest. Devon had paid as well; the ugly mark on his right hand reminding him of this night until his dying day.

William had never used a word like this before – or afterwards. And while Devon usually wasn’t able to understand references and allusions, he had understood this one.

He’d also understood that day that words were sharper than scalpels. Sharper than glass sharps from a broken Erlenmeyer flask cutting through flesh. This one word hat hurt more than the punch William had given him on a different occasion. It had been more upsetting than the barrel of a gun aimed at his head.

Words had always been foreign territory for Devon. Mysterious and strange. Intimidating and daunting.

Secretly, he admired Lennart’s and William’s eloquence.

Speaking to thousands on a platform or in an interview, answering with just the right words. Encouraging legions of subordinates with speeches. And sometimes simply to express anger and stress. All of this filled Devon with envy and awe.

Secretly, he wondered how it must feel to have always the right word on the tip of one’s tongue.

William cursed a lot. And it seemed to be so relieving. He cursed and swore during intimate moments. When he cut or hurt himself accidentally. He cursed and swore when he was upset and angry or felt provoked.

Devon didn’t curse. Had never learnt. Never tried.

Whenever he felt the rage boiling inside him, he found himself speechless.

Whenever he was furious or desperate, whenever he found himself in an argument with William – the only man daring enough to argue with Devon, at all – he found himself at a loss of words.

He didn’t know how to argue. He didn’t know how to fight with words. It was always an unequal struggle. It was frustrating. It was embarrassing. It was inacceptable.

All Devon had to oppose and set against William’s words, his insolence and disobediences, his rudeness and powerful words were feeble attempts of verbal answers. Gasping for air like a grounded fish as he tried to find the right words. Or words, at all.

Words that matched his rage. Words that matched the red heat boiling inside him.

All Devon had in moments like these were clenched fists and a clenched jaw, restless pacing and a forceful trembling that shook his entire body.

All he had Devon when he was at loss of words was violence.

Nothing else matched the turmoil and desperation, the fury and wrath that were larger than him, too large for words or phrases. Just as red and hot and burning, violence was the only way to release the overwhelming tension. Nothing else made sure that his opponent felt the same despair and anger Devon felt. The same pain. The same speechlessness.

Where other people had words, Devon had his tantrums.

Where other people could argue, Devon could cut open skin.

It didn’t matter that he was physically weaker and shorter than William, a fact that was as upsetting as it was undeniable, but he had scalpels and shards, had his fury that bordered on madness to make up for physical weakness. Devon could fight like a mad man, unchecked and fearless and unable to feel pain in his rage. Without hesitation. Without the inhibiting effects of shame and morals and regret slowing him down.

It was effective. It was satisfying.

Devon didn’t need words to defend himself.

Devon didn’t need words to relieve pain or express anger.

Where other people had words, Devon had a scalpel.

And that was all he needed.