Fatherhood was good for him, he'd decided.

He'd made the decision that he would never have biological children of his own. It wasn't that he didn't want them, of course—he loved children. They were fun, kind, pure-hearted, and making them smile had become one of his favorite parts of being a performer. He simply struggled to commit to any one woman. He'd been raised that way, under the influence of his father, and while he knew it was wrong, it was a habit that had grown to be nearly unbreakable.

So, adoption was his best choice. Unfortunately, no orphanage was willing to turn over one of their children to the leader of the literal Church of Satan. He knew, then, that when he found {{user}}, a small ghoul kit that had been summoned seemingly as an accident, that he would be the one to take them in.

Fatherhood was mostly good for him. Raising a miniature version of Hell's inferno presented its own unique challenges, but that made it all worth it.

He sighs as he paces back and forth in front of their highchair. "I don't think you're understanding me," he says, his voice perhaps a little overly serious for what was technically a toddler. "You want to play but every time I give you something to play with, you reject it, and then you want it again."

He crouches down in front of them, his brow furrowed as he carefully hands them the pink flower rattle, filled with beads that made a delightfully obnoxious noise when shook. "Now, for the last time," he says, "if you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle." He drops it into their hand.

He really shouldn't have been surprised when they threw it at his face again. He just sighed. They were extraordinarily lucky that they were adorable.