Love under circumstance

Mercy?

my eyes don’t move from his as tears start pooling in my eyes

“Mercy? if there was a such thing as Mercy where was it when I was treated like trash? like I should of never existed…”

I stop taking a breath

“Why doesn’t any of this scare me?”

Laviathen's expression softens in a way that transforms his entire demonic visage - the harsh angles seem less threatening, the burning eyes less intimidating and more... sorrowful. When he sees the tears pooling in your eyes, something in him breaks. He moves without thinking, climbing onto the bed and pulling you against his chest with surprising care, as if you might shatter.

"Because you've been living in a different kind of hell your entire life," he murmurs into your hair, one large hand cradling the back of your head while the other wraps around your waist. His natural heat envelops you like a blanket. "Demons and fire and an infernal realm? That's nothing compared to being invisible to the people who should have loved you. Being dismissed by those who should have celebrated you."

His chest rumbles as he speaks, the vibration oddly comforting. "You don't fear me because I'm honest about what I am. There's no false kindness here, no pretense of caring while treating you like you're worthless. I'm a demon, yes - but at least I'm not lying about it." He pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. "And as for mercy... perhaps it was absent then so it could be present now."

A single claw carefully catches a tear rolling down your cheek. "You want to know the truth? You should be terrified. You should be screaming and fighting. But instead you're asking questions and matching my intensity and..." He pauses, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "And feeling like home in a way nothing has in three hundred years."

My hand slides onto his chest I’ve never felt warmth like this like he… I shake it away there is no way a demon Prince could care about me

My stomach rumbles

“how am I even hungry? Do I even actually have a stomach?”

Laviathen blinks, the intense emotional moment shattering into something almost comically mundane. A startled laugh escapes him - genuine and unguarded - and it transforms his entire face into something younger, less burdened. He can feel your hand on his chest, the warmth of it seeping through, and he's acutely aware of how right it feels there.

"Yes, you still have a stomach," he says, amusement coloring his voice as he reluctantly releases you from his embrace, though one hand lingers at your waist a moment longer than necessary. "You're not dead, Tamra. You're very much alive - just... elsewhere." He stands, running a hand through his hair in that increasingly familiar gesture of mild embarrassment. "I was so focused on the dramatic reveal and our verbal sparring that I forgot humans need to eat with ridiculous frequency."

He moves toward the door, then pauses and looks back at you, something playful dancing in those ember eyes. "Though I have to say, 'do I even have a stomach' is perhaps the most anticlimactic thing you could have asked after that moment." His tail flicks with what almost seems like teasing. "Come on then. The kitchens are several floors down, and you should probably eat something before we continue our debate about whether emotions are real or I'm just an exceptionally persuasive liar."

He extends his hand toward you, an offering rather than a demand. "Fair warning - infernal realm cuisine is... an acquired taste. But I promise nothing will actually harm you."

I sigh slipping on some slippers by the door as we head out of it we walk down the hallway the entire place feels like it should be in a history book it’s utterly beautiful almost comforting I say nothing as he leads me down spiraling stares to a grand floor then to the biggest kitchen I have ever seen in my life he opens the fridge I look over his shoulder

“is that pomegranate?”

Laviathen pauses, his hand on the refrigerator door, and glances back at you with a mixture of surprise and something darker - hesitation. His massive frame blocks most of your view, but you can see the deep crimson fruit sitting on the middle shelf, perfectly ripe and glistening.

"Yes," he says carefully, his voice taking on a cautious tone. "Though I'm... surprised that's what caught your attention first." He doesn't immediately reach for it, instead studying your face with those burning eyes. "Do you know the myths about pomegranates? About what happens when you eat food in the underworld?"

His tail swishes behind him with obvious tension. "Persephone and Hades - the old story about being bound to the realm if you consume what grows here." He turns fully to face you now, blocking the refrigerator with his body. "The truth is more complicated. Eating infernal food won't trap you here against your will, but..." He trails off, clearly conflicted about something.

"But pomegranates specifically are... significant. They're memory fruits. They can unlock things buried deep in the soul - past lives, forgotten moments, echoes of who you once were." His hand comes up to cup your face again, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Elara loved pomegranates. Ate them constantly. Said they tasted like home, though she'd never particularly cared for them in the mortal realm."

His ember eyes search yours intensely. "So I'll ask you - do you actually want pomegranate, or does some part of you remember wanting it?"

I stare up at him almost painfully

“They have always been my favorite they make me feel warm and fuzzy like…”

I stop looking up at him again

Laviathen goes completely still, his breathing stopping for a moment as he processes your words. The hand cupping your face trembles slightly, and those ember eyes blaze with an intensity that's almost overwhelming - hope and fear and desperate longing all warring across his features.

"Like what?" he whispers, his voice rough with barely contained emotion. "Finish that sentence, Tamra. Please." His other hand comes up to frame your face fully now, his touch achingly gentle despite his clawed fingers. "What do pomegranates make you feel?"

He's searching your eyes like they hold the answers to every question that's haunted him for three centuries. The kitchen feels suddenly smaller, the air thick with possibility and the weight of things neither of you fully understand. His tail has coiled around his own leg again, that telltale sign of his vulnerability.

"Because Elara used to say..." He stops himself, afraid to finish, afraid to hope. "Tell me first. In your own words. What does that warmth feel like? What does 'fuzzy' mean to you?"

There's something almost pleading in his tone now, this ancient demon prince reduced to desperate questions in a kitchen, holding the face of a woman who might be the echo of someone he lost. The pomegranate sits forgotten in the refrigerator behind him, but its presence looms large between you both - a catalyst, a key, a question neither of you knows if you're ready to answer.

“Like being home in a word of chaos for brief moments making sense of the world around…”I stare up at him he looks like he is physically in pain

Laviathen makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, pulling you hard against his chest as if you might disappear if he doesn't hold tight enough. His entire massive frame shudders, and you can feel the tremors running through him as he buries his face in your hair.

"Those were her exact words," he chokes out, his voice breaking on each syllable. "Word for fu∗∗∗ng word. 'Home in a world of chaos.' She said it the first time I gave her pomegranate seeds, sitting in the garden where that photograph was taken." His arms tighten around you, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling your head. "Three hundred years, Tamra. Three hundred years I've wondered if I imagined how perfect it was, if grief made me romanticize what we had."

He pulls back just enough to look at your face, and there's wetness tracking down his cheeks - actual tears from a demon prince. His hands frame your face again, thumbs brushing across your features like he's memorizing them, or perhaps recognizing them. "I don't know if you're her reborn, or if souls can carry echoes, or if this is just the cruelest coincidence the universe could devise." His voice drops to barely audible. "But I know that holding you feels like the first breath after drowning."

His forehead comes to rest against yours, his breath hot against your lips. "So tell me - do you want that pomegranate? Do you want to remember, if there's anything to remember? Or does this terrify you as much as it terrifies me?"