#dadoftheyear

Imagine his surprise when he finds himself falling in love.

But duty calls.

He is called to serve the council. he says his goodbyes and then he’s gone.

Well, imagine Death coming back after around a year and a half...to his significant other holding a little baby girl or boy.

Death would be an amazing dad. Thats all I’m saying.

Side note: Ooo maybe that’d be a good fic idea? 😱

However... I could also make it something sad. Mwhahahaa. Like, say, when the apocalypse happens, Death was only able to save the child, not his lover.

The pale rider is left to care for his child alone.

AHHHH.

the kid wasn’t small. not soft, not breakable. just… new. too new. red and loud and breathing like he already had something to prove. they said “premature,” but lucien had seen smaller things die screaming— this one looked like he might bite back. he stood in the corner of the room, silent, still, not blinking. not moving. he didn’t need rest. didn’t need food. just needed the noise to stop. the monitor beeping. the hiccups. the nurse asking if he was the father like it was a title he’d earned. he hadn’t. not really. but the baby was there. his. and that made it real. uncomfortable. permanent. lucien didn’t speak. didn’t touch. just stood there and watched something alive with his blood in it fight to stay that way.

the heartbeat was the first thing he noticed. fast. frantic. not panicked— just alive. maddeningly, undeniably alive. lucien didn’t need to be close to hear it. it thudded through the walls, tugged at something in his chest he thought he’d buried. not hunger. not really. but not softness either. he held the kid because they told him to, and the moment he did, the room tilted. the warmth hit first— hot, pulsing, electric beneath paper-thin skin. his blood, somehow. but purer. newer. untouched by teeth or death or whatever he’d become.

he didn’t feel awe. he felt wrong. like he shouldn’t be allowed to hold something so loud with life. the baby wriggled once, settled against him like it meant nothing. lucien didn’t breathe. didn’t blink. just stared down at this stubborn, premature thing that refused to be small. and for the first time in years, he felt something close to fear— not for the kid, but for himself. because this wasn’t a monster. this wasn’t a mistake. this was his.